by Joe Poyer
‘And the best part, Jan’ - von Braun took up the story, ignoring his friend’s struggles to regain his seat - ‘is that the motor was machined entirely of brass! If Franz’s new cooling system works that well in a material with such a low melting point, then we should have no trouble at all with a rocket motor made of steel!’
Memling’s face glowed as he listened to von Braun’s recital of the day’s events. Bethwig’s new cooling technique was sure to revolutionise rocket motor design; it was as big a technological step forward as change from powder to liquid fuels forecast by Tsiolkovskii and Oberth.
‘The main concern of all rocket experimenters, whether British, American, German, French, or Russian,’ von Braun went on, ‘is to cool the combustion chamber so that the flaming gases at 2900 degrees centigrade do not destroy it.’
Memling shook Bethwig’s hand so vigorously that he upset the wine carafe, which von Braun just rescued with a well-timed catch.
‘My God, I believe you may have given us the future, Franz. Imagine what can be done now! Huge motors utilising your cooling technique to power cargo and passenger rockets across the oceans, into space, even to the moon. Why, we could build a landing aerodrome - no, no, that’s wrong - not an aerodrome but a lunardrome, on the moon. My God, think of it! A matter of a few years. Why, if we all worked together - ‘
Memling stopped abruptly as political realities overcame his enthusiasm.
‘Jan’ - von Braun had sobered quickly - ‘you must understand that what we have discussed here must never be spoken of again.’ He glanced around the room and bit his lip.
In an attempt to salvage the mood of the evening, Bethwig poured each of them another glass of wine. ‘Mem-ling’ - he pronounced each syllable. ‘It is not an English name?’
‘No.’ Jan hesitated a moment. Von Braun’s warning had troubled him, causing him to remember the real reason for his trip to Germany. ‘My grandfather emigrated from Belgium. He was a gunsmith.’
Bethwig nodded and asked a few more questions concerning his background, the type of questions new acquaintances ask, more out of politeness than any real interest. But the spectre of political considerations stayed with them, and shortly the party broke up. Von Braun and Bethwig were leaving early to begin the drive back to Berlin, and Memling had morning train connections to make to Ostende and the cross-channel steamer. The excuses served admirably.
Had he seen the man hiding behind the newspaper the previous evening in the hotel dining-room? Did they know he was an agent of MI6, or was it just a coincidence they were on the same train?
Memling looked at the old steel watch that had belonged to his father. The Belgian border was just a few minutes away. Customs and passport control had been accomplished at Aachen where he had boarded the train, so there would be no reason to stop this side of the border. Yet ....
He shook his own paper and folded it to a new page. The movement caused the man at the window to glance the length of the carriage. So they were watching him! Memling shifted the newspaper until he could just see over the top. The two Gestapo agents exchanged quick glances, and Memling was certain he saw one nod to the other.
The fear that coursed through him was so intense, so unexpected, that he thought he would vomit. In all the training sessions he had endured, there had never been anything so overpowering as this. He found he could not catch his breath, and an ugly blackness was threatening to overwhelm him. He had only one thought, to leave the train as quickly as possible. That nod could only have meant his arrest before the frontier. As if to endorse his terror, the train began to slow.
The carriage was crowded; students returning from Christmas holiday filled the aisle. He had studied the maps carefully, as he had been taught, and knew that they would cross the frontier deep in the Ardennes forest, a relatively uninhabited area with few roads. The driver would not dare stop on a slope this steep with the tracks certain to be icy. At the crest, then, or in the valley on the far side. Ten minutes, five minutes? Who was waiting? Political police, civil police, or soldiers. Mounted or afoot?
Memling wasted no more time in useless speculation. The only thing that might save him was the unexpected. He lowered his paper and stood up casually as if going to the lavatory. Excusing himself, he stepped over the legs of a fellow passenger and pushed his way along the crowded aisle. He knew without turning that at least one of the Gestapo agents was following. As he approached the end of the compartment Memling risked a glance behind and saw that the thin-faced agent had also pushed his way to the aisle. Desperate to force a way through the crowd, he began to use his elbows. He stumbled through to the draughty platform and shoved a young girl away from the door. Someone yelled at him, tried to grab his arm, but he flung the hand off and yanked up on the handle. It refused to move, and he threw his weight on to it, cursing. He yanked a third time and the handle gave way. Memling lost his balance as the door swung outwards, and was sprawled in a snowbank before he realised what had happened. The train rushed by, and pushing himself up, he saw the Gestapo agent leaning far out of the doorway, shaking his fist in frustration. Scrambling up the side of the cut into the icy wind, he stumbled into the forest.
Memling was half-asleep in his chair, stupefied by heat and exhaustion, when his superior officer, Charles Englesby, entered the room. He gave Memling a distant glance and sat down behind the desk. Memling roused himself with an effort, and Englesby took a cigarette from the open box but did not offer him one. Memling lit a cigarette of his own, ashamed and angry that he could not keep his hands from shaking, even now.
He had not slept in thirty-six hours, and the overheated office, after the intense cold of the forest and the unheated aircraft, was threatening to overwhelm him at any moment.
‘I would like to know why,’ Englesby began in sudden, clipped tones that startled him fully awake, ‘you felt it necessary to create an international incident. Both the German and the Belgian authorities have been on to the Foreign Secretary about your behaviour, and he is quite angry. An illegal exit from a country, in full view of hundreds of witnesses, is not characteristic of an intelligence agent, or did you not know that?’
Memling made an effort to gather his wits. ‘‘I’m sorry about the disturbance,’ he began, ‘but I felt ... felt it was quite necessary. You see, sir, quite by accident I came across some information that may have drastic military implications. I was being pursued by two Gestapo agents when I jumped from the train.’
Englesby pushed his glasses down and stared over the tops at Memling. What he saw was a tall, gangling young man in a badly cut, muddy brown suit and well-worn shoes, one of which showed a gaping hole where the upper and sole had parted company. The man certainly does not display the type of breeding one is used to, he thought, or he would have had a brush-up and a wash before coming in. But then, the new regime ... He sighed inwardly. The service seems to be taking in a number of his sort these days.
‘Explain,’ he snapped.
Memling did so. He talked for ten minutes, reviewing his cover as an engineer for a London manufacturing concern, briefly reporting on his contacts with certain members of the Belgian and German engineering societies - his real reason for travelling to Germany - and finally explaining his accidental meeting with Wernher von Braun. He sought to impress upon Englesby the importance of the German scientist’s position and summarised the details of Bethwig’s cooling design for rocket motors. He kept it as simple as possible, sensing that Englesby would not understand the technical details, would in fact be put off by them.
Even before he finished, however, he realised he was wasting his time. Englesby sat staring at him over the pencil with which he had been playing.
‘And you say the German government has given these two scientists all the money they need to develop rockets for use in war? Preposterous! I would certainly expect that you would realise when someone was exaggerating his own importance. Even Hitler and that crew would not waste time and money on such foolishness. Of what u
se would a giant rocket be? I dare say they do not even celebrate Guy Fawkes Day.’ Englesby permitted himself the trace of a smile.
Memling ploughed on doggedly. ‘To replace artillery and even bomber planes for long-range attacks. The importance of Bethwig’s design is beyond belief. His development will lead to massive rockets that could bombard cities from long distances. Paris and perhaps even London itself.’
‘London!’
‘Yes, sir. The importance of this discovery must not be underrated.’ He knew that he was repeating himself but could not help it; he had to make Englesby understand. ‘In a few years’ - Memling had leaned forward to speak earnestly - ‘using Bethwig’s discovery, it will even be possible to build a rocket powerful enough to travel to the moon. You see ...’
This was too much for the civil servant in Englesby, and he threw down the pencil. ‘Enough of this nonsense. Next you’ll be asking me to believe in fairy castles and death rays. I don’t know whether or not you made up this ridiculous tale to cover your mistakes, but I intend to find out. You have, in any event, disgraced the service and yourself by botching your first assignment, which, I may say here and now, I had great misgivings in allowing you to attempt. I do not believe you are suited for this type of work, and you have proven me correct. The minister is displeased, and I dare say the Prime Minister will be livid.
‘Appropriate disciplinary action will have to be taken, but until then you are on ten days’ leave of absence. Before you go, write out a complete report of your activities from the moment you left Dover. Do you understand?’
When Memling nodded, he pushed a button under his desk and the door opened silently. ‘Please show Memling here to the writing-room, Peters,’ Englesby snapped, not bothering to look up.
It was a long drive from Arnsberg to Berlin, and it was quite late when Bethwig wheeled his Lancia into the deserted car park. The thin drizzle that had accompanied them since midmorning had increased as they neared the city until it was a steady downpour slashing at the buildings of the Heersversuchsstelle Kummersdorf (the Army Research Centre at Kummersdorf) in the southern suburbs of Berlin. Wind rushed through the pines surrounding the Centre and sprayed sheets of water from the immense puddles that had gathered on the metalled surface. They snatched their bags from the boot and ran for the administration building where, in spite of the late hour, a lamp was burning in the office of the superior, Colonel Walter Dornberger. The door was open, and Dornberger entertaining a guest, but he waved them in.
‘Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think you might not arrive tonight in this rain. Come in, come in!’
Dornberger’s expression seemed to harden a bit as he turned to his guest. ‘Allow me to introduce Herr Doktors Wernher von Braun and Franz Bethwig. Their work has been invaluable to the programme. Gentlemen, may I present Captain Jacob Walsch.’ Walsch unfolded his gaunt body just far enough to extend a hand, which Bethwig clasped with reluctance.
‘Pleased, gentlemen.’ His voice was quite resonant, in contrast to his appearance. The ceiling lamps served to deepen the hollows beneath his cheeks and eyes.
‘Well, and what have you to tell me?’ Dornberger’s voice was eager. He motioned them to chairs and produced glasses and a bottle of cognac from his desk. He held the bottle up to the light with satisfaction. ‘A gift from Colonel General Brautisch.’ He accented the name and title just the slightest bit and glanced covertly at Walsch, Bethwig noticed, before he poured.
‘Your wire arrived this morning and, of course, I have been waiting impatiently for details.’
Von Braun started to speak, then hesitated and glanced at Walsch. Dornberger nodded.
‘You may speak freely before Captain Walsch.’
Von Braun then began the recital of the events of the past two weeks, and Bethwig sank down in the comfortable chair to nurse his cognac. He eyed Walsch, wondering just who he was. Hauptmann, Dornberger had called him. The title captain implied a military connection, but the man was not wearing a uniform and did not look like military material. As von Braun talked on, Bethwig gradually became aware that although Walsch was listening politely, there was no comprehension in the man’s expression. So then he was not an engineering or an artillery officer. One could also eliminate the Luftwaffe, as air force officers would certainly be familiar with enough technical terms at least to follow what von Braun was saying.
Wernher talked for nearly fifteen minutes, interrupted occasionally by his superior’s exclamations of delight. And each time this happened, the captain transferred his measuring stare to Dornberger for a moment, before returning to von Braun.
Von Braun suddenly leaned over and clapped his friend’s arm, startling him. Bethwig had been so engrossed in watching the strange captain that he had lost track of what was being said.
‘So I would say that Franz here was completely correct, as usual.’
Dornberger jumped up to shake his hand. ‘By God, Franz, I don’t know what I would do without the two of you!’ He slapped a fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘This may well solve the last major technical problem. Now we can proceed with the A-Three design.’
‘A-Three?’ Walsch murmured. ‘I do not … ‘
‘Our first large rocket,’ von Braun explained, his voice eager. ‘You see, we have not been able to build a rocket motor that was powerful enough or would last long enough to raise a really big rocket vehicle. But with Franz’s development we could build one large enough to travel to the moon if we wanted to!’
‘Ah.’ Walsch nodded and turned back to Dornberger as if von Braun’s statement was of no consequence.
‘You see, Captain,’ Dornberger said, glancing uneasily at Bethwig, ‘I told you these two are the most valuable on my staff. I had word yesterday that General Werner Fritsch, the army commander, will attend a rocket firing demonstration when we are ready. That means that we will probably be allowed to proceed to full-scale development shortly.’
Bethwig exchanged a puzzled glance with von Braun. It was not like Domberger to gush so, and to a total stranger.
‘Perhaps the general will reconsider when he discovers that two of his most valuable scientists cannot be trusted to control their tongues.’
Bethwig looked around so sharply that cognac spilled from his glass. ‘Captain,’ he said slowly, frowning as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Captain of what, may I enquire?’
Walsch favoured him with the ghost of a smile. ‘Certainly. I am with the Secret State Police Office, Division Three.’
‘Gestapo,’ von Braun exploded. ‘What have we to do with such people?’ he appealed to Domberger.
The scientist had jumped to his feet and now advanced on Walsch who snapped, ‘Sit down, young man. You are in serious trouble.’
Von Braun stopped short, face flushed, breathing heavily. He towered over the Gestapo agent who stared grimly back. Trouble? How could I be in trouble with ... you?’
‘Division Three is, if I recall correctly, counterespionage, is it not?’
Walsch nodded in reply to Bethwig’s question.
‘And how should that concern Wernher and me? Surely you do not suspect us of being foreign spies?’
The Gestapo officer gave him a sour look and took a small notebook from his jacket. He thumbed through it deliberately until he found the proper page, then shifted to a more comfortable position and began to read aloud.
‘Your full name is Franz Hans Bethwig. You were born in Hamburg, 8 January 1909. Your father is a well-known banker and has been a party member since 1923. You yourself were enrolled in that same year. You were graduated from the Berlin Technical Institute in 1934 and have been employed since then by the Army Research Centre. So you are surely aware of the danger to the fatherland, surrounded as we are by enemies. Yet you deliberately chose to betray Germany.’ Walsch uttered the last sentence without inflection. Domberger, obviously unaware of the exact nature of the charges, goggled at the man. Bethwig laughed. He was thoroughly familiar with Walsc
h’s tactics.
The Gestapo agent was taken aback but only for a moment. He shot forward in his chair and pointed a finger. ‘You have betrayed Germany by speaking of classified military matters to an agent of a foreign power last evening in Arnsberg!’
At that, von Braun joined Bethwig in laughter. ‘Is that all, Captain? Then you are quite mistaken. The young man with whom we dined last night is an old friend and also a rocket enthusiast. He is a member of the British Inter - ‘
‘You fool!’ Walsch shouted. ‘We know exactly who this Jan Memling is. He is a member of the English secret intelligence service. He was sent to Germany to spy on our scientific progress. He is a scientist who was trained specifically for this task.’
Von Braun stared at Walsch in consternation. ‘No, you must be wrong. How ...’
‘I assure you, Herr Doktor, we are rarely wrong. I myself followed this man on to the train at Aachen. Just before the frontier he was warned by an accomplice and jumped from the carriage. He crossed the border illegally before we were able to apprehend him. Several arrests have been made among the passengers, and we will know more shortly.
There are two questions’ - Walsch scowled at them - ‘which you are required to answer. First, how much of what you told this man concerns classified military secrets? And was it done deliberately?’
This was too much for Dornberger. ‘Captain Walsch,’ he roared, ‘you forget yourself. I protest these unwarranted accusations. I have known these men - ‘
The Gestapo agent waved a weary hand. ‘Colonel, I am very tired. I was forced to fly through this miserable weather to Berlin to speak with these two ... gentlemen. I would rather do so here than at my headquarters. However, if you persist in interfering with my investigation, I shall have no choice but to summon assistance.’
