by Joe Poyer
‘The main difficulty will be in climbing out of Earth’s gravity well. Once out, as long as sufficient velocity is achieved - on the order of eleven point two kilometres per second - the rocket will be pulled by the moon’s gravitational attraction towards itself.’ He reinforced the curving line with a finger. ‘In short, as long as proper velocity is achieved, there is no way the rocket can miss the moon. Agreed?’
‘Of course. Why ...?’
Bethwig held up a hand for patience. ‘Reverse the process.’ And he described another, flatter curve from moon to Earth. ‘The same laws of physics hold true. The flight will be faster, as Earth’s gravitational pull is much stronger than the moon’s. But the result is the same.’
‘True, within reason ...’ von Braun began, but again Bethwig shushed him.
‘You and I once calculated that a lunar rocket must carry at least a five-thousand-kilogram payload and have a total thrust equal to three million kilograms. Now, when you come right down to it, there is no need to separate the military and civilian aspects of space travel. The oldest military axiom in the world requires that you always hold the high ground. Therefore the objective is the same: to transport a human being to the moon.
‘A speed of eleven point two kilometres per second is required to overcome Earth’s gravity in order to reach the moon. But to escape from the moon requires only two point four kilometres per second. In short, we need only double the speed attained by the A-Five. Tonight Dornberger described that rocket to Speer - the A-Four.’
Von Braun studied Bethwig’s smug expression. ‘I’ll be damned,’ he said slowly. ‘Are you suggesting we fire rockets from the moon to Earth?’ The thought took hold, and he exclaimed, ‘Good God, Franz, that would be an invincible weapon, wouldn’t it!’
‘Exactly!’ Bethwig shouted in triumph. ‘Only the simplest of guidance controls would be required. The speed of such rockets could vary between two point four and eleven point two kilometres an hour, and we could still shower them on to an enemy nation. There would be no way to stop them. And in two years, if all goes well, the A-Four will be perfected. We need only build a more powerful version of the A-Four to take us there to begin with.’ He hesitated only a moment. ‘I’ve already assigned it a project code, A-Ten. Are you game?’
Von Braun shot his hands above his head and roared with delight. ‘Of course. My God, think of it. The moon. We really can do it, Franz!’ He wrapped his friend in a bear hug. ‘You have the rationale for the moon landing programme. A weapon to end all weapons, perhaps even to end war! Think of it. Whoever controls the moon controls the Earth! Why, with our A-Ten the Reich could enforce a veritable Pax Germana!’
Bethwig untangled himself and brought von Braun’s Indian dance to a halt. ‘We will need someone to sponsor us,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Someone with stronger political connections than anyone in the army possesses.’
‘Speer?’
‘Perhaps. But we have to know more about him first. Does he have access to the Führer? Is he sufficiently high in the party? Such a project will be damned expensive and we will need someone very high up to back us.’
Von Braun grinned at that. ‘Franz, for a chance like this I’d make a pact with the Devil.’
Occupied Belgium December 1940
The ruined citadel frowned over Liege. SS guards, rifles slung muzzle downwards to keep out the insistent rain, eyed the line shuffling towards the dirty brick building. Barbed wire was strung to a height of three metres, and red signs warned in Flemish, French and German that it was electrified. A young officer watched, his expression one of ill-disguised contempt. In spite of the cold wind and the rain, he appeared comfortable enough in his black leather overcoat and uniform cap.
Jan Memling had ridden his decrepit bicycle to the first checkpoint at the intersection of the rue Saint-Leonard and rue Marengo to join the throng moving towards the factory gates. The rain slanted down without respite, splattering cobbled streets, soaking threadbare coats and trousers, shoes and boots.
The officer looked his way, spoke to an aide, and Memling cursed silently. An SS officer’s interest almost always led to deportation and labour service - slave labour. Deportation was the terror of Memling’s life. Once he got to Germany, it would only be a matter of time before his identity was uncovered.
The aide went to the sergeant supervising the checkpoint guards and spoke to him, again glancing in Memling’s direction. Jan clutched the bicycle as his fear grew; he was helpless, there was absolutely nothing to do but play it to the end with as much dignity as he could muster. It would be useless to run.
The sergeant shouted, and three soldiers vaulted the barricade and grabbed the man ahead of him. The officer watched, his expression bored, and, after a moment, lit a cigarette and resumed his scrutiny of the line as the unfortunate worker was dragged away.
There was not even a mutter of protest. Memling shuffled forward and the line followed. The man had ceased to exist.
This was Jan Memling’s first field assignment since February 1938. He had been sent to Belgium in early May to investigate rumours of German troop movements along the Belgian border. But von Reichenau’s sudden panzer attack on the tenth of that month had come as a complete surprise. The following day Fort Eben Emael was captured by glider troops, and the city of Liege occupied, cutting off any possibility of escape. It was not until late June that a courier had found him, issued a set of ambiguous instructions from London, and arranged an emergency contact with the fledgling Belgian underground. Since then he had lived in a nightmare of constant terror. There was no foreseeable way that he could get out of Belgium, and if Great Britain surrendered, as was rumoured likely ... he did not want to think about that.
Those elderly Belgians who remembered the relatively benign German occupation of 1914-18 expected much the same in 1940. But with the conclusion of the French armistice on 22 June at Compiegne, army troops had been replaced by SS units and the occupation stiffened. Stern reprisals were meted out for the most absurd infractions of the stringent rules. Curfew violators were executed on the spot. A priest who had received an urgent call to attend a dying man had not waited to telephone the occupation authorities for permission. An SS patrol had stopped his bicycle, pushed him against a wall, and shot him. His body had been left as an example.
Memling had found his position in the quality control department of the Manufacture d’Armes in mid-May, before the occupation forces had established themselves. He had been lucky to find it, but the army officer running the factory was desperate for trained technical personnel and not overly inclined to ask questions. Jan had given his birthplace as Barchoa, a small town east of the Meuse destroyed by German artillery. As long as he gave the Germans no reason to investigate his background, he felt safe enough.
In the meantime the factory was run efficiently, and some consideration was even given to the workers. In contrast with their counterparts in other German-run factories, they were provided a bowl of hot if watery soup at midday to supplement their rations, were released from work at mid-afternoon on Saturdays, and, if lucky enough to work in an office, enjoyed a measure of heat in the winter. Memling’s current task was to prepare quality control inspection procedures for two new German machine-gun designs, the MP40 and MG42.
‘Ah, Memling, here you are. Good. I must have you go down to the director of production’s office and bring back the latest MG-Forty-two estimates for the coming year.’
Hans Belden, his superior, was a fat, timorous, and self-pitying German civilian who enjoyed the rank and privileges of his position as director of quality control in a factory of great importance to the Third Reich. He was not inclined to pamper his Belgian subordinates - except for Memling. For some reason he had taken a liking to Jan, even to the extent of occasionally inviting him into his own office, which had an electric fire, and offering him coffee and cigarettes. He like to pat Memling on the shoulder or put an arm about his waist. Belden was Nazi to the core, and Memling did
not trust him for an instant. Instead, he treated his boss with a deference - verging on sycophancy - to which Belden responded with privileges now and then.
Memling showed his pass to the sentry and went out on to the vast production floor. A dirty, nearly opaque skylight allowed only the palest version of daylight to filter through. The Manufacture d’Armes, or the Gun Factory, as it was known locally, was the largest in the world. Beneath the endless glass roof, in carefully-guarded areas, were manufactured and assembled a wide variety of weapons ranging from the Browning nine-millimetre automatic pistol to the panzer tank. Hundreds of lathes, milling machines, and polishers ran twenty-four hours a day to feed the insatiable maw of the German war machine.
The German production director occupied a spacious suite with a carpeted reception area. His amply endowed Belgian secretary attracted German officers like flies. When Memling entered, an oberleutnant in the dark blue of a Luftwaffe dress uniform was leaning on the counter above her desk staring into the front of her blouse as she reached for a folder. He said something that Memling could not hear, and the girl hesitated, half-twisting to smile at him so that her blouse opened a bit more. Memling walked to the desk and, ignoring the German officer, handed over the requisition.
‘What do you want?’ the officer snapped in annoyance.
Memling turned to him, pretending not to understand German.
The lieutenant tried to repeat the question in halting Flemish, then in French, and gave up as Memling continued to stare.
The secretary made a remark in German, and they both laughed before she turned to Memling.
‘Director Belden asks for the summer production figures on the MG-Forty-two.’ His voice was steady enough and devoid of any emotion.
‘Oh, all right,’ she answered petulantly. ‘But it will take a moment. Wait over there.’ She indicated the far side of the room.
The girl stood up, brushing her dress smooth across her hips, and with practised movements swayed across to the filing cabinets. The drawer she wanted was in the lowest tier, and rather than kneel, she bent forward so that her skirt drew tight across a shapely bottom. It took her several moments to find the correct folder, and during that time Memling could have removed the officer’s sidearm and boots.
She found it at last and, turning, dropped the folder. This time, when she bent down to retrieve it her blouse opened far enough that even Memling, across the room, was aware of soft breasts barely restrained by wisps of silk. The lieutenant grunted as if hit, and Memling closed his eyes, stricken suddenly with the memory of Margot’s soft, strong body.
‘Here,’ she snapped, and Memling came to the counter. He signed the register she pushed towards him, and when she handed back his identity card from which she had recorded the numbers, she gave him a slight wink. Memling’s answering nod was barely visible.
‘Next time, you are to advise me ahead of time which file you wish to see.’ She turned away, dismissing him. The lieutenant’s hands twitched as she slid into her chair.
Lucky bastard, Memling thought as he left the office. He knew where the German would sleep that evening.
He had been gone long enough for Belden to begin to fret, and so he hurried along the aisles between the machines. He had eaten only a hard crust that morning, and there were rumours that the meat and sugar rations would be reduced by a third in January. Perhaps Belden would offer him a cup of tea and possibly even one of those tinned biscuits. The idea was overwhelming.
Preoccupied, Memling almost missed the tall muscular man in civilian suit escorted by the director of production and a high-ranking army officer. As he glanced back, his heart turned over, but the civilian had continued on without a sign of recognition. Memling had last seen him in 1938, in Amsberg, Germany. He was not surprised that von Braun had not recognised him; he was twenty pounds lighter, his hair was twice as long, and there was still a bit of newspaper stuck to his chin where the worn-out razor had nicked him again.
But what the devil was Wernher von Braun doing there? He was a rocket scientist. Had he been drafted to work on more conventional armaments? Memling puzzled over the question, so absorbed that the sentry had to ask twice for his pass. He delivered the folder, accepted the half-filled cup of tea, fending off Belden’s arm with what grace he could, and listened to the familiar complaints concerning changes and revisions to plans about which they were never consulted. He soon escaped to his own desk against the windows overlooking the vast production floor.
From his vantage point he could see across and down into the various partitions that divided the factory floor and made it such a warren. Against the far end of the building the Germans had built a tightly closed and guarded section roofed and walled with plywood. Uncharacteristically, they had used their own engineering troops for the job. The area was guarded by heavily armed sentries, and rumours spoke of a miracle weapon under development. But like all rumours under the Nazi occupation, these were both contradictory and fantastic. The quality control department was the pivot in any production facility, especially one dealing with mass-produced weaponry. Vast quantities of specialised materials were demanded, and specifications were rigid. Tolerances between parts were often no more than hundredths of a millimetre. If any kind of weapon were being developed within those plywood walls, they would know about it in quality control - unless, he thought, it was so secret that the Germans had installed a separate quality control department.
But that was absurd. Belden, as fretful of his standing as he was, would hardly have remained unaware of such an operation. And if that was the case, Memling could hardly have failed to hear of it. Or could he? Suppose it was so important that even Belden was keeping his mouth shut? He glanced at the mock-up of the MP40 machine pistol lying on his desk - a cheaper version of the MP38, he knew; compared with what might be hidden behind those walls, it was nothing. Was that why von Braun was in Liege?
It was still raining hard when the final whistle blew. This winter gave every appearance of being much like the previous one - the hardest in Europe for nearly two hundred years. Memling rode his bicycle slowly, lost in the silent, sullen crowd. The wait at the checkpoint seemed longer than usual.
Memling lugged his bicycle up the steps of his boarding-house and nodded a greeting to his landlady who was waiting beside the doorway. Tomorrow night she would want his weekly rent. Arrests were so common these days that rents were demanded on a weekly basis. A few, like his landlady, determined not to lose a penny due her, had tried to collect daily; but someone had complained to the civil authorities, and a man had come round to forbid the practice.
In his room at the top rear of the ancient house, he shed his wet pants and coat and wrapped himself in a blanket, then set about heating his half-can of soup over a tiny gas ring. As had become his habit, Memling remained huddled in the chair to conserve warmth and energy, reviewing any information he had memorised. But tonight his mind refused to concentrate, insisted instead on speculating over the presence of Wernher von Braun in Liege until he fell into an exhausted sleep.
The clock chimed eleven as Hans Belden opened the door and motioned him inside. Memling could see that Belden was angry and knew there would be no tea this morning and probably precious little time to warm himself by the electric fire.
‘I’ve just had a telephone call from the production director’s office. Raw material delivery schedules have been delayed again, and all production figures must be revised this week. Take this folder back to his office. We shall have to wait until they are finished, and do it all again!’ He slapped the desk with his hand and flung himself around in the chair to stare at the rain spattering the window.
‘A miserable country. It does nothing but rain,’ he muttered.
Memling varied his route to the director’s office, to pass the closed-off section, but there was little to see except plywood walls and unsmiling guards.
He returned the folder to the blonde secretary, who sniffed at him but did not speak. Returning by the
same route, Memling noticed as he turned into the corridor that one of the plywood sections had been moved aside to allow a cart carrying a large canvas-shrouded object into the area. The man directing the operation was wearing a white laboratory coat - the Germans allowed no one but their own people to wear white coats. His own was a dirty brown. The cart snagged on the edge of the door, and one of the soldiers swore. The guard stepped forward to help push, and while all eyes were on the cart Memling, who had stopped behind the guard, leaned forward to peer into the opening. He was back in position an instant before the guard straightened and returned to his post. He had seen all he needed.
Sunday was cold and windy, and rain fell intermittently. Jan Memling pedalled into the Parc d’Avroy past the monument to Charles Rogier. In spite of the rain and cold and the late season, the park was crowded with shabby citizens sitting on benches, examining the great equestrian statue of Charlemagne, or wandering the paths and eyeing the food stalls affordable only to German soldiers and their well-dressed collaborators. There was little else to do in the city. The shops were empty, and those theatres that remained open were too expensive, and full of Germans in any event.
Twenty minutes later he crossed the boulevard Piercot and rode up the rue Saint-Jacques. The gardens of the Place Emile-Dupon at the end were practically deserted. Tall Flemish-style houses from the 1700s frowned across the lovely miniature park. Its once immaculate gardens went untended, but the long rows of trees leading one inevitably to Pollard’s bronze group, The Forsaken, were still magnificent. As he found a bench the sun slipped through the cloud briefly, and he soaked up its warmth in gratitude. Two old men huddled on a bench across the way, oblivious to him and each other. An officer in Luftwaffe uniform strolled past, hands behind his back, a contented expression on his face. In one of the houses opposite, Memling caught a glimpse of a small child peering out.
