"Exactly, woman. Exactly." George felt he had somehow scored a worthy point here. Even Jeffrey nodded in rare agreement.
Marsh Acre Farm was remote, shunned by the local people. The man from the War Office, sent by Whitehall to make a personal check on the three sons, had confided to colleagues that he would rather face the Germans than make a second visit to Marsh Acre. His official report stated that beyond doubt the sons were working on the land and fulfilling the alternatives to military conscription. There was simply no need for him to seek further confirmation.
The villagers talked of incest, although they used the word "inbreeding". Certainly the Penbridges had been a close family for several generations. The farm had become a tip, and as long as a Penbridge was in residence it would remain one. There was constant fighting at March Acre. The neighbors said that no good would come of all that aggressiveness; it wasn't natural.
"Shut up, woman!" shouted George. "Give the man a chance to tell us something!"
"The German leaders have new wonder weapons," Lord Haw-Haw continued. "They are calling them Vergeltungswaffen -- Reprisal Weapons. The German people can no longer tolerate the aggressiveness of the British and American warmongers. These V weapons will rain down on you until the politicians who seek war with Germany come to their senses. People of England, when you see these wonder weapons falling on your cities you must tell your leaders to make peace, before your beautiful country is destroyed."
"Rubbish!" shouted Mrs. Penbridge, turning on her uncouth family. "If you believe that, you're mad, the lot of you!"
*
EIGHT HOURS later, at 4.00 a.m. on the thirteenth of June, the first V1 approached London with its high mounted pulse-jet engine emitting an unsteady throb. Suddenly the engine cut. The silence was ominous as the small pilotless aircraft began its dive on the closely packed houses below. Three-quarters of a ton of high explosive killed six people in Bethnal Green, and caused considerable damage to property.
It was the first of four Vergeltungswaffen to arrive that night. Over the next few weeks over eight thousand V1s would be launched at England from the coast of northern France. The British people quickly christened them the doodlebug. Nearly all were targeted at the capital.
*
New York
"BERLITZAN OIL!"
Albert Heinman said the name aloud and it had a good ring to it. Germany would be pleased with the latest batch. For the last seven years Berlin had been funding a DCI project called Berlitzan. They weren't funding it on the scale he'd envisaged in 1937, but Domestic Chemicals Incorporated had made enough progress to ensure regular deliveries of Nazi gold through South America.
He had been bringing his son Frank into the office for the past few months. It was doubtful if the boy would ever be able to run such a complex business as DCI on his own. But as Irena told him, Frank was still young, just six weeks off his twenty-first birthday. And he had the Heinman height. People always respected a tall man, she said.
He stared through the glass screen at young Frank sitting in the outer office, looking blankly at the accounts ledgers. Fussed over by his mother at home and useless at work, he might be tall but he was unable to grow the family beard. The pointed beard had been the hallmark of true Heinmans for generations. Even before the family emigrated to the States, great-grandfather Heinman had sported a pointed beard. It was in the portraits that lined the staircase of the family brownstone, and Albert knew that his own beard looked striking, as befitted the head of an industry that had ridden the slump.
And Frank couldn't even manage a moustache.
He continued to look at the boy. DCI belonged to the Heinmans, and since this was the only son he had, Frank had to make the grade.
Berlitzan oil. He treated this product as his own child. Babies like this were all he'd ever wanted anyway. Frank had been what people politely called a mistake. Perhaps DCI should be going into reliable rubber goods. It was certainly an idea.
The Berlitzan Project had come about by accident on that unhappy birthday of Irena's seven years ago. Chance was a strange thing, but if you were determined enough the dice rolled in your favor. The name had come easily too.
Berlitzan oil. Berl for Berlin, in cryptic recognition of the country that had financed it. "Whatever happens, we must have Berl for Berlin," he remembered saying in the oak benched laboratory one day in 1940.
"Berl for Berlin. But we need a second part. Berl ... and something. What is it?"
Jacco Morell had looked up from the chemical glassware where he'd only been paying partial attention. The product was dangerous stuff to handle.
"It's an oil, Mr. Heinman."
"Damn me, he's got it! I like it! 'It's an oil, Mr. Heinman!' You're damn right it's an oil! Berlitzan oil. Get it?"
Albert Heinman smiled now as he recalled how the Germans had got it three weeks later in July 1940 when war had been raging in Europe for nearly twelve months. A volatile oil, but only a minute quantity. Two gold cylinders, each the size and shape of a cigar tube, containing a few drops of the highly corrosive substance. After testing it on convicted Gypsies, the Nazi High Command made it clear the oil needed improvement. Quickly, if it was to be of any use to them. Very quickly.
But the development of the Berlitzan Project had been slow. The oil's main failing was its lack of effectiveness out of doors. Released in a crowded theatre or cinema it would be reasonably effective, but the Germans had large military targets in mind. They complained it was never powerful enough, and never available in sufficient volume for use on the Allies.
Every month Domestic Chemicals had got a little closer to making a practical weapon. Only gold could contain the highly corrosive Berlitzan oil, so corrosive that it would quickly burn through all other metals within seconds. And it should all have been Nazi gold. Gold for the containers and gold for imbursement. Recently the German authorities had started to lose interest and were reluctant to pay their agreed quota.
The Nazis gave Albert Heinman an ultimatum almost identical to the one in 1937. He must produce the goods at once or they would sever all ties with DCI. He knew that the latest version of Berlitzan oil had been too late to prevent last week's Allied Invasion of France at Normandy.
He had recently persuaded Hitler's heir apparent Hermann Göring to test a small batch of Berlitzan oil using V1 flying bombs. If this was successful, Göring was prepared to field-test the new batch. Heinman felt a great sense of relief. The Germans were talking his product seriously at last.
Berlitzan oil could be delivered onto any civilian population within reach of the V1, in England or on the Continent. Göring was right: the reaction of a civilian population, rather than that of highly trained troops, would demonstrate the effectiveness of Berlitzan oil particularly well. England was the obvious target.
There was only one problem. This new batch of Berlitzan oil would be easier for the Nazi scientists to copy than the original formula, so no way was he leaving it with them for analysis. He would have to go to France to supervise the V1 tests. Maybe he could take young Frank. The experience would be good for the boy. Help him grow up a little. One day Frank might make vice-president. Maybe even president.
*
England -- July 25 1944
"GERMANY CALLING; Germany calling." The nasal voice of the Anglo-American traitor filled the filthy farmhouse in Marsh Acre.
"For God's sake turn it off!" Alice Penbridge had little patience. Just like the rest of her family.
"Shut up, Ma. We want to hear."
"You watch out, Jeffrey my lad. You just wait until your father gets to you. Don't think you're too old to be getting a taste of that strap of his."
"Hush up, Ma," added Archie, her second son. Archie was now as tall as his older brother. "This is the only reliable news we get."
"Reliable is it!" The assortment of dishes regularly replaced at the local market was banged down on the table. "They'll be hanging that man at the end of the war, you'll see. Now, where's that fathe
r of yours? He's going to miss his supper."
Lord Haw-Haw continued his speech, oblivious to the interruptions at Marsh Acre Farm. "For the last few weeks the German weapons of terror have pounded your cities. Your casualties run into millions."
"There you are, Ma," shouted Jeffrey in triumph as he jumped from his chair. "There's nothing about that on the BBC!"
"That's because it's all lies," yelled Mrs. Penbridge, a heavy pan of boiling water in her hand.
Out of respect for his mother's sometimes erratic behavior Jeffrey Penbridge sat down and let the matter rest.
"Soon a new weapon of terror will be on its way across the Channel," the nasal voice on the radio intoned tediously. "People of England, my friends, plead with your leaders to make peace with your well-wishers in Germany. They do not want this war with you."
Alice Penbridge poured the water into the sink and a cloud of steam enveloped her angry figure. "Bloody nonsense," she snapped. "If that's the best program you can find, it's time it went off to save electricity."
"It's a battery!" said Archie.
"It's still electricity." Jeffrey jumped to his feet again.
"Are you turning that damn thing off or do I have to hit it one?" Alice Penbridge held the large iron pan above the old wireless set.
At that moment the door swung open and George Penbridge charged into the low-ceilinged kitchen, his old blue jacket open and his face even redder than usual. "There's one of them doodlebug things come down in the corner of the copse," he gasped. "Bloody thing's not gone off. There's a stick of something in the snout what looks like gold. Come on, don't all sit there gawping. Get the toolbox, Jeffrey lad. Let's have it out afore the army gets here."
Chapter 6
Berkshire Observer, July 28 1944
LUCKY ESCAPE FOR LOCAL VILLAGE
The surprised inhabitants of the village of Lower Marshford were on the receiving end of a German doodlebug last Tuesday evening. This one, which fell in a small wood at Marsh Acre Farm, was without the normal warhead. A Military expert told our reporter that ballast was fitted instead of explosive.
The bomb squad believes the flying bomb could have been an experimental model, possibly fired for range finding. Without the full weight of explosives, the V1 traveled several miles further than normal, passing directly over London to reach the county of Berkshire. The military quickly recovered the bomb, and the remains will now undergo a full examination. Thanks to our courageous pilots, and the dedicated gun crews on the ground, the V1s are now posing less of a threat than they did in the first weeks of attack in June.
A spokesman from the Air Ministry in London is keen to reassure the people of Berkshire that they have little to fear from the flying bombs, which are intended for densely packed areas of civilian population. The Royal Air Force, the spokesman informs us, has dealt many deadly blows to the weapons factories in the Baltic, which the Germans once thought to be beyond the range of our bombers. There have also been exhaustive bombing raids by the Allies on the launch sites on the French coast near Calais. The threat of further attacks has been almost eliminated.
The reporter from the Berkshire Observer seemed unaware of the true details from the crash site, such as the discovery by the army of a small gold cylinder; empty, with the lid unscrewed, found close to the wreckage. The reporter made no mention of the threat from the V2, a rocket of enormous size that could fly so high and so fast it would be beyond the reach of gunfire. He knew nothing about it because the Air Ministry spokesman had remained silent on the subject during the interview.
Top secret sources in Poland warned that the new rockets were all set for a terrifying rain of mass destruction. Launched from mobile sites in the Netherlands, with a range well in excess of two hundred miles, these Vergeltungswaffen were expected to pound the British Isles some time in the autumn. The ministry had every reason to be alarmed. Civilians could never be prepared for a thirteen ton monster of death. If the boffins were correct it would drop from the sky at 3500 miles an hour, without warning, unseen and unheard. There was little point in warning, and thereby alarming, the residents of London -- or Lower Marshford. Where could they shelter?
One item of local news was tucked away on an inside page. It came as no surprise to anyone who knew the family.
DOMESTIC TRAGEDY
It is with great sadness that investigators at the crash site of the flying bomb report the death of Mr. George Penbridge and his family at their isolated farm at Marsh Acre. Members of the Penbridge family have been farming at Marsh Acre for over two hundred years. Police believe that George Penbridge had been emotionally disturbed by the crash of the German V1 on his farm, and shot his family during an argument before taking his own life. Forensic scientists from Reading recovered a shotgun and several spent cartridges from the scene. The coroner has been informed.
France -- August 1944
SOPHIE BERNAY made an attractive girl by any standards. Just why she'd stayed on at her dead parents' house in the Pas-de-Calais was a puzzle to the remaining inhabitants in the village. Her older sister Martha had left as soon as the English bombs fell. A few gossips concluded, not unreasonably, that such a pretty blonde, with curly hair down to her shoulders, and hips that swayed provocatively -- and a smile that could not possibly be as virtuous as it seemed -- that Sophie must have stayed for the money.
Certainly the Germans who moved in with their strange aircraft, and their skinny metal launching ramp, had been quick to notice her. The ordinary soldiers could only stare. It was the officers who entertained her in private -- or so they whispered in the village. Sophie laughed to herself and shook her head, scattering fair hair across her shoulders. The locals were jealous. There was only one naturally blonde girl in the Pas-de-Calais -- Sophie Bernay -- and the Germans looked after her very well indeed.
The Colonel had come up with some interesting news for once. Sophie usually found what he said boring, for Colonel Röhm babbled endlessly about the glorious future of the Third Reich. But today he let it slip that two important Americans were on their way, bringing something that could prove vital to the German war effort.
She'd never been given an opportunity to flirt with an American before. If she could believe what her neighbors said, the American soldiers -- and the British -- would shortly overwhelm all Northern France. Perhaps when it happened they would overwhelm her. Meeting Allied soldiers wasn't something she looked forward to with any enthusiasm. These German officers were refined. Real gentlemen her mother would have said if she was still alive. But an RAF bomber had killed her parents exactly two years ago. It was difficult to know whose side to be on.
"Fraulein."
It was Colonel Röhm. The Colonel never took advantage of her body. He seemed more interested in the war than in girls, an observation that made her feel cheated. Not that she wanted anyone as old as the Colonel, but it upset her to think that he never expressed any interest.
"Fraulein, the two Americans arrived in Switzerland yesterday. They are being flown here shortly. I want you to look after the younger one. His name is Frank. His father is Albert Heinman, an important industrial man in America, so make a good impression. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly, Herr Colonel."
Sophie experienced an unexpected thrill of anticipation. She remembered seeing American actors in films at the Picture Palace in Calais before the invasion, and the young men looked dazzling. Maybe the meeting would be good after all.
Three hours later she heard the sound of a single-engined aircraft, and ran into the open to watch the ungainly high-winged plane with German markings approach low over the pine trees. The Storch resembled une tipule, a crane fly, as it appeared to hover over the high wire fence before dropping gently to the ground inside the military compound.
*
CAPTAIN ALEC Rider watched the Storch bump to a halt on the sandy soil. He'd read about this German reconnaissance plane, but it amazed him that anything could fly so slowly -- and stop within such a short
distance.
"Find out what the hell they put in that bomb!"
They'd not given him much to go on. Major Jackson wanted results, but his instructions were impossibly vague. Doubtless someone high up was leaning on the Major and had told him nothing either. All Alec knew was that he was just one of twenty SOE operatives dropped into northern France two days ago to scour the countryside for operational launch sites for doodlebugs. So here he was a few miles outside Calais, wearing civilian clothes, spying with no military back-up. And what had he been told to look for?
"Germ warfare or something, Captain. It's probably in small gold bottles. They tell me you speak pretty good French. Just blend into the countryside."
Fantastic. An Englishman speaking schoolboy French in an area probably long devoid of young men. Perhaps he could try passing himself off as the village idiot. Major Jackson should be here himself. He'd make a passable imbecile -- as would the man at the top who'd thought up a plan like this.
So here was the famous Fieseler Storch. Often used by top brass. A clever plane, unbelievably slow, and perfect for reconnaissance. It could land almost anywhere -- as it had now proved. Alec could recall small details quickly. Five German soldiers began to turn the plane, probably preparing it for a quick takeoff.
He noticed that the two tall passengers were being treated with great respect, even though the younger one seemed to be just a lad.
In his right hand Alec held a large French knife courtesy of SOE, Special Operations Executive, the group that ran these clandestine operations. A French implement was essential for a worker, and this chef's knife had been the only genuine article available at the training camp. What did they expect him to do with it? Butcher the whole German army?
"Use it for cutting things. There'll be plenty of reeds there. Try and look useful."
Alec sighed wearily. Major Jackson was a star.
The young passenger carried a black attaché case, clutching it to his chest. He'd already pushed two soldiers away when they offered to carry it.
Hands of the Traitor Page 4
