Page 63 of V2

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.’