Vengeance 10 (47 page)

The light was fading fast, and Bethwig knew that he should find his way back to the assembly point before darkness fell completely. He fumbled for a cigarette, found one that was comparatively dry, and lit it, shielding the match against the wind. He drew the smoke into his lungs and coughed; the tobacco was foul and musty-tasting. He stared at the glowing end with distaste but did not snuff it out.

‘You in there! Come out immediately and with your hands up.’ Startled, Bethwig peered through the branches to see two men in dark overcoats and coal-scuttle helmets watching him. One had a rifle levelled.

He muttered a curse and fought his way out of the tangle of branches to glimpse the lightning-bolt device on one man’s collar. ‘SS!’ His voice dripped contempt.

The tall one smirked. ‘Another deserter, Clement.’

Bethwig shook his head. ‘I am a civilian, an army employee. And you have no jurisdiction.’

‘Is that so.’

Bethwig could identify the rank now; the tall one was a sturmmann and the other an SS-mann, equivalent to lance corporal and private, respectively, in the army.

The sturmmann reached forward to rub the material of Bethwig’s torn greatcoat between his fingers. ‘This looks like an army issue to me.’

Bethwig knocked his hand away. ‘It is, you idiot.’ He unbuttoned the coat and flung it open. ‘But no uniform underneath.’

‘Not so unusual. Most deserters get rid of their uniforms as quickly as possible. They think to fool us that way.’

Bethwig shook his head in disgust. They were one of the SS patrols detailed to search behind the front lines for deserters. Soldiers caught away from their units without proper authorisation were summarily executed by men like these.

‘We are at least twenty kilometres from the front lines. Are you two skulking back here because there is no one to shoot at you?’ The private chuckled. ‘For someone about to be shot, your mouth certainly flaps a lot.’

Bethwig snorted. ‘I am an engineer assigned to a V-Two launch team, B company. Four hundred eighty-fifth Battalion, about a kilometre from here. It was shot up twenty minutes ago by an Allied aircraft.’

‘And so you ran away?’ the other sneered.

‘Of course, you fool. Those are standing orders, written by SS General Kammler himself. The Allied aircraft always try to kill as many of the launch crew as possible. The general’s orders are to scatter and return to a specified assembly point within sixty minutes. We have few enough trained technicians as it is.’

The sturmmann laughed. ‘Well, if that is the case, the Four hundred eighty-fifth is about to be one fewer.’ He looked around the clearing. ‘This spot is as good as any, I suppose.’

He undid the holster flap and drew his Walther pistol. Bethwig was so cold and exhausted that for a moment his actions did not register. To be shot almost seemed a welcome idea, but he forced himself to make the effort.

‘You damned fool. How do you think you will explain my execution to your superiors?’

‘Quite simply. We complete the report forms when we return to our unit. Whatever we say is accepted. Right, Clement?’ The SS-mann nodded in solemn agreement.

Oddly enough, Bethwig felt absolutely no fear, only curiosity as to the outcome, and he could not decide if this was a result of exhaustion or self-confidence. ‘You do have to submit the executed prisoner’s identification tags and paybook, do you not?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then before you shoot, you had better search me. You aren’t going to find either.’

The sturmmann shrugged, it is not unusual.’

‘What you will find are my identification papers that show clearly I am an employee of the Army Weapons Research Centre, now under the direction of the SS. I report directly to General Kammler and through him to Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.’ He tilted his head to one side as the man released the safety.

‘You really should check, you know. If I am killed you and your friend are liable to hang - from a meat hook. Himmler prefers that method of execution, I am told.’

The other SS trooper, Clement, put a hand on his companion’s arm. ‘Wait. I think we had better check, just to make certain. What if he isn’t lying?’

He pushed Bethwig’s arms up, yanked open his coat, and searched until he found the wallet and dragged it out. Using his electric torch, he examined Bethwig’s papers.

‘See, just as he said.’

The sturmmann shook his head. ‘Probably forgeries. ‘I’m cold, damn it. ‘I’m going to shoot him now, and then we are going back ...’

Clement shook his head, if these papers are correct, we will hang. If not, we can shoot him later.’ He turned to Bethwig. ‘Where is this assembly point? Will there be anyone there to identify you?’

Bethwig nodded. ‘Of course. In the village of Vreden.’

The sturmmann muttered to himself, but Clement shoved Bethwig around. ‘Get started.’ Bethwig suppressed a snort of satisfaction and began to retrace his steps in the fading light. Apparently the sturmmann, although superior in rank, was deficient in brains.

It took them almost thirty minutes to find the clearing, and when they pushed cautiously into the deserted area, they found the remains of the launching site still burning. Bethwig trudged on across the trampled field towards the distant village of Vreden without waiting for them.

Bethwig had spent the previous month living a gypsy-like existence, moving from one raw launch crew to another in support of the offensive in the Ardennes. Peenemunde had been stripped of experienced personnel to direct the barrage of rockets launched against Antwerp, Brussels and London in an effort to disrupt Allied supply lines and kill reserve troops and headquarters units. For two weeks they had operated in the comparative safety of bad weather, but a few days after Christmas the weather had begun to clear, and they were being hunted again.

He had slogged from one frozen, wind-blasted forest clearing to another, following the same exhausting drill. The crews were all ill-trained, some lacking any idea of what they were about. He had only a few key veterans to assist him, and the spate of air attacks had killed the last of them two days before, leaving him with the sole responsibility for moving the train of vehicles from one location to another, checking the rockets, seeing that the necessary repairs were made - often doing them himself - then supervising the erection and launch procedures. Even so, with certain shortcuts he had managed to whittle down the time between launches to less than six hours. He could have improved on that, he knew, but the quartermaster corps seemed to have given up on the war, and as a result, his men were constantly hungry, cold, and exhausted. Then there were conflicting orders from Berlin and Kammler’s headquarters, all of which were interpreted by a succession of arrogant SS officers whose loyalties to Germany rarely seemed to coincide with their loyalties to obscure superiors who had other objectives in mind.

Now he sat on his bunk in the unheated caravan housing the launching and tracking equipment and stared stupidly at the piece of paper shoved at him by an orderly who had just wakened him from the first bit of sleep he had had in more than two days. It took several moments for the message to make sense.

He was to return immediately to Peenemunde. Nothing more. The order was signed by Kammler. Bethwig stepped to the door and pulled the curtain aside. Bright sunlight forced him to squint as he looked across the Dutch barnyard towards the amazingly flat fields beyond. He knew they were somewhere west of the River Ems, but had not had the strength to ascertain exactly where when they had arrived shortly before dawn. Wherever it was, they were nearing the absolute limit for V-2 operations against England. It must be true, then, he thought. The Ardennes offensive had failed. If so, troops would soon be falling back into Germany and the effectiveness of the V-2s would suffer accordingly.

He packed his few belongings and went over to the mess tent for a hurried breakfast of coffee - burned toast steeped in boiling water - hard bread, and ersatz jam. He showed the orders to the SS officer commanding the unit. The man was the fourth in as many weeks, and Bethwig had not even bothered to learn his name. The officer stared with glazed eyes at the yellow sheet of paper, then nodded. Franz went out and hitched a ride with a lorry heading east towards the Ems. Less than a kilometre along the road a Spitfire flashed towards them, waggled its wings in derision, and a few moments later they heard the explosions begin.

‘Herr Doktor, the Führer has granted the A-Ten operational status as a retaliation weapon. It is to be known as Vengeance Ten, and you are to see that its deployment is accelerated!’ Bethwig shook his head. ‘General Kammler, it is impossible.’

‘Nothing is impossible to a member of the German ...’

Bethwig laughed. ‘General, do not waste my time with party slogans. I was a veteran party member while you were still at university. Slogans no longer impress me and do you know why? Because people like you have destroyed the party and, in the process, destroyed Germany.’

Kammler thrust his head forward and glared at Bethwig. ‘Defeatist talk! For that you could be shot!’

‘And then you would lose all hope of deploying the V-Ten, wouldn’t you?’ Bethwig shot back. He opened the box of cigarettes on the general’s desk, took one, and glanced at the name printed on the paper.

‘These are American.’

‘Help yourself,’ Kammler sneered. ‘They were taken from a convoy of American supplies a few weeks ago.’

Bethwig smiled. ‘That is my point, General. You, safe, warm and well fed in a rear area, have good American cigarettes, while the frontline soldier dies on the battlefield, with dried leaves for tobacco.’

Kammler’s face flushed, and he started to retort, but Bethwig, weary of arguing, held up a hand. ‘General, I did not say that I would not, I merely said that it was impossible to ready the V-Ten batteries in the time you expect. I am not averse to trying; I merely wish it to be understood that I do not expect to succeed. There is no longer a possibility of establishing four batteries by May thirtieth. My preliminary studies indicate that they will not be ready until September even if the priorities you claim could produce the raw materials. And a miracle would be needed, even for that late date. With the loss of the Dutch industrial areas, we cannot even produce sufficient liquid oxygen to fuel the existing four battalions of V-Twos, let alone four more of V-Tens. And you know as well as I how meaningless priorities now are. Where are the two railway locomotives I requested months ago? They are heading to the east, pulling wagons loaded with Jews. Why do these people, enemies of the German Reich, take precedence over the survival of Germany?’

Kammler turned to the window, his expression hardening. ‘I do not know. And I do not concern myself with matters that are not my responsibility. You would be well advised to follow a similar policy.’

‘Sound advice, General. And very necessary in our Germany today. However, please remember, it was you people in the SS who created the Germany in which such practices are accepted.’

Bethwig stared at Kammler who returned his look without flinching. Finally, Bethwig shrugged.

‘Perhaps I can furnish that miracle, General Kammler.’ When he was certain he had the general’s attention, Franz went on. ‘Three V-Tens were near completion when you sent me to Belgium. I told you then that given another month I could have had them ready for launching. If you had left me alone, perhaps now your batteries of transatlantic missiles might be nearing readiness.’

Kammler remained silent. His stare would have disconcerted anyone but Bethwig, who now had little to lose.

‘I can have one ready by the end of January, the remaining two by mid-February. The pilots have been selected, and fortunately their training has not been interrupted. While I no longer believe that America can be forced from the war unilaterally by a few rockets landing on her soil, I do believe that two or three such, with the promise of more to come, might send them to the negotiating table, dragging their British and French allies along. If an armistice can be achieved, Germany could turn its attention solely to the east and the defeat of Russia. An old tune, General, but it is Germany’s last hope, and the only reason I comply with your demands.’

Kammler’s silence indicated that he accepted this rationale, and without a further word, Bethwig left the office. This is the last opportunity we will have, he thought bitterly, and we’ll damn well make the most of it. The old dream was far from dead.

On New Year’s Day Bethwig knocked on the door of the test office in the air tunnel laboratory. A moment later a technician clad in a fireproof asbestos suit opened the door and handed Bethwig a similar suit to pull on over his working clothes. The suit was hot, smelly, and heavy. Muttering to himself, he followed the technician across the room to a steel door and waited while he fiddled with the lock, swung it open, and motioned him through. Bethwig ducked and wriggled past the heater cells behind the stationary wind-tunnel vanes. Three other men waited for him, none of them in protective clothing, and he removed his helmet.

‘Keep the suit on, Franz,’ Wernher von Braun told him. ‘This won’t take long.’

Bethwig nodded. He had worn the suit only to persuade the Gestapo guard who followed him everywhere to remain outside. ‘All right, Wernher. What’s going on?’

Von Braun glanced at the other two men - his brother, Magnus, and Ernst Mundt. ‘I’ll come right to the point, Franz. We’ve had a meeting with the department heads still at Peenemunde as well as those we could reach at Nordhausen. It is clear that the war is lost, and it remains only for the Allies to occupy Germany. Even your V-Ten will not delay that for long.’ He looked anxiously at Bethwig who nodded.

‘I agree.’

Von Braun looked relieved, and the other two exchanged puzzled glances. ‘We know that Kammler has orders to begin planning an evacuation. Rumours from the most reliable sources say that the facility is to be completely destroyed. No trace is to be left of the work being done here. I suppose those fools in Berlin believe it possible. There is another rumour to the effect that Himmler has ordered the SS to shoot all scientific and technical personnel. While I don’t quite believe it, I do not dismiss it either. We have all seen how the POWs have been treated since the SS took over, and I can tell you that Peenemunde is paradise compared to conditions at Nordhausen.’