‘All right. Go on.’
‘If I may?’ He went over to the map. ‘Last Sunday, the Filter Room created a forward radar base on the Continent. We deployed three mobile GL Mark Two units and two of the new experimental Mark Three high-looking radars to Belgium – here, to be exact, around the town of Mechelen. That’s within about seventy miles of the launch sites, which is as close to the front line as we can get. The area’s only just been cleared of Germans. Because of its position, and the lack of hills, it gives us a perfect side-on view of the missile’s trajectory. These new radars have cathode-ray direction-finding displays, so not only can we pick up the rockets once they reach an altitude of about thirty thousand feet, we can also record their flight path before they pass out of range.’
‘And that helps us, does it?’
‘It could do, sir. When this all started, we rather hoped the V2 would turn out to be guided by radio signals, which we might at least have been able to jam. The Germans obviously anticipated that. They don’t use radio guidance. We believe the missile to be purely ballistic – that is to say, the engine shuts off and it follows a perfect arc, similar to if one throws a cricket ball from the outfield. And that is a potential weakness we might be able to exploit.’
He broke off, obviously unused to speaking at such length. The air commodore made an encouraging gesture. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, a ballistic arc is mathematically calculable. If we have data giving us the missile’s trajectory at the moment it becomes ballistic, and if we have the precise point of impact, then it should be possible, in theory, to work backwards and calculate the spot on the boundary from which the cricket ball, so to speak, was thrown.’
The officers looked at each other. Templeton sat forward in his chair. ‘That’s quite an interesting notion. The question is: can we exploit it operationally?’
‘Obviously we’ve been thinking hard about that. Essentially, it becomes a race against time to put the two halves of the data together. The first half, from the MRUs in Belgium, can start to be collated on site a minute or two after launch. The second half can be supplied from Stanmore as soon as Home Defence radar gives us the point of impact – that’s about three minutes later. So for the sake of speed, the calculating needs to be done as close to the mobile radars as possible.’ He turned to the officer from Fighter Command operations. ‘How long does it take to get a Spitfire off the runway at Coltishall and over the Dutch coast? Twenty-five minutes?’
‘About that. Give or take.’
‘So if the planes are scrambled as soon as a missile launches, and the point of impact is reported to Belgium as soon as the V2 hits, we’d have about twenty minutes to make the calculation, locate the rough area of the launch site and get the coordinates radioed to the pilots while they’re over the North Sea. In theory, we could bomb the target, say, thirty-five to forty minutes after launching, while there are still men and vehicles on site.’
Templeton turned to his aide. ‘Did you get all that?’
The flight lieutenant was still writing. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘What does everyone think? Is it feasible?’
With varying degrees of enthusiasm, the officers agreed it was.
Templeton said, ‘It gives us a chance, at least. And in the absence of any other options, it’s certainly worth a try. Good. Let’s start tomorrow.’
Knowsley looked alarmed. ‘I’m not sure we can start as soon as that, sir.’
‘Why not? You said yourself we have the radar units in place. And we have 303 Squadron at Coltishall. The pilots are familiar with that area of Holland.’
‘We still need the personnel in Belgium to make the calculations.’
‘Are the calculations difficult?’
‘It’s fairly sophisticated algebra. It requires an ability to use a slide rule, for a start. I’ve pulled a few girls out of the Filter Room and started training them – with somewhat mixed results, I have to admit.’
‘How many do you need?’
‘For round-the-clock coverage, to begin with, at least eight.’
‘Come on, Wing Commander! There are a hundred and eighty thousand WAAFs in the country! It has to be possible to rustle up eight capable of using a slide rule by tomorrow, surely?’
Knowsley was more stubborn than he looked. ‘It’s a demanding job, sir – working under extreme time pressure, putting pilots’ lives at risk, without any room to make an error.’
Templeton said, ‘I don’t care how you do it, but I intend to go to my office straight away and telephone the Secretary of State to tell him that we have finally come up with a plan that might just work, and that we’ll have eight WAAFs on a plane to Belgium tomorrow. Is that clear?’
If Knowsley was minded to debate the issue further, he clearly thought better of it. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. I’ll leave you gentlemen to sort out the details.’ Templeton gestured to the flight lieutenant, who retrieved his crutches from the corner and gave him his arm to help him stand. He looked completely done in, thought Kay as he hobbled past her, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his jaw clamped to contain the pain, his face damp and clammy-looking.
After he had been gone for a minute, and the others had started talking – ‘Well, Clarence, you’ve really landed yourself in it now’ – she got to her feet. Ignoring Starr – ‘Kay, where are you going?’ – she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
She looked up and down the long, deserted corridor, uncertain which direction to choose. Suddenly the door to her right opened and the flight lieutenant emerged. He nodded briefly to her and walked away. She waited until he had disappeared around the corner, then stepped quickly to the office, knocked, and without waiting for a reply went in.
He was sitting behind his desk with his back to the window, a telephone in front of him, sipping what looked like a glass of whisky. It was growing dark outside. The room was filled with shadows. A lamp in the corner provided the only light. She could barely make out his face. She moved a little closer but stopped well short of his desk. He looked at her over the rim of his glass and sighed.
‘Well that was pretty bloody. I’m sorry. Drink?’
She shook her head. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘A bit rough, but I’ll mend.’
‘Where’s Mary?’
‘Gone back to Bletchley.’
‘So you’re on your own? Where will you stay?’
‘The ministry’s got me a hotel somewhere.’ He put down his glass. ‘Look, Kay, do you mind? I’m not sure I can face this conversation right now. I’ve got a splitting headache and Downing Street’s about to call.’
‘Don’t worry. I haven’t come to make a scene. I just want to ask you for a favour.’
‘Which is what?’
‘After everything that’s happened, I can’t just go on sitting in the countryside looking at photographs – I need to do something.’
‘It’s important work, Kay.’
‘I know it is. But it isn’t the real war, is it? I’m good at maths. I know how to use a slide rule. Tell Wing Commander Starr you want him to let me join this unit in Belgium.’
He jerked his head back slightly in surprise. ‘He’ll never buy it.’
‘Yes, he will – he will if you order him.’
‘He’ll say you’re too valuable to lose.’
‘Tell him it’s only temporary, while they train up more WAAFs in England. Please, Mike – this may be my last chance to make a real difference. Besides,’ she added, playing what she knew to be her trump card, ‘wouldn’t it be easier for you if I were out of the country?’
‘Of course not.’ But she could tell he was tempted as soon as he added, rather more weakly, ‘That’s entirely beside the point.’
Before she could reply, his telephone began to ring. In the quietness of the twilit of
fice, the clamour sounded unnaturally loud. He studied it warily for a moment, flexed his fingers, then picked up the receiver and placed it carefully to his ear.
‘Templeton.’ He listened for a moment. She could hear the tinny, urgent jabber at the other end. He nodded. ‘Very good. Thank you for letting me know.’ He hung up. ‘That was Stanmore. A V2 just hit north-east London. And then there were nine…’ He looked at her briefly, then gazed out of the window. ‘All right. Leave it with me. I’ll have a word with Les, see what I can do.’
‘Thank you.’
He called after her when she reached the door: ‘Look after yourself, Kay.’
She didn’t turn round. I am a stranger to him, she thought, just as he is to me.
The telephone started to ring again.
‘Templeton…Good evening, sir…’
She closed the door quietly behind her.
7
AFTER TWENTY HOURS ON DUTY, Graf had lost track of time. His world had shrunk to testing bays and firing control vehicles, the smell of high-octane fuel and damp vegetation, the dripping silence of the woods punctuated by the pulverising roar of the launches. Occasionally he managed to find a quiet spot in the cab of an empty truck, or – as now – on a pile of discarded tarpaulins in the corner of a tent, and doze for a few minutes, but it was never long before he was shaken awake or heard his name being shouted.
‘Dr Graf! They’re ready to launch at site seventy-two!’
He opened his eyes to find a Wehrmacht motorcyclist bending over him.
‘What time is it?’
‘Just before nine, Doctor.’
‘Morning or night?’
‘Night.’
‘Night. Of course.’ He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled after the soldier, out of the tent and into the clearing.
Beneath the trees, the shadowed figures of the technical troops, with their headband lamps and flashlights, toiled like Nibelung. So much activity! The darkness was filled with their mysterious hammerings and shouts. The revving of engines was underscored by the continuous, monotonous throb of the generators. In one tent, its flaps drawn back, a pair of technicians bent over a prone missile linked by cables to a monitor. Further on, a rocket was having its nose cone bolted onto the end of its fuselage; the cylindrical plywood cover that had protected the warhead was being manhandled away by a couple of soldiers. Two missiles had failed their diagnostic tests and were being hooked up to tractors to be sent back to the engine shed at Scheveningen. Others awaited their turn for inspection, parked up on their trailers beside the lane. The big mobile erectors, the Meillerwagens, trundled back and forth between the field stores and the launch sites, churning up the ground. As soon as a rocket had been lowered onto its launch table, the tankers and bowsers closed in to begin the fuelling, and once the missile had been checked, the Meillerwagen returned to the technical stores to collect another.
Graf clambered into the motorcycle sidecar, stretched out his legs and grabbed the safety handles. The cyclist pulled down his goggles and kick-started the engine. They bounced over the grass and onto the road.
Number 72 was one of the launch sites furthest from the technical stores – beyond the Duindigt racetrack, in a wood on the outskirts of Wassenaar, quite close to the sea. The motorcycle flew along the highway and turned left, and was waved through the checkpoint. The beam of its headlamp played across the iron gates of the big empty villas; the houses thinned out, they crossed a field and then they were into trees again. It felt much wilder and more remote than the park-like forests around Scheveningen. In the fresh air, Graf felt his energy revive. They jolted to a stop.
The rocket, standing solitary on its launch table, was hard to make out. The brown and green stripes of its camouflage dissolved its sharp lines into the surrounding firs. Graf shone his flashlight from the tail fins up to the control compartments, across the umbilical cable to the electrical mast and down again. In their anxiety to launch a dozen missiles in a single day, he was sure the technical crews were rushing the test procedures. The launch had been delayed by another transformer failure. The part had been replaced. But there was no way of telling for sure if the avionics were functioning properly. Still, what could he do? He turned towards the firing control wagon and raised his arm. At 9.05 p.m., for the tenth time that Sunday, the discordant note of the klaxon brayed like a hunting horn around the woods.
He directed his torch beam onto the ground and made his way through the undergrowth to the slit trenches where the firing platoon were sheltering. The men shifted along to make room for him. He jumped down and shone his torch back in the direction of the V2, checking it once again, even though he knew it was pointless. A slight mist was rising from the forest floor, carrying a fragrance of wet earth and decomposing vegetation. The shape of a man appeared and seemed to wade through it, a cheerful voice said, ‘Move along, Doctor!’ and Lieutenant Seidel, the commander of the second battalion, slithered heavily down into the trench beside him.
‘You sound happy.’
‘Sturmscharführer Biwack is happy. Therefore the colonel is happy. Therefore I am happy. Therefore you should be happy too.’
‘I’m never happy before a launch.’
‘Nor afterwards, that I can see.’
The countdown started over the loudspeaker. Graf braced himself.
First the brilliant light that lit up the forest. Then the hot wind that seared his face. Twigs and leaves and loose earth whipped across the trench. He ducked and covered his head and felt a shower of debris patter across his arms and shoulders. He couldn’t hear or think about anything except the roar of the rocket. The ground shook. The pitch of the noise deepened. With a tearing sound the missile shot skywards. Immediately the men all stood to watch, Graf included. It was against the safety regulations to expose one’s upper body until the all-clear was sounded, but everyone ignored them. He glanced briefly along the trench. In the reddish glare of the exhaust, the upturned faces were softened by a kind of childish wonder. Then abruptly the light was extinguished and the forest was darker than before.
‘Ten gone,’ said Seidel, in a tone of deep satisfaction. ‘Two to go.’
‘He really means to fire all twelve?’
‘That was what he promised Biwack.’ Seidel shone his torch on his wristwatch. ‘But it’ll be a while before the next one. Stock’s battalion haven’t started fuelling yet. It’s quite a feat, I have to say. Did you ever expect to fire so many birds at the British in a single day?’
‘Honestly, Seidel? I never expected to fire any.’
Graf clambered out of the slit trench and brushed the dirt from his coat. He picked his way through the vegetation back to the launch site. The stench of burned fuel turned his stomach. Here and there the undergrowth was smouldering. Small fringes of orange fire crept across the ivy. He stamped them out with his foot. He felt a sudden surge of self-disgust. He walked across the clearing to the other side and set off along the path into the woods. As soon as he was far enough away, he stopped and lit a cigarette and inspected his shaking hands. It took a few deep draughts of nicotine for his nerves to settle. He looked around him. The evening was cold and still, with a strong tang of pine and just enough of a moon to silhouette the tops of the trees against the sky. Behind him the platoon had already started dismantling the firing platform.
He listened to the silence. From somewhere nearby came a faint whispering sound, an indistinct rustle. On impulse, he started to walk towards it, picking his way along the track for a few minutes. The rustle grew louder, the forest thinned and he found himself climbing sand dunes, his shoes sinking into the soft ground. He pushed on to the top.
A fence of thickly coiled barbed wire barred access to the beach. A sign with a skull and crossbones dangled from it. Achtung! Minen! The low tide had exposed a wide, flat stretch of sand. Shallow pools reflected the moonlight. The rows of angled me
tal stakes that were supposed to stop the enemy’s landing craft cast sharp shadows. Out at sea, the waves formed luminous soft lines of white.
He sat on one of the grassy dunes and lit another cigarette. The past, so long and so successfully held at bay, came flooding over the beach towards him.
I have spent the last ten years of my life by the side of the sea, he thought, always with the smell of pine in my nostrils and the taste of salt in my mouth, listening to the seagulls and straining my eyes at a wide sky.
* * *
—
They had set off in a convoy of trucks and cars from Kummersdorf just before dawn. That had been the first time: December 1934. So, yes – ten years, more or less exactly. He remembered he had sat in the cab of the lead truck, sandwiched between the driver and von Braun. Stowed in crates behind them were a pair of small rockets, just 160 centimetres long, officially known as Aggregate-2, but named Max and Moritz by the team, after the two naughty little boys in the stories they had all read as children. They were too powerful to be given their first test flights anywhere near a town, so they had to be taken to the seaside. What a lark! Even in the middle of winter, the whole expedition had had a holiday feel.
This was six months after Graf had joined the team at Kummersdorf, and he was lucky to still be alive. In July, Kurt Wahmke, a young physicist whose doctoral thesis had been on the outflow of gases through cylindrical nozzles, had decided to test his theory that they could dispense with mixing alcohol and liquid oxygen and could fuel the rocket much more simply instead with a ninety per cent concentration of hydrogen peroxide. On the day of the test, Wahmke had telephoned the mess to warn them there might be an explosion, in which case would they send help? Then he and Graf had smoked a cigarette in the company of two technicians. The pale blue hydrogen peroxide was suspended in a tank above the rocket motor, linked to it by a single pipe. They had stubbed out their cigarettes, opened the fuel line, and Wahmke had held a burning tin of kerosene to the nozzle. What had they been thinking? The flame had shot straight up the pipe and blown up the tank. Graf had been the only one who had reacted quickly enough, flinging himself headlong behind the concrete wall. The charred corpses of the other three had stayed in his mind for weeks, the smell of roasted flesh seeming to clog his nostrils, although von Braun had viewed the remains with equanimity. His main concern had been that the test stand was destroyed. He was always able to take other people’s tragedies in his stride. That was the mark of a leader, Graf supposed.
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