Vengeance 10

by Joe Poyer

  ‘If you think back, you will probably find that your desire for sex had diminished. The young lady’s remained high because she, as you yourself maintain, did not appreciate the danger of the situation.’

  The brigadier pushed himself away from the rock. ‘Look here, Jan. This isn’t simple cocktail psychology. The effects of stress on the human body have been carefully studied. Certainly this damnable war provides no end of subjects. One thing we know for certain - stress is cumulative over time and can and does cause temporary impotency. We are also finding that its cure is often quite simple, requiring nothing more than the patience and help of a woman who loves you.’ He hesitated, then decided that it was all or nothing.

  ‘I want you to run this operation for me, but only if you feel completely up to it. I suspected something like this after speaking to Janet, although certainly not the extent of the problem. Before I left London, I made arrangements to have you transferred back to my command, if you were willing. The only condition I now impose is that you speak to a certain doctor in London. I think he can help you appreciate what I’ve told you. Think about it. If you decide yes, ring me in Glasgow at this number.’ He handed Memling a card on which he had scribbled a telephone number.

  ‘If you decide no - well, then no hard feelings. But I must know within twenty-four hours. Otherwise it will be too late to get things organised properly.’

  Simon-Benet punched him lightly on the shoulder and strode away, knowing that he had best have time alone.

  As they walked along the path leading from the tiny Peenemunde cemetery to the waiting car Wernher von Braun caught Bethwig’s arm and steered him away from the others so that they were screened by the pines.

  ‘Franz, you know how sorry I am about this. I just wish...’ His voice trailed off, and he glanced around at the dripping branches and hunched his shoulders against the rain.

  Bethwig nodded but did not reply, and after an awkward moment they resumed the walk to the car. The SS officer who had accompanied Bethwig stared sullenly as they approached, oblivious to von Braun’s glare; he opened the rear door, and once settled inside, Bethwig leaned against the seat, face carefully composed even though he was still clutching Himmler’s telegram expressing sorrow at his loss.

  Bethwig was long past either sorrow or anger; both had ended with Inge’s death. The Peenemunde staff physician, an old friend, had offered no hope from the beginning.

  ‘‘I’m sorry, Franz, but there is nothing I can do other than to make her as comfortable as possible. She has advanced tuberculosis. A week, perhaps a month. Certainly not more. Since the war began, there are just not the medicines available, not that they would be of much use at this stage. The Allies are said to have a drug that will help but...’ He shrugged in helplessness.

  The car turned into the drive. It had made little difference, he thought. Inge had no recollection of him. The house, the warm bed, food, and hot tea were enough. Whatever had been done to her in the camps had destroyed her already damaged mind. It was impossible for her to carry on even a short conversation; she had great difficulty composing the simplest sentence. His housekeeper, a taciturn Polish woman of middle age, assumed immediate care of her and even moved into the house to be with Inge at night. Bethwig found himself on several occasions studying this strange woman as she sat bundled in blankets on the enclosed porch, searching for even a vestige of the beauty that had so entranced him. But there was nothing left of her former self in this wasted frame. When she died quietly one night after a severe bout of coughing, he could only feel vast relief that she was now spared further agony. His consolation lay in Himmler’s defeat. Dornberger had persuaded Hitler himself to free von Braun, Gottrup and Mundt. Von Braun was now safe, by order of the Führer, and Inge was beyond reach.

  Franz opened the door without waiting for the driver and stepped out. A sentry standing by the gate presented arms, and Bethwig turned to see the Gestapo officer Walsch stepping from the front seat of a touring car.

  ‘What is this man doing here?’

  Walsch nodded towards the front of the house where another guard waited. ‘You are quite fortunate, Herr Doktor Bethwig. The Reichsführer takes great interest in your safety. It has been reported that a Russian assassination team has been sent into the area. The sentries will assure your safety.’

  It was a barefaced lie, but Bethwig was too disgusted, too exhausted, to feel outrage. That fool Himmler should know by now that he could not be intimidated with threats to his life. Walsch, smiling now, continued. ‘Our counter-intelligence forces have established that the Russians have marked you and your family for murder, Herr Doktor. The Reichsführer has therefore extended the same protection to your father.’

  The blow so stunned him that Bethwig could only gape. As if from a great distance, he heard Walsch explaining that precautions required that his father be placed in protective custody, that the Führer had personally approved the plan, and that the Reichsführer hoped he could now continue his work with his mind eased. Bethwig turned away and stumbled up the path as Walsch smiled and nodded after him.

  ‘I tell you, Franz, this may very well be our last opportunity.’ Von Braun kicked at the sand, then picked up a stone and hurled it towards the waves. It skipped twice and sank. ‘You can’t resign. You can’t give up now!’

  Bethwig shook his head stubbornly. ‘I can and I will. If I have to leave Peenemunde, I’ll do so.’

  Von Braun snorted. ‘Ever since that spy scare last summer, SS control has tightened like a noose. You could no more leave here than a front-line soldier could desert his unit.’

  Bethwig shrugged, and von Braun muttered to himself in exasperation. ‘Damn it, Franz, you are badly needed here, now that Dornberger has been transferred to Berlin. Ever since that fool Keitel and the Army General Staff refused to support him a few months ago, it’s become clear the army is giving up all claim to rocket development... and Himmler is moving quickly to assume control. The attempt to kill the Führer only strengthened his hand.’ He stopped and swung around to face Bethwig. ‘You’ve met General Doktor Hans Kammler, the SS’s own wonder boy, and you know what he thinks of the work being done here. Well, tomorrow he assumes complete command of the programme and the Peenemunde facility.’

  Bethwig looked at him in surprise. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘My brother, Magnus, has a friend at OKW. A few days ago he was sent to General Buhle’s office to take notes on a meeting between Buhle and Kammler. Kammler described Walter as a public danger and told Buhle he ought to be court-martialled. Buhle refused, of course, but not strenuously.’

  ‘Degenkolb won’t stand for it,’ Bethwig protested. ‘Peenemunde is a private concern. That makes it immune to military takeover.’

  ‘Damn it, Franz, can’t you understand? This is not a military takeover. This is the SS. Himmler can do just about anything he pleases these days. It is said that even the Führer dare not oppose him now. My God, his personal bodyguard are SS troops. As for Degenkolb, when was the last time you saw him here? At least Kammler made one correct assessment when he described that man as a hopeless alcoholic.’

  Bethwig shrugged.

  Their walks had become much less frequent of late, and the conversation usually concerned political matters affecting their work. Rarely did they discuss technical or speculative matters related to science as they had done in years past.

  Von Braun followed a pace or two behind, studying his friend with concern. Since the death of that strange woman and the arrest of his father, Bethwig had subsided into a world of his own, one in which he continued to function as effectively as ever, directing the final development of the A-10 transatlantic bomber rocket with skill but no personal interest. The drive that had so characterised him had disappeared. For weeks now Franz had taken little interest in staff debates concerning technical problems, preferring instead to issue directives from his office. How did that madman gain such control, von Braun wondered, that even Franz’s father, among
the party’s earliest and most ardent supporters, could be thrown into a concentration camp like a communist or a Jew to keep Franz in line?

  They turned inland after a while and strolled through the nearly deserted production buildings, which were quickly falling to ruin. No repairs had been made since the bombing a year ago. Windows remained broken, and sliding doors hung at odd angles. Rubbish littered the area, and weeds grew between the concrete slabs. The actual production facilities had all been moved into Germany proper, to an underground factory near Nordhausen where most of the work was performed by prisoners from the local concentration camps under, it was rumoured, appalling conditions. Von Braun had no reason to doubt that. Since the SS had assumed control of Peenemunde’s security, the quality of work obtained from both foreign contract workers and POWs had fallen well below standard; and he was certain that Dornberger’s imminent arrest stemmed in good part from his repeated protests against the starvation and brutality to which they were subjected.

  Von Braun caught up with Bethwig as they approached the middle of the complex. Massive buildings frowned at them from the mist, and huge puddles were forming wherever stopped-up drains acted as miniature dams.

  ‘Franz, tomorrow ‘I’m returning to Poland for more test firings. They may keep me there for several weeks, and you know this is the critical phase. One more A-Ten test launch is all Kammler will allow. Unless it is a complete success, he will close the project down and we will lose for ever any hope of a lunar flight.’

  ‘But if he does,’ Bethwig answered in a bitter voice ‘at least my father might live. There would be no reason for Himmler to continue to hold him.’

  Von Braun uttered an obscenity. ‘Perhaps. And perhaps the opposite. The man is mad; you cannot expect him to act rationally. What if he takes it into that stupid head of his that further failure is due to sabotage on your part? You know as well as I that he is capable of that kind of thinking. You only have to see what he is doing to Walter Dornberger. He has no scientific background and no conception of how such research is conducted.’

  Bethwig looked at von Braun, his face a mask of anguish. ‘Wernher, how can I? How much longer can my father survive? The best information I have is that he is at Ravensbruck, which is supposed to be a special camp for important political prisoners. As long as I do exactly as I am told he has a chance. You saw what they did to... Inge.’ Bethwig had to force himself to say her name. ‘I just cannot go on, Wernher ...’

  Bethwig started to walk away, but von Braun called to him to wait. Something in his tone stopped Bethwig, and his shoulders slumped. He waited, apprehension growing, as von Braun came up and slipped an arm about his shoulder.

  ‘Franz’ - his voice was soft - ‘I wanted to spare you this, but too much is at stake and you should know. I am certain that Himmler has taken steps to see that you do not find out. As I told you, Magnus has a friend, a clerk at OKW.’ Wernher’s arm tightened and Bethwig knew then what he was about to say.

  ‘Your father died of congestive heart failure on September eighth. Franz, I can’t tell you how sorry ...’

  Bethwig nodded, then straightened his shoulders and walked off. His mind was clear now, icy and calm. He remembered von Braun after a moment and turned to see his friend looking after him, coat clutched about his neck against the rain and hair plastered about his face.

  He nodded. ‘I’ll be ready, Wernher.’

  Jan Memling trudged across the wet tarmac to the operations office where RAF Flight Lieutenant Stan Culliford was just finishing the weather summary. Jan leaned against the warped door and waited, hands jammed in the pocket of the Yank bomber jacket he had won in last night’s card game.

  ‘Looks like we might go tonight, old boy,’ Culliford grunted when he turned away from the board. ‘Weather’s clearing over the landing site until shortly after dawn, the Met boys think. Word is the ground’s firm enough to support the wheels.’

  ‘Whose Met boys?’ Memling asked sceptically.

  Culliford grinned. ‘The Poles’ of course.’

  ‘Do we know where we’re going yet?’

  Culliford nodded and pursed his lips, his expression pessimistic. ‘Place called Motyl, near the village of Zabrow. It’s an old landing field. The AK will provide the security.’

  The Polish home army, the Armia Krajowa, operated under impossible circumstances, yet according to Simon-Benet’s assessment, they were the best in the business. The AK was a duplicate of the pre-war Polish army and perhaps the best organised of all resistance groups in Europe.

  The two men walked outside. Culliford, noticing that they had glanced at the dawn sky together, chuckled. ‘Won’t do us any good to be looking around up here. We have six hundred miles to go and then some.’

  Memling nodded, staring at the flaming Italian sky. Over the hills to the east, the sun was edging above the horizon in splendours of reds and blues, and the high cirrus glowed and danced in the growing light.

  ‘It’s your decision, Stan,’ he said after a moment. ‘You have to fly that thing.’ He gestured towards the waiting Douglas Dakota. In its coat of dead black paint, the aircraft was barely visible on the tarmac.

  The New Zealander glanced again at the sky, then at the yellow flimsy in his hand, scratched his jaw, and nodded. ‘Let’s go. We probably won’t have a better chance for another couple of weeks and I sure as hell don’t want to hang around here any longer. You might lose that jacket and then I’d never get a chance to own it.’

  They took off at 20.00 hours, with four officers and nineteen suitcases of equipment aboard. Three of the officers had flown in with Memling two weeks before but had remained segregated in separate quarters. He heard them speaking Polish among themselves and surmised that they were couriers or Special Operations Executive agents. The fourth, who had arrived the previous week from London, was a Captain Leslie Reynolds whom Memling knew vaguely from his work with R. V. Jones’s group the year before. The man had been a physics professor at Leeds University before the war and was an admirer of Viscount Cherwell’s.

  The last few lights were disappearing below as they droned into the Adriatic. Memling climbed forward to the cockpit. The navigator gave him coffee from a Thermos, and Culliford pointed out a dark mass against the horizon.

  ‘Yugoslavia. I’ve flown across her several times. A few night fighters about but nothing serious as long as you keep below their radar. Our bombers work their coastal stations over quite regularly, and in case of serious trouble, the partisans will be glad to see us, or so ‘I’m told.’

  ‘By the way, we’ve lost our escort, ‘I’m not sorry to say. Bloody great lumbering beasts. Attract Jerries like flies to sugar.’

  ‘Lost them?’

  ‘One had engine trouble. Never left the runway. We’ve simply outflown the other. Not to worry, though. In case of trouble, we’ll just turn around. That second Liberator is about fifteen miles behind. Anyway, he’ll be leaving as soon as we cross the coast again, on a mission of his own.’

  Brindisi had been chosen as the jump-off point for the flight into southern Poland. Memling gathered that SOE had been making good use of the Italian fields to insert agents all over occupied Europe. While it was nearly twelve hundred miles from Britain to southern Poland by the most direct route, the existence of Allied airfields in central and southern Italy enabled them to shorten the flight by half. The route took them up the Adriatic to cross the Yugoslav coast south-east of Split, then on across the Dinaric Alps to skirt the Hungarian-Rumanian border, across eastern Czechoslovakia and into southern Poland.

  The Polish co-pilot, Kazimierz Szrajer, was saying something to Culliford which drew a laugh, but the noise of the engines prevented Memling from hearing. The flight settled into routine, and Memling left the cramped cockpit after a while. One of the Polish agents looked up from the Sten gun he was cleaning and smiled, happy to be on his way.

  The Dakota had been stripped of all non-essential equipment to open up as much room as possible for the cargo
they would be bringing back. The only seats, as a result, were unpadded benches bolted to the wall, and the curving side of the fuselage forced one to sit hunched forward. The accommodations, he remarked, were only slightly better than those of the Mosquito in which he had been flown into Germany the year before.

  After much soul-searching Memling had visited the psychiatrist recommended by the brigadier.

  ‘He did telephone you were coming, and we discussed your case to some extent.’ The doctor smiled and offered a cigarette which Memling declined.

  ‘From what you have told me, I see nothing to suggest that his diagnosis was incorrect. If you will pardon my bluntness, your problems were created by ignorance. There is nothing to be ashamed of in that unless, of course, you persist in that ignorance. As to the treatment - unfortunately there are no magic cures: only patience and the determination to face up to the situation as it exists. Do you love your wife?’

  The question had come as a complete surprise, and Memling’s reaction was automatic: