‘How much help do you think the general is willing to give?’ The co-pilot looked dubious but put the question anyway. The answer must have surprised him because he grinned and then translated. ‘He says that will depend on how long we would require to free the aircraft?’
Memling glanced at Culliford, who shrugged. ‘Judging from what they did before, twenty minutes maximum is my guess.’
‘Tell him,’ Memling ordered, but the general nodded.
‘I speak little English.’ He seemed to be thinking a moment. ‘Twenty minutes, no more. Burn airplane then. Hokay?’ Memling stared at the men surrounding him; even Captain Reynolds had wandered over to listen. ‘All right, twenty minutes it is.’ Memling ordered Culliford to organise the digging parties while the co-pilot saw to repairing the hydraulic line. He then turned to the general. ‘Can I help?’
The general laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Hokay, Commando. You come see how we do.’ He stood up and began to bellow orders. As the partisans formed up into units Reynolds approached Memling and coughed apologetically.
‘Ah, Major Memling, I did receive a basic training course. I can shoot a rifle. May I go with you?’
Surprised, Memling glanced at the scientist. He was obviously frightened; his eyes darted here and there, and his hands were tightly clenched, yet he wanted to do his part. Memling nodded. ‘Get a Sten from the aircraft.’
The general bellowed orders in Polish, and the guerrillas divided into three columns and moved out. One column was to backtrack to the end of the valley and ambush the army garrison pushing up the road.
The second and third columns were organised to form a trap. A thin screen, part of the second column, would be thrown across the road a kilometre north of the aircraft. They would allow the SS unit to burst through, into a fire field laid down by the remainder of the column. Again the SS would be allowed to break through, thus providing the impression that they had breached the partisans’ defences. While their confidence was high, but before the motorised column could resume speed, they would be slowed again by trees felled across the road. The general was confident that the column’s commander, rather than wait to clear the trees, would order the lorries on to the verge to bypass the roadblock. The soft ground would slow the troop carriers and the armoured car reported with them. At that point the partisans’ single thirty-seven-millimetre anti-tank gun would fire on the armoured car while soldiers with Molotov cocktails would destroy the lorries. With the way blocked front and back, the rest could be dealt with at leisure.
It was the classic guerrilla tactic against armoured vehicles, devised by the Finns during the winter of 1939-40. Even the weapons were the same: the thirty-seven-millimetre anti-tank gun and Molotov cocktails. Memling watched doubtfully as the partisans trotted off into the darkness. The tactic was well known; it might work against the invalided troops coming up in the rear but not against the battle-hardened Waffen SS who would have perfected their anti-guerrilla techniques on the Russian front. The general must have sensed his thoughts, for he clapped him a stunning blow on the shoulder.
‘His hokay. You see! German always do same thing.’
With Reynolds panting behind, Memling followed the fast pace set by the partisans. Loud cracks sounded just ahead, and a moment later he saw tree trunks crash across the single track. Memling and Reynolds dogged the general as he checked his forward positions. The ground on either side of the trees was even spongier than the landing site, and Memling’s boots squished. The Poles had excavated shallow trenches which were already filling with water. Memling slid in without hesitation but had to reach up and yank Reynolds after him. He took a quick look at Reynolds, but the darkness hid his face.
‘Ah, Major?’
‘Just keep your head down and you’ll be all right,’ Memling answered absently.
‘No, it’s... I had a look at the rocket. There was no sign of any radio guidance system, and the fuel tanks ... well... they were, ah, made of steel. Just as you said they would be. I certainly owe you...’
An exchange of gunfire broke out with the sharp bursts of SS machine-gun fire predominating. The shooting stopped, and the engine noise of the lorries was clear in the night silence. General Kierzek chuckled and clapped Memling on the shoulder.
A moment later firing sounded again, only sharper and more prolonged this time. The lorry engines were louder, and suddenly the armoured car loomed in the darkness, silhouetted against the sparse trees. Its machine-gun chattered off a burst, swivelling across the road to either side, a tactic originated by Erwin Rommel during the 1940 blitzkrieg.
The partisans ignored the probing gunfire, and a moment later the driver saw the trees lying across the road. The machine-gunner fired a long burst into the area, and spurts of dirt and flying rocks kicked across the top of their trench. Memling heard a shout, and the armoured car turned on to the verge, followed by the first lorry. Both ground forward and bogged down. The anti-tank gun to their right went off with a bang, and the armoured car’s turret burst open. Troops tumbled out of the leading lorry, and the partisans opened up with everything they had. The thirty-seven-millimetre gun barked again, and the lorry exploded. A flaming bottle arced down on to the second lorry still on the roadway and splattered against the canvas top. The fourth and last in line received a similar barrage and blew up quickly.
The partisans who had manned the two forward lines appeared out of the trees to pour fire into the meagre defensive line the SS troops had managed to establish, and it was over in minutes. Scattered shots sounded as partisans finished off the wounded and dying SS troopers, then set about stripping the dead of weapons, ammunition, rations and boots.
The general is well pleased with himself, Memling thought as they trotted back towards the landing site at an easy pace. A runner had come up in the last stages of fighting to report the army troops successfully ambushed at the other end of the valley. There were no survivors. Thirty Waffen SS and twelve regular soldiers were dead, as against three slightly wounded partisans. And Captain Reynolds. Memling carried his ID tags in the pocket of his battledress.
Culliford met them, but the look of triumph and relief on his face disappeared quickly when Memling told him about Reynolds.
‘We’ve dug the Dakota out and repaired the hydraulic line. We can fill it with water and make it work well enough to get the landing gear up.’
The Dakota was already reloaded for the third time. They had exhausted their supply of starter cartridges, and when the last bundle was secured, Memling stood outside with the fire extinguisher while the partisans lined up to turn the port-side prop to start the engine. The co-pilot had gone to great pains to impress upon them that they were to jump aside as soon as the engine fired, but he needn’t have worried. Three times the nervous men had to reform before the engine caught with a bang.
When the second engine had been started, Memling tossed the fire extinguisher aboard, shook hands solemnly with the general, and, as an afterthought, removed his pistol belt and handed him the Colt automatic. The general was delighted and pressed him to take his own nine-millimetre Radom.
‘Have plenty guns now. Get them from Nazi. You take, remember me.’
Memling grinned then and buckled the belt and holster on and climbed aboard. He slammed the cargo doors on the partisans’ cheers and hurried to the cockpit to clap Culliford on the shoulder. ‘Make it good this time,’ he shouted.
The pilot’s face was grim, and the co-pilot, at his nod, eased the twin throttles back. The engines ran up smoothly, and Memling watched the rpm needles mount until they were hovering near the red line. The Dakota vibrated, then, with a Maori war cry, Culliford released the brakes and the Dakota bounded forward. For just an instant Memling could feel the wheels sink as they came off the boards, but the aircraft’s momentum was too great and she raced on. At forty-seven pounds of manifold pressure, the tail came up and Culliford began to pull back on the control column. The aircraft lifted easily for all its load, and they were airborne. The treetops flicked past, and the Dakota went into a climbing turn.
Culliford brought them around to fly down the field waggling his wings then climbed for altitude to the south-east.
Jan Memling landed at a new airfield west of London, near the suburb of Heathrow, having changed planes three times in two days. Rain swept across the tarmac in gusts as he trudged into the Nissen hut that served as reception. Two red-capped MPs escorted him to a damp office.
Memling broke into a grin when he saw the brigadier seated at the desk smoking a cigar, and he tossed the leather satchel containing the Polish reports on to the desk. ‘There they are. Safe and sound. You did receive my preliminary report from Brindisi?’
Brigadier Simon-Benet nodded and opened the satchel. His abstracted air as he glanced through the first report puzzled Memling. ‘You did very well, Jan. It was too bad about Reynolds. Very bad. But ‘I’m sure it couldn’t be helped.’ He glanced significantly at his aide who took the hint and stepped outside.
‘I take it you experienced no special personal problems?’ Memling looked at him in surprise. For the first time in thirty-odd hours, he thought about his fear, or rather the lack of it. From the moment they had touched down in Poland, he suddenly realised, there had been the usual apprehension but nothing more; in fact, he had even been able to understand Reynolds’s fear and admire the way he overcame it. Perhaps that was an end to it, then.
‘No, sir, none.’ He grinned. ‘You were right.’
‘Good,’ Simon-Benet answered gruffly. ‘I am happy that something came of all this. While you were waiting in Italy an A-Four rocket crashed in southern Sweden. We obtained it from the Swedish government in return for two destroyers and some radar sets. The bloody thing’s at Famborough now where the wizards are taking its guts apart. I don’t want to suggest that this mission of yours was not worth while; far from it. The more information we can gather, the better off we are.’
The brigadier studied him. ‘You’ve already been vindicated by the Swedish rocket, my boy. Preliminary reports indicate the fuel is alcohol diluted to seventy-five per cent with water and liquid oxygen. Hydrogen peroxide is used to drive a turbo-pump which pressurises the fuel tank - constructed of steel, as you reported. That and other uses of steel rather than aluminium account for the great weight discrepancy between Captain Reynolds’s analysis and yours.’
Memling nodded, his face suddenly haggard.
‘What’s the matter, boy. I would have thought you’d be happy to be proven right?’
Memling nodded. ‘I am ... I was just thinking of a bet that I don’t have to collect now.’ He brushed a hand over his eyes, seeing Reynolds crouched beside him in the muddy trench firing his Sten at the third lorry in line, short bursts in the approved manner. He had reloaded even though his hands were shaking so badly that he had to rest the gun on the lip of the trench and ease the magazine into the breech. The next time he had looked, Reynolds was sitting against the back of the trench as if resting, his face shot away.
‘... found one difference between the Swedish rocket and your report,’ he heard the brigadier saying. ‘I suppose it can be counted as one for Captain Reynolds, since it was his pet idea. The Hun has apparently added a wireless type of guidance. One was found in the rocket. Now that we have it, it should be easy enough to develop a method to assume control of the rocket in flight and direct it away from inhabited areas, as he proposed.’
It was a moment before Memling absorbed what Simon-Benet was saying. Then he shook his head. ‘They don’t use a radio control system. The rocket is a ballistic missile. No provision was made for a wireless guidance system. Reynolds had a look at the rocket and admitted that himself.’
The brigadier smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Now don’t you fret about that, Jan. Even Jerry changes his mind occasionally. This rocket had a very sophisticated guidance system. You can see it for yourself tomorrow. But first I suggest you get to bed for a good sleep. You look as if you could use it.’ As he talked the brigadier led Memling to the door. For a moment a curious sense of déjà vu passed over Jan, and he wondered if it was starting all over again. The brigadier was speaking to him in the same condescending tone that all the others had used when refusing to accept his suggestions or evidence. But before he could say anything, Simon-Benet had opened the door and he saw Janet waiting for him in the corridor.
Franz Bethwig dived for the slit trench as the Mustang leapt over the hedge. Four distinct lines of machine-gun bullets raced across the frozen mud towards the V-2 squatting on its erector. As he plopped into the mud there was a dull boom and a flash that lit the waning afternoon. Pieces of metal showered the area, and when he dared raise his head above the lip of the trench, the rocket, its erector, and the firing and tracking caravan were little more than flaming masses of twisted metal.
An officer ran towards him shouting, trying to make himself heard above the blowtorch roar of flaring alcohol. His message was clear enough, and Bethwig vaulted from the trench and dived into the woods, while more aircraft raced in to drop their bomb loads and machine-gun the launch site.
Franz stumbled to a halt and sank down beside the trunk of a fallen beech. He huddled into himself, breath rasping, and stared dully into the declining twilight while the explosions went on and on. Somehow during the headlong run he had tom his army overcoat so that it gaped along one shoulder. He had also twisted an ankle.
A stiffening wind was getting up, and a few desultory snowflakes drifted past. Aircraft raids had become a way of life to V-2 launch crews. No matter how far they retreated into Holland, American Mustangs and Thunderbolts and British Spitfires and Typhoons sought them out. They always came like that, he thought, low over the forest so that they seemed to jump down on to the launching area, their only warning a snarling engine and stuttering machine-guns. The launch crews were so thoroughly demoralised that the SS had found it necessary to add a contingent of guards to stop the high rate of desertion. Just in the past two weeks there had been three executions within his own battalion. Two SS guards had been found with their throats cut, victims of army retaliation. Bad feelings between SS and army troops were developing into open warfare. No SS man dared walk about by himself, even in daylight.