Page 18 of V2

‘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 metal 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.