Page 59 of V2

Graf hunched over a map in the technical troop tent, measuring the distance with a pair of dividers. He calculated the flight path from Scheveningen to Mechelen as 121 kilometres. The protractor showed him that instead of a compass bearing of 260 degrees, the rocket would need to fly on a southerly course of 183. The engine cut-off time would need to be reduced from 65 to 26 seconds to flatten the trajectory. That would mean bypassing the onboard accelerometer and instead turning off the motor by radio signal from the ground. The arithmetic was all very crude, but it was the best he could do. Beneath his breath, he cursed Kammler.

He pulled back the tent flap. The missile lay in its wheeled cradle beneath the trees, hooked up to a tractor. The number 3 control panel was open. He used a screwdriver and a pair of pliers to rewire the accelerometer, nodded to the corporal and stood aside as the panels were fixed back in place. The corporal banged his hand on the side of the tractor cab, the engine started and the rocket was slowly moved forward to the warhead mounting section, where the nose cone with its one-ton charge of amatol hung suspended, still housed in its metal shipping drum. It took five men to lower it by block and tackle and guide it into place. Once it was screwed to the end of the fuselage, the container was lifted away. Five minutes later, the fuses were installed and she was ready to go.

Graf walked beside the rocket at a steady pace, like an undertaker beside a hearse, as the missile was moved along the forest road. In the clearing ahead, beneath the wide gantry of the mobile crane, the Meillerwagen was already waiting. The transporter halted alongside it, the V2 was hoisted up and swung across, her nose cone nodding judiciously in the wind. Three men strained on ropes at the back to hold her steady. When she had been lowered onto the Meillerwagen and clamped in place, fore and aft, Graf walked up to the cab of the tow truck and opened the door.

‘Any chance of a lift?’

‘Sure. Get in.’

They moved off towards the launch site. Graf wound down the window and stuck his head out into the fresh air. He gazed at the passing trees. He wondered if his exchanges with Kammler would land him back in a Gestapo cell and he realised he did not care. He felt disturbingly detached. He was not even much bothered that he had just re-targeted a ballistic missile to hit a Belgian town. British or Belgians – what was the difference? How many civilians had he killed already? He passed his hand across his face. My God, he thought, what am I? Was he really any better than the SS? In a way he was worse. At least they had the stomach to kill their victims face to face.

The launch table was already in position. A dozen men stood around it waiting for them. The tow truck halted at a distance of fifteen metres; Graf jumped out of the cab and watched as the Meillerwagen was uncoupled from the tow truck. Steel cables were connected to the chassis and it was winched by hand until the base of the rocket was over the launch table. The supporting jacks were screwed down. The hydraulic rams began to raise the missile. Such simplicity! After a couple of minutes, the V2 reached the upright position, where it was held rigid by the arm of the Meillerwagen a few centimetres above the circular platform. The position was checked and then it was slowly lowered. Once the missile was standing upright, the Meillerwagen withdrew a couple of paces. The hydraulic arm was lowered, testing platforms were attached at various heights, it was raised again and hauled back to the rocket. Cables were run out for the electrical tests.

Graf went over to one of the surveyors, who was peering through his theodolite to make sure the V2 was perfectly vertical. ‘For this launch, we have a different aiming point.’

The soldier blinked at him in surprise. Every missile launched from The Hague in the past six weeks had been set on the same course towards London. ‘Is this a new order?’

‘One hundred and eighty-three. Check with the lieutenant if you like. He’ll confirm it.’

He could see Seidel making his way over from the firing control vehicle. He beckoned to him. ‘I’ve calculated a bearing of one eight three.’

‘Very good,’ said Seidel. ‘You heard Dr Graf, soldier. Re-orientate the rocket.’

‘Yes, Lieutenant!’

A rumble of engines signalled the approach of the fuel tankers – two carrying methyl alcohol, one liquid oxygen and one hydrogen peroxide. Graf and Seidel walked away. Graf said, ‘I’ve disabled the accelerometer. I calculate we need to cut off the engine by radio signal after twenty-three seconds.’

‘What happens if the signal fails?’

‘We’ll hit Reims.’

Seidel stopped in mid-stride. ‘You’re joking?’

‘No. I checked it twice. If she flies the full distance, that’s exactly where she’ll come down.’

‘My God, this is insane – even for Kammler! Does he know this?’

‘Why would he care? It’s only the French.’

Seidel walked off, shaking his head, to supervise the fuelling and Graf took up his usual position, leaning his back against a tree, ready to step forward if his expertise was required. He watched as the men of the fuel and rocket troop took over the preparation of the V2. The protective cones were removed from the jet nozzles. The carbon vanes – too fragile to be fitted until the last minute – were attached beneath the fins. The batteries, which had been drained during the electrical tests, were lowered from the control compartment and replaced. The fuel tankers drew up around the rocket and hoses were run out.

Each one of these procedures had become routine. None of the soldiers would have the faintest notion of how many months and years of effort had gone into devising each one. My life’s work, thought Graf, and it has come to this – a long shot at hitting an unsuspecting Belgian town. The 6,000 litres of alcohol were pumped in first – that took ten minutes – followed by 6,750 kilos of liquid oxygen, which took eight. The pipes gleamed beneath a layer of ice. Clouds of condensed water vapour billowed across the clearing. Hydrogen peroxide was pumped into the steam unit. The sodium permanganate, which reacted with the hydrogen peroxide to produce the steam to power the turbine, was removed from its heated container and tipped into an opening in the tail unit. The compartments were closed. The tankers withdrew. The arm of the Meillerwagen was lowered. The igniter was fitted. Finally the surveyors moved in to turn the rocket on the launch table so that the number one fin was precisely aligned on a bearing of 183 degrees.

Graf pulled his back away from the tree and made his way over to the firing control vehicle as the klaxon sounded. He pulled the heavy door of the armoured car shut behind him. Seidel was peering out of the hatch in the roof. He closed it and slid down into his seat. In his hand he held a stopwatch. ‘Twenty-three seconds, right?’

‘That’s it.’

He picked up a telephone. The radar station in The Hague announced that they were clear to launch. He nodded to the sergeant. ‘Begin the procedure.’

Graf braced himself as the countdown started. Through the thickened glass he saw the familiar spectacle – the shower of sparks, the spreading flame, the sudden rush of noise and heat as the rocket reached full power. Seidel pressed the stopwatch the instant the missile erupted out of sight.

He spoke into the telephone. ‘Stand by to cut off engines. Twenty seconds … fifteen seconds …’

18

IN MECHELEN, A TELEPHONE RANG. It made them jump. In the confined silence of the bank vault the clang was as loud as a fire alarm.

Kay looked up hopefully. Waiting for something to happen had started to prey on her nerves. A dozen pairs of eyes went straight to the Signals Corps corporal as he lifted the receiver.