V2 A Novel of World War II - Robert Harris Page 0,42

of methyl alcohol had been drained out of the fuel tankers overnight and consumed in the barracks. Graf couldn’t tell whether they were impressed by his display of confidence, or thought him a show-off, or simply resented him as one of the scientists who had landed them with such a dangerously unreliable weapon. Probably all three.

He hauled himself out of the trench. After the noise of the launch, his ears still felt as if they were wadded with cotton wool. It took him a moment to realise that someone was calling his name. He couldn’t see who at first. Then he spotted Lieutenant Seidel’s head protruding through the inspection hatch of the firing control wagon. The battalion commander was waving.

‘Graf!’

‘What?’

The battalion commander cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted something unintelligible. Graf spread his hands helplessly. ‘I can’t hear you.’

Seidel pointed his finger at the spot where Graf was standing. The gesture seemed to be telling him not to move. The lieutenant’s head disappeared.

Graf stamped his feet and blew on his hands. It was another cold November morning – dry for once, thank God, but freezing. The wood was rimed with frost, except close to the launch table, where the ice had melted. He glanced at it, then looked away. He couldn’t rid his mind of the scene at launch site 76 – the six-metre-deep crater, the firing control wagon burning like a furnace, the human remains and fragments of uniform hanging from the blasted fir trees like grisly Christmas decorations. Twelve men – half the firing platoon – were dead or impossible to identify. He had stayed at the scene until the last of the wounded had been taken away. When he finally got back to his hotel room, it had taken him a long while to get to sleep, and when he did, he dreamed of Wahmke at Kummersdorf, in his white laboratory jacket, smoking a cigarette, turning to smile at him just before he touched the kerosene igniter to the jet of hydrogen peroxide, and he found himself running in a panic through the trees, the exploded test stand with the charred bodies and the night-time scene in the forest merging into one. He had woken to find his hands clutching his blanket so tightly they ached.

Seidel approached through the undergrowth, swinging his arms to loosen his stiffness after his confinement in the armoured car. ‘Morning, Graf.’ There was no nonsense from him about a Hitler salute. ‘Did you sleep?’

‘A little. You?’

‘Me? I always sleep well. So – did you hear poor old Stock died this morning?’

‘I didn’t know that. When they took him away, he was still breathing.’ As the vision came into his mind, Graf briefly closed his eyes.

‘Well he’s dead now, poor fellow. It was a mercy. His battalion will have to be reconstituted. Huber’s called a meeting at headquarters. Your attendance is requested.’

‘Requested?’

‘Ordered, then, if you prefer.’

‘For what purpose?’

‘To determine what went wrong, I should imagine.’

‘What went wrong?’ repeated Graf. ‘What went wrong was his insistence on firing twelve rockets in a day!’

‘Well then, my dear Graf, you can have the pleasure of telling him that. In the meantime, he wants us to go and inspect the site for clues. Come – I’ll give you a lift.’

They walked along the road towards the lieutenant’s car. Once they were clear of the launch area, Graf pulled out his pack of cigarettes and offered one to Seidel, who accepted it at once. They halted while Graf lit them. They were ersatz, disgusting; it was like smoking sawdust. He took a drag and contemplated the glowing tip. He didn’t much relish revisiting the crash scene. ‘What kind of “clues” does the colonel imagine we’re likely to find?’

Seidel gave him a pitying look. ‘None. He just wants to cover his arse when he reports to Kammler.’

Kammler was the SS general in charge of the V-weapons offensive: by common consent, a madman.

Graf laughed, despite himself. ‘You’re such a cynic, Seidel.’

‘I was a lawyer before the war. I’m trained to be cynical.’

Five minutes later, they were in Seidel’s little Kübelwagen, with its flapping canvas roof and bucket seats, jolting towards Wassenaar. A brief interval of flat grey dune land stretching down to the sea yielded quickly to the inevitable trees. Unlike the woods closer to Scheveningen, this one was dotted with smart houses. The wealthy owners had been moved out a couple of years earlier to create a three-kilometre security zone along the coast. Seidel slowed down and