V2 A Novel of World War II - Robert Harris Page 0,97
until at last it came to rest on Graf.
Graf looked away.
He barely noticed the ceremony after that – the hymns, the pious sermons from the two clergymen, Huber’s eulogy (‘They died in the service of the Fatherland, yielding up their lives for our sacred cause …’). His mind reviewed a parade of ghosts – Karin on the beach that final evening, the girl in the brothel standing over him with the knife, Wahmke holding the tin of kerosene in the instant before he died, the human remains strewn around the crater of the exploded rocket, the shadows of the slave workers passing through the tunnels of Nordhausen. Only when he heard Kammler’s voice – that rasping, staccato delivery, made even more metallic by amplification – did he make a conscious effort to claw himself back into the present.
The SS general was standing at the microphone, holding a sheet of paper. Graf tried to focus, caught odd words – ‘crusade for Western civilisation … historic destiny of the Führer … ultimate victory assured …’
He flourished the paper. ‘Men of the Vengeance Division! I wish to share with you the following communiqué from the Reich Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda. “As of today, the V2 has destroyed three Thames bridges in London. The Houses of Parliament have been extensively damaged. There is not a building standing within five hundred metres of Leicester Square. Piccadilly Circus has also been devastated. The Tower of London has suffered considerable damage from blast.” Let that be their epitaph.’
He folded the sheet and returned it to his inside pocket. ‘Our comrades did not die in vain! You do not serve in vain! Each rocket you fire inflicts a smashing blow upon the enemy! We are the Vengeance Division! We will prevail! Heil Hitler!’
The silence that met his words seemed to disconcert him. He dropped his arm and stepped back from the microphone. He glanced at von Braun and then at Huber, who nodded to the commander of the honour guard.
‘Prepare to fire!’
The men aimed their rifles at the sky.
‘Fire!’
The shots rang round the racetrack. The soldiers reloaded.
‘Fire!’
They reloaded again.
‘Fire!’
As the echo of the final volley died away, Graf stood. He had made up his mind, and he wanted to get away before von Braun had a chance to speak to him.
Seidel caught his arm. ‘What’s the rush?’
‘We have a missile to launch, remember?’
‘Even so, I think you need to rest.’
‘I’ll prepare the rocket. Then I’ll rest, I promise.’
The V2 was waiting for him on its cradle beneath the trees. He asked the corporal to open control compartment number 2.
The man looked confused. ‘It was number three this morning.’
‘And now it’s number two.’
The soldier did as he was instructed. They all knew Dr Graf; they trusted him. The component was awkward to get at. Graf had to lie on his back under the rocket and reach into the interior, working blind. With both hands he felt around the plywood platform for the programme clockwork – a small device, no bigger than his hand – and pulled apart the wires.
He slid out from beneath the fuselage. ‘That’s fine. You can close the compartment.’
Once again he walked beside the rocket as it was towed over to the crane. He stood watching as it was transferred to the Meillerwagen. He did not ask for a lift to the launch site. He had plenty of time. He ambled along the road through the trees, found a decent spot, spread out his coat and sat down. He smoked a couple of cigarettes and listened to the sounds of the wood. For the first time in many weeks, he felt at peace. His mind was pleasantly empty. He lingered for the best part of an hour, then resumed his journey.
The rocket was on its launch table, fully fuelled. The electrical tests had been completed and the cables were disconnected. The men were preparing to unfasten the testing platforms from the vertical arm of the Meillerwagen. Standing watching them, his notebook open, was Sturmscharführer Biwack.
Graf said cheerfully, ‘Still collecting information, I see.’
‘I think it’s noteworthy, don’t you? A missile fired directly at a British army unit for only the second time in history?’
‘Noteworthy – yes, I suppose that’s one word for it.’ And then he said, to no one in particular, ‘I just want to check the transformer one last time.’
‘No need, Doctor. Everything’s been tested. It’s working fine.’
‘Even so – we’ve had so many faults. Remember what happened to Lieutenant Stock? Just give