He thrust his hands into the innards of the rocket, turning his head back and forth, coughing, his eyes smarting. It was just as well that he knew the layout of the control compartment blindfold, for that was effectively how he had to work, feeling his way down from the fuse box to the filter circuit to the main electrical distribution unit. He pulled a wrench from his pocket and ran it around until he found the pair of bolts holding the transformer in place, and after a couple of minutes he succeeded in unfastening them. He gripped the transformer in both hands and pulled it free. As he lifted it out of the compartment, he could feel the heat of the metal on his face. He called down a warning to Biwack, and then flung it as far away as he could.
The smoke inside the compartment immediately diminished. He switched on the flashlight and shone it around. Much of the thick rubber coating on the main cables had melted. The plywood casing that surrounded the compartment was charred. Otherwise there didn’t appear to be any serious damage. He closed the compartment. Very slowly, taking care not to look down, he began his descent.
By the time he reached the ground, several dozen men had converged on the V2, on foot and in trucks – not just Seidel and the launch platoon, but Colonel Huber himself in the front seat of a staff car. Biwack was bending to examine the burned-out transformer. He tried to pick it up, but it was too hot to hold, even with his leather gloves, and he dropped it at once.
Seidel said, ‘How badly damaged is she?’
Graf pulled off his gloves and squatted on his haunches to recover his breath. ‘Not damaged at all that I can see, apart from the transformer.’
‘What do you recommend?’
‘Drain the fuel tanks. Send her back to the workshop to run some electrical tests.’
‘We can’t just fit a new transformer?’
‘We could, but why take the risk?’
Biwack interrupted. ‘I thought you said there was no damage?’
Graf pushed himself back to his feet. ‘Probably not, but we can’t be absolutely sure until the avionics have been tested.’
‘How long does it take to drain the fuel?’
‘A couple of hours.’
‘So you’ll lose half a day and London will have the afternoon off! Suppose you launch – what’s the worst that can happen?’
‘The missile could misfire,’ replied Graf. He was starting to find it hard to hide his irritation – an hour in Scheveningen and already the NSFO was an expert! ‘Or it could stray off target, in which case we’ll have wasted a hundred thousand Reichsmarks.’
Huber came over to join them. ‘So, gentlemen? What have we decided?’
Seidel said, ‘Dr Graf recommends cancelling the launch. The Sturmscharführer seems to disagree.’
‘Pay no attention to me,’ said Biwack. He waved his notebook. ‘I’m merely here to observe.’
Huber looked at the rocket, then at the blackened transformer, then at Graf, and finally he eyed Biwack’s notebook. Graf could almost hear the machinery creaking in his brain. ‘One must take risks in war,’ he said at last. ‘That is the essence of National Socialism.’ He nodded to Seidel. ‘Replace the component. Proceed with the launch.’
Graf turned away in disgust. He would have liked to smoke to settle his nerves. Instead he could only pace around the launch site, as he had done so often at Peenemünde while the final preparations were made.
A new transformer was fetched by motorcycle from the technical store and one of the NCOs in the launching platoon quickly climbed the ladder to fit it. The compartment was sealed, the ladder was collapsed and driven away, the electrical cables were reconnected. A klaxon sounded. The men took cover in their slit trenches. Seidel, Huber and Biwack, with Graf at the rear, made their way in single file through the undergrowth to the launch vehicle, buried almost up to its roof at the bottom of the slope leading down to its dugout.
It was cramped inside the armoured car once the door was closed, and cold – the roof hatch was still open. Over the loudspeaker, the radar station in The Hague confirmed there were no enemy aircraft within fifty kilometres. ‘You are clear to launch.’
‘What is the procedure here?’
Graf squeezed into a corner and left it to Seidel to continue Biwack’s tutorial. ‘There are five positions on the firing switch. We’re now at position one …’
The sergeant controlling the launch stuck his head out of the roof hatch to observe the rocket. ‘Begin the countdown.’
Ten … nine …
Position two closed the valves on the fuel tanks and pumped compressed air into the liquid oxygen tank.
Eight … seven … six …
Position three forced a mixture of peroxide and permanganate into the turbo prop to begin ignition. An igniter shaped like a swastika, spinning like a Catherine wheel, began throwing out a shower of sparks.
Five … four …
Position four released both main fuel tanks into the combustion chamber. A flickering roaring flame spread around the base of the rocket.
Three … two … one …
‘Launch!’ The sergeant ducked his head inside the cabin and pulled down the hatch.
Position five turned the turbo pump to full power, forcing fuel into the combustion chamber at high pressure. The armoured car shook. The noise seemed to start in one’s solar plexus and radiate outwards. Small pieces of forest debris clattered onto the roof. Graf clamped his hands to his ears and prayed.
4
KAY WAS AT THAT MOMENT on the corner of Chancery Lane and Warwick Court, her suitcase in her hand, watching as the ambulance tried to make its way through the crowded street in the direction of Barts Hospital. It was seventy-six minutes since the rocket had struck. The area was clogged with survivors and spectators. The driver had to turn on his bell to clear a path. People looked over their shoulders, moved aside onto the pavement, pulled others out of the way then stepped back into the road again.
Finally the ambulance was swallowed from her view. The sound of the clanging bell faded. Even so, she did not move. Her mind seemed to be working at half speed. She could only make sense of one thing at a time.
Better not. Had he really meant that? Should she have insisted on going with him?
Midway over the North Sea, the missile was functioning perfectly, the twin gyroscopes – one controlling pitch, the other roll – turning at 30,000 revolutions per minute, holding the V2 steady on its flight path.
She realised she was cold, shivering in her dress without a coat. She looked about her for the first time, saw that virtually every shop window on Chancery Lane had been blown in – along with most of the glass in the higher storeys, and in the windows of the cars that were strewn at odd angles and abandoned in the road. The wide street, though packed, was oddly static, like the West End at night when the shows were ending and people stood around waiting for their friends to come out, discussing what they had just seen or what they should do next. There was a lot of blood – on faces, on clothes, in little patches on the pavement. An elderly couple were sitting on the kerb holding hands, their feet in the gutter. A small boy was clinging to an empty pram, crying. Shards of glass were everywhere, and bricks and lumps of masonry. She noticed an odd piece of thin flat metal at her feet and picked it up. It was still warm. She guessed it was a piece of the rocket, part of the fuselage casing perhaps, or a tail fin. She replaced it carefully. Someone said something to her, but by the time she managed to focus her attention, they had gone.