Von Braun followed a pace or two behind, studying his friend with concern. Since the death of that strange woman and the arrest of his father, Bethwig had subsided into a world of his own, one in which he continued to function as effectively as ever, directing the final development of the A-10 transatlantic bomber rocket with skill but no personal interest. The drive that had so characterised him had disappeared. For weeks now Franz had taken little interest in staff debates concerning technical problems, preferring instead to issue directives from his office. How did that madman gain such control, von Braun wondered, that even Franz’s father, among the party’s earliest and most ardent supporters, could be thrown into a concentration camp like a communist or a Jew to keep Franz in line?
They turned inland after a while and strolled through the nearly deserted production buildings, which were quickly falling to ruin. No repairs had been made since the bombing a year ago. Windows remained broken, and sliding doors hung at odd angles. Rubbish littered the area, and weeds grew between the concrete slabs. The actual production facilities had all been moved into Germany proper, to an underground factory near Nordhausen where most of the work was performed by prisoners from the local concentration camps under, it was rumoured, appalling conditions. Von Braun had no reason to doubt that. Since the SS had assumed control of Peenemunde’s security, the quality of work obtained from both foreign contract workers and POWs had fallen well below standard; and he was certain that Dornberger’s imminent arrest stemmed in good part from his repeated protests against the starvation and brutality to which they were subjected.
Von Braun caught up with Bethwig as they approached the middle of the complex. Massive buildings frowned at them from the mist, and huge puddles were forming wherever stopped-up drains acted as miniature dams.
‘Franz, tomorrow ‘I’m returning to Poland for more test firings. They may keep me there for several weeks, and you know this is the critical phase. One more A-Ten test launch is all Kammler will allow. Unless it is a complete success, he will close the project down and we will lose for ever any hope of a lunar flight.’
‘But if he does,’ Bethwig answered in a bitter voice ‘at least my father might live. There would be no reason for Himmler to continue to hold him.’
Von Braun uttered an obscenity. ‘Perhaps. And perhaps the opposite. The man is mad; you cannot expect him to act rationally. What if he takes it into that stupid head of his that further failure is due to sabotage on your part? You know as well as I that he is capable of that kind of thinking. You only have to see what he is doing to Walter Dornberger. He has no scientific background and no conception of how such research is conducted.’
Bethwig looked at von Braun, his face a mask of anguish. ‘Wernher, how can I? How much longer can my father survive? The best information I have is that he is at Ravensbruck, which is supposed to be a special camp for important political prisoners. As long as I do exactly as I am told he has a chance. You saw what they did to… Inge.’ Bethwig had to force himself to say her name. ‘I just cannot go on, Wernher…’
Bethwig started to walk away, but von Braun called to him to wait. Something in his tone stopped Bethwig, and his shoulders slumped. He waited, apprehension growing, as von Braun came up and slipped an arm about his shoulder.
‘Franz’ — his voice was soft — ‘I wanted to spare you this, but too much is at stake and you should know. I am certain that Himmler has taken steps to see that you do not find out. As I told you, Magnus has a friend, a clerk at OKW.’ Wernher’s arm tightened and Bethwig knew then what he was about to say.
‘Your father died of congestive heart failure on September eighth. Franz, I can’t tell you how sorry…’
Bethwig nodded, then straightened his shoulders and walked off. His mind was clear now, icy and calm. He remembered von Braun after a moment and turned to see his friend looking after him, coat clutched about his neck against the rain and hair plastered about his face.
He nodded. ‘I’ll be ready, Wernher.’
Jan Memling trudged across the wet tarmac to the operations office where RAF Flight Lieutenant Stan Culliford was just finishing the weather summary. Jan leaned against the warped door and waited, hands jammed in the pocket of the Yank bomber jacket he had won in last night’s card game.
‘Looks like we might go tonight, old boy,’ Culliford grunted when he turned away from the board. ‘Weather’s clearing over the landing site until shortly after dawn, the Met boys think. Word is the ground’s firm enough to support the wheels.’
‘Whose Met boys?’ Memling asked sceptically.
Culliford grinned. ‘The Poles’ of course.’
‘Do we know where we’re going yet?’
