‘He says the Russians are pushing hard less than a hundred kilometres east, and the Germans are retreating through this area. They do not want trouble. He thinks we are safe for another two hours. The only threat is an SS panzer unit twenty kilometres north-west of here.’
‘He thinks?’ Culliford muttered.
A line had been formed, and bundles and packages were being passed along from hand to hand. An engine racketed to life, and a German armoured car lurched across the field dragging a makeshift trailer piled high with large, canvas-wrapped bundles. General Kierzek hustled Memling and Culliford out of the way while the Poles set about loading the aircraft.
The co-pilot, Szrajer, who had been pumping the guerrillas for information, wandered back. ‘It is amazing how much they have done with so little. This unit has been stationed in this area for two years now and has monitored all the rocket flights. When this one crashed in May, they got to it first and found it on a riverbank, virtually intact. They simply rolled it into the river and had a local farmer drive a herd of cows into the stream to muddy the waters. The German recovery team finally went away convinced they had been given the wrong location. General Kierzek then captured an armoured car and used it to extract the rocket from the river. The major components were disassembled and sent to the university in Warsaw for thorough study, and reports were submitted to London. When the decision was made to fly the rocket out of Poland, the components were repacked and returned right under the noses of the German security forces. The drawings and copies of reports were stored in Holowczyce-Kolonia, a nearby village, to wait for favourable weather.
‘A German infantry group came to practise here this afternoon, and two aircraft landed, but they all left before sundown. The general says the Nazis own the countryside during the day but hardly dare venture out after sunset.’
Kierzek came over to them. ‘Everything hokay.’ He nodded at the Poles lifting the last package aboard. ‘You go now.’
With the rocket aboard the Dakota, the Poles became subdued and tense. After perfunctory handshakes all around and a hasty farewell to the four intelligence agents who were staying behind, Memling hurried the others aboard and swung the oversized cargo door shut while Culliford went forward to the cockpit.
The engines exploded into life, and Memling strapped in. The noise mounted as the engines were run up, but the aircraft remained stationary. Culliford reduced power, then ran up again. Twice more and he shut down and stuck his head into the cabin. ‘The brakes are locked. Have you a knife?’
Memling handed over his Fairbairn knife and glanced into the cockpit. ‘What are you doing…?’
The co-pilot was levering a plate from the floor. He took the knife and ducked head and shoulders into the hole.
‘He’s cutting the hydraulic brake line. Without hydraulics, the brake shoes open automatically.’
A few moments later the engines were started again, but still the aircraft refused to budge. Culliford tried jockeying it back and forth, but the plane would not roll forward.
Finally he shut the engines down and came back. ‘Damn it all. Fifty pounds of boost and she still won’t budge. Everyone out!’ He flung open the cargo door and jumped down. The co-pilot followed and they went to examine the wheels with an electric torch. The engine vibration had caused them to sink into the wet soil.
‘Damn,’ Culliford swore. He paced about the area, kicking at the muddy ground with his heel, then he stopped and scratched his head. ‘Look here, I think we should try and dig out.’
Memling’s orders were to burn the aircraft and its contents if anything went wrong, then attempt to reach Russian lines. But he had little faith in their ability to find the Russians before the Germans found them and even less in Russian hospitality.
‘Dig!’
A line of men with shovels formed up quickly, and twenty minutes later two shallow trenches had been excavated. In the meantime another group unloaded the aircraft while a third disappeared into the night to cut brushwood.
The co-pilot took over, shunting Memling and Culliford aside. Memling felt like the proverbial fifth wheel and said so to the worried New Zealander who only grunted.
‘If they dig us out of here, you must realise that our troubles are only beginning.’
Memling closed his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘Well, we’re past schedule now, so we’ll be in the air, over enemy territory, during daylight. For several hundred miles. With the landing gear down. And,’ he continued remorselessly, ‘we won’t have any brakes for the landing.’
