Vengeance 10 (45 page)

‘I see,’ Memling answered in a thoughtful voice. ‘You dismiss my estimates as nonsense but agree with the committee’s analysis which suggests the A-Four is capable of carrying ten tons of explosive as far as London?’

‘Well, yes of course. It was my analysis that corrected your figures, you know.’

‘And your analysis was made strictly from photographs - photographs, I might point out, neither detailed nor clear enough to enable Bomber Command to pinpoint targets - yet you arrived at accurate figures on which you then based your assumptions?’

‘Well, of course. I estimated the actual weight of each major component and used sophisticated statistical and mathematical modelling techniques, naturally.’ The captain’s voice was full of confidence as he warmed to his subject in the face of Memling’s unexpected interest.

‘For example, you estimated the weight of the fuel tanks based on their fabrication in steel. You must realise, old boy, that the use of steel in such a situation is illogical. Weight is everything in the rocket. Steel is far too heavy. Aluminium, which possesses sufficient strength, would provide a great weight saving. Also, and this is my greatest point of disagreement with you, old man, you suggested the rocket fuel consists of a mixture of alcohol and liquid oxygen. My dear fellow, that would be equally ridiculous.’ The captain chuckled to himself.

‘It has been well established by these Polish fellows, who do indeed possess a few good scientists, that hydrogen peroxide is being used as the oxidiser. Hydrazine, then, would be the logical fuel. Its specific impulse - you are familiar with the term - is far greater than what can be obtained with alcohol and liquid oxygen ...’

Memling had taken enough. ‘Captain,’ he had interrupted the tirade, ‘you are an ass. I was at Peenemunde where I worked as a member of the quality control department. I witnessed a test firing. Logic is all well and good, but sometimes it has to bend in the face of reality.’

Reynolds began to bluster, but Memling bored on. ‘I am willing to bet you my figures are more correct than yours, Captain Reynolds. In a few hours we will have an A-Four rocket aboard this aircraft. You and I should be able to determine, just the two of us, if the fuel tanks are made of steel, as I said, or of aluminium, as you maintain. If they are made of steel, I win that part of the bet and you get one good swift kick in the arse. If, when the Farnworth wizards finish their analysis, they determine that my estimate of the payload is closer than yours, you make a public and abject apology to me before the committee. I am well aware of what you told them regarding my work, and it only reinforces my belief that you are an arrogant know-it-all as well as an ass. Now, as an officer superior to you in rank, Captain, I am giving you a direct order. Shut your mouth!’

The Dakota lost altitude abruptly, jolting Memling from his reverie. He turned to the window to see a bright path of light below and swore angrily. His watch showed just after midnight. They were over the landing site, and the flares lit by the Poles were bright enough to draw every German within a hundred miles. Apparently the Polish officers aboard thought so as well, to judge by their exclamations of dismay.

The aircraft side-slipped, lost more altitude, and bucked in the turbulence. As they came around to line up for the approach more flares were set off until the makeshift landing site seemed as bright as day. Memling rebuckled his seat strap as the jolting grew more severe.

They were losing altitude rapidly now. A stand of trees - only inches below the wings, it seemed - fled past. Then the first flare shot past, and in its glow Memling saw the wing flaps go down, then, unexpectedly, grind up again. Engines screamed and the aircraft shuddered. For an instant he was weightless as the plane staggered, then they were rising with agonising slowness. What the hell, he wondered; but the Dakota was banking hard to port to go around again. The noise added to the lights would surely bring the Germans swarming.

This time Culliford took them straight in. Once over the trees, the aircraft dropped so abruptly that Memling gripped the seat, willing them not to crash. Afterwards he was certain he had left finger marks in the wood.

The Dakota came down hard, bounced twice, and staggered across the field. As the plane turned at the end of its roll, Memling saw a man with a torch point to the right, then chop down abruptly. The engines shut off, and a moment later someone was pounding on the hatch. Memling drew his Colt automatic and heard the unmistakable snicks of four Sten gun bolts being cocked. Gingerly he unlatched the door, remembering a deserted landing field in the Ardennes, and swung it open.

‘Hello, Tommy!’ A bearded man dressed in worker’s clothes and a cloth cap greeted him, one gnarled hand clutching a Mauser rifle. He broke into rapid Polish directed at the four men standing behind Memling, and they shouldered him aside with shouts of greeting, jumped down with their suitcases, and disappeared into the press of people milling about the aircraft.

Culliford materialised at his shoulder. ‘My God,’ he roared above the noise, ‘don’t they know there’s a war on?’

Orders were shouted, and the crowd dispersed. The bearded man climbed inside and shook hands with Memling and Culliford, then threw his arms wide at the sight of the Polish co-pilot. For a moment the two men embraced, laughing uproariously.

‘He says to tell you,’ the co-pilot told them above his friend’s laughter, ‘welcome to Free Poland. He is General Kaspar Kierzek and he commands the Twenty-second Home Army Regiment.’

‘Yes, but for how long?’ Culliford demanded. ‘Those lights will have every damned German garrison in the area about our ears.’ When this was translated, the Pole laughed and went to the hatch. He gestured expansively and broke into a speech.

‘He says there is only one German garrison in the area. His people surrounded the barracks earlier. When the Germans opened the door to see what the noise was about, they heard rifle bolts being cocked and decided they were better off not knowing.

‘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.’

Memling stalked off with what he hoped was a semblance of dignity. A few minutes later he noticed that Captain Reynolds was struggling with a canvas shroud that covered a piece of the rocket. Memling started towards him, but Reynolds dropped the cover and walked away. The canvas was neatly tagged, but in Polish, and its lumpy shape was unidentifable. Puzzled at Reynolds’s actions, Memling had started after him when Culliford shouted.

The Poles were already reversing the loading procedure. Culliford was casting worried glances at the sky. A high cloud cover had begun to move in, obscuring the moon and the brighter stars visible through the glare of the landing flares.

The pilot jerked a thumb at the sky. ‘Rain, before dawn.’

General Kierzek hurried up and drew the co-pilot aside. His head snapped up, and he glanced around for Culliford and Memling.

‘Lorries have been sighted leaving the SS camp near Bialystok. They are headed in this direction. The road has been mined, so it will take them at least an hour to get here.’

‘Let’s go. Now!’

The bearded Pole grunted and shouted to his followers. The reloading was accomplished in fifteen minutes, and Memling swung the door shut. The starter cartridges went off with a bang, and both engines ran up easily, but again the aircraft refused to move. Through the window Memling saw one of the resistance men waving his arms frantically, and he flung the cockpit door open, grabbed Culliford’s shoulder, and pointed at the Pole. Cursing at the top of his voice, Culliford shut the engines down.

This time the wheels had gone in up to their hubs. Culliford stared at the bisected wheels, too angry even to swear. Finally, he took a deep breath. ‘Without brakes, we couldn’t run up to full power, and so she just vibrated her way in again. Goddamned ground!’ He kicked at the mound of soil that had piled up on either side of the landing gear.

Memling studied his watch. The SS detachment was now twenty minutes nearer. Culliford took his arm and pulled him aside. ‘I think we had better burn her and take to the hills, old man. We’ll never get her off the ground now. It’s going to start raining any moment, and even if it holds off a bit, the Hun is going to arrive.’

For a moment Memling was on the verge of nodding agreement, but then something made him hesitate. ‘Damn it, no. We’ve been through too much to... to...’ He took a deep breath. ‘Look here, Stan, we’ll dig out once more, only this time we’ll use boards rather than brush under the wheels.’

General Kierzek arrived with more bad news. The co-pilot listened, his face growing longer with each word.

‘Outposts have spotted the SS detachment now less than three kilometres away,’ he told them. ‘It’s apparent the mines did not slow them as hoped. They have also rallied a small army garrison and sent them to circle around the far end of the valley. The general thinks they will reach here in about thirty minutes. His people report no artillery, but they are certain to have mortars and automatic weapons. The general suggests that unless we can take off immediately, we destroy the aircraft and go with his people.’

An argument in two languages broke out, but Memling shouted for silence. When he got it, he had the co-pilot question the general concerning the probable tactics the SS would employ. Kierzek answered impatiently at first and then with growing interest as the pattern to the Englishman’s questions emerged.

‘The general would like to know, Major, where you received your training?’

‘Royal Marine Commando,’ Memling grunted, and knelt to examine the map one of the general’s aides had produced. Kierzek knelt beside him and pointed to a road which Memling could barely see in the dim torch light. His answers now held a certain respect.