Night came with pangs of hunger, and a certain degree of relief from visual discovery. Picking up my new bike, I pushed it west along the semblance of a pathway, hoping to hit a road like I had before.
I only had half a mile to walk.
Aware that poor Jan Heintze could be well-known by local soldiers, I skirted the first checkpoint, trying to head south, but to my dismay, all my routes seemed to keep me going west.
At last I could not help but feeling I was being herded to a small town.
Stralsund.
I slowed my bike near the road checkpoint, and determined to pass through properly. I sat behind two cars which the soldiers checked thoroughly; even looking in the boot. As they drove away, leaving me next, I couldn’t help but ready myself for some form of action.
“Papers,” Both guards showed the skulls head on their collars, making them Death’s Head brigade, a lofty choice for road sentries. To my astonishment, he looked at me, the bike, then only took a cursory look at my card. “Why are you going to Stralsund?”
“I want a drink,” I said, my excuse ready. “I just had an argument with my wife.”
He shoved the card back into my hand and strode past me, his torch waving a car to stop. I walked past his partner and rode onwards.
Stralsund was a small town, and it was easy to find a tavern. As I walked to the bar, I saw a waitress serve a man a huge sandwich. I’m not sure of the filling, but in my starving condition it looked good. “How much?” I asked her as she passed me.
“For me or the sandwich?” she smiled cheekily.
“The sandwich.”
“Two marks.”
I nodded. “I’ll have one.”
“Order at the bar.”
So, giving away two and a half marks, I sat at the bar feeling out of this world. The sandwich filling turned out to be shredded pork and cabbage, but it was done well, and considering I hadn’t eaten in almost 24 hours, I took my time with it, savouring every bite. I tasted vinegar and a touch of mustard too; truly delicious.
Then I heard part of a conversation, hushed, yes, but one of the men was sitting just one stool along, his back to me.
“… they’re going to test it tomorrow. I don’t know how they’re going to keep it secret, this thing’s bloody huge.”
I couldn’t make out the other man’s reply.
“First thing in the morning; ten o’clock sharp.”
I looked up from my emptying plate and looked at their reflection in the large mirror behind the bar. Two ordinary-looking men, both drinking a darker beer than I had. I drank from my glass, and continued to ear-wig.
“… should reach three thousand feet. You’ll be able to see it from here.”
I frowned at the comment, then turned to the pair. “Excuse me, what’s that you’re drinking?”
The man next to me laughed, then gave me an inquiring look. “Raketentreibstoff.” He almost rolled off his stool at his own joke, and his friend did the same. “Too strong for you…” he gave me such a condescending look, I hated him immediately.
“Not for you, country-boy!” His partner reaffirmed. The one next to me turned his back, and my chance had gone. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. With my dirty face and dilapidated clothing, I hardly blamed them for their haughtiness.
I finished my beer and ordered another, pondering the man’s choice of words; he had described his darker beer as Raketentreibstoff; literally ‘Rocket Fuel’.
Then, in the mirror, I saw a stranger approach. Is this idiot disturbing you?” he was broad shouldered, quite a brute of a man. I remember him sitting behind me. I turned, aware that a struggle between us may be a one-sided affair. Amazingly, as I lifted my gaze to meet him, I realized the oaf was looking at the man next to me. I looked from one to the other.
“Good evening, Herr Brenner,” the nearest braggart said, his smile gone, his expression suddenly fearful.
“I think you have had altogether too much to drink.”
“Yes, Herr Brenner,”
“You are Grizzendorf, yes?”
Beads of sweat were now glistening on his forehead. “Yes, Norman Grizzendorf.”
“Drink up, leave.”
The two men set to their drinks like they were possessed.
“I must apologize, sir.” Brenner turned to me. “Our employees are so rarely let out, their enthusiasm for our fine ales goes straight to their heads.”
“I can assure you…”
But Brenner had held his hand up, stymying my protest, his other going straight for his wallet. “I would like to buy your drinks tonight.” He placed a ten mark note on the bar. “I insist.”
He walked away as determined as he’d arrived. And I didn’t look the gift horse in the mouth either. I had another two large beers before heading to the door. Brenner had long gone.
Intending to find a suitable corner to lie in, I wheeled my bike away from the tavern wall. Not having a decent map, I had no particular direction in mind, but the sky was bright and clear, leaving me an easy solution. Finding the Big Dipper, then Polaris, I located a relatively southern looking main street, and decided to give it a try.
I’d only gone half a mile when a car drove slowly past me, then swerved, braking hard, right into my path.
I shook my head when the two men from the bar got out. Even in the dim light of the stars, both looked mightily mad. As Grizzendorf closed the passenger door, I caught a glimmer of steel in his right hand. Even through his anger, his partner looked a little nervous.
“Well if it isn’t our little bar-fly.” Grizzendorf sneered.
I was in no mood to start a brawl and get my papers checked more thoroughly. There was only one thing my training told me to do. Hit Grizzendorf, and frighten his side-kick.
I heard my instructor’s voice as I advanced. Kick him in the family jewels.
And with the force of taking the last minute penalty kick at the cup final in Hampden, I landed the blow. I thought poor Grizzendorf was going to spew up, his face contorted in so much pain, his knees buckled, and his partner nearly jumped back in shock.
I pulled the knife from his clenched hand. “Get him out of here.”
I picked up my bicycle and walked on, although I hid keep my ears peeled for the cocking of a gun.
Near the southern outskirts of town I found a garden shed with no nearby dog, and climbed inside. A large leather chair sat in front of a workbench. Perfect for a good night’s sleep.
I was outside and cycling south when I suddenly remembered the conversation from the night before. Ten o’clock… should reach three thousand feet. You’ll be able to see it from here… I stopped, and looked at my watch. Nine sixteen. For the next few miles I monitored the time carefully, stopping at five minutes to the hour.
Leaning against a fencepost, and holding my hand against my brows I scanned the western horizon. Sure enough at exactly ten sharp, a loud roar could be heard. I looked for the source, but initially could see nothing. Suddenly a plume of smoke broke the treetops, not four or five miles away.
I swear my stomach turned.
From the midst of the smoke rose a majestic pointed rocket, slowly at first, but quickly gathering speed. Even at this distance it looked massive, painted in a harlequin black and white pattern. Leaving a plume of fire and smoke in its wake, it soared into the sky, soon lost in the clouds. I heard its engine roar for another minute before it was lost to my ears; goodness knows what altitude it finally reached.
Its purpose was not lost to me. If this monster was the next stage in the V-1 project, then it must have a far greater bomb capacity, and a far more effective range. The first V-1’s were aimed at Malta; that meant a range of sixty miles. Judging by the sheer size of these new rockets, the corresponding range must be ten times that.
I picked up my bike with a new zeal. I simply had to get this information back to Britain.
As I cycled, I knew I required a brand new plan.
I needed speedy transport, and I needed it fast.
For that I had to grow a new persona; one that would never be questioned, never asked to explain itself… I needed the equivalent of Adolf Hitler himself. As I drove my feet into the pedals, my plan began to take shape; I knew I needed an officer… but not a Wehrmacht one.
Gestapo.
At the next junction, I headed back to Rostock. Gestapo live in big towns, and I required a selection of them. I needed one my size and rough age, and I had to get him alone. Even I knew the dangers in the plan, but considering the time sensitivity of the information I’d gained, I simply didn’t see any alternative.
Spurred by the urgency in my new mission, I gained confidence as I passed checkpoints with ease, getting into Rostock by nightfall. I crept into an area of disused land, snuggled into a wall, and went to sleep.
Morning brought me to a small delicatessen, where I discovered the magic of bierrocks, an unbelievably tasty German version of Cornish Pastie. I couldn’t help but go back for seconds.
Gestapo headquarters was easy to find; the grandest building in the main square, the one with all the swastikas hanging from it.
I bought a local newspaper, read headlines of Germany’s massive strokes against the oppressive communist state of Russia; if even half of the stories were true, Germany would have Russia on its knees before the year was out.
I changed my position regularly, changed my props, a newspaper, a tipped hat, sitting in an unused doorway, hat in hand, looking pleadingly at those who passed by. All the time with my eyes fixed firmly on the headquarters across the way.
Thankful for my medium frame, I had a few options. I followed a few officers in uniform, but on closer inspection, none quite fitted the bill, too short, wrong rank, shoe size too big or small. One I followed for a good half hour, the perfect size, but he was just a Leutnant. Stopping the tail and sighing, I reluctantly realized I needed at least one rank higher. Walking back towards the square, I caught sight of a long black leather coat; my build, my height. A officer’s hat bearing a silver Death’s Head crowned this paragon of Aryan virtue. The man’s confident gait broadcast power, and was the perfect object of my desire. As he passed a newspaper stand, the seller stiffened, offering a paper to my man. The German walked away without paying. When he met a friend at a coffee shop, the waiters scurried to get a good table, even ousting a couple who’d already started their croissants.
I stood fifty feet away, watching the German’s animated faces, the toothy smile, the air of superiority. I felt confident he could be my man, my mark.
Now all I had to do was find his routine, his routes, his shortcuts, his favorite bar, his sleeping place, his base of operations.
When he said goodbye to his luncheon companion, I followed him to the dockyard, which surprised me, being quite expansive. At the gates I had to fall back, knowing my lowly ID would probably not get me through. I settled at the base of a nearby wall, allowing me to keep watch on the gates.
Then my eyes caught sight of a small warship moving out of the bay.
To the everyday passerby, the sleek craft might have caught only a second glance, its rear superstructure slightly different from the normal cannons.
To me, my world stopped.
Instead of the usual stern guns and depth-charge racks, two long ramps were mounted, one below the other. These long straight sections were identical to those I found on the shores of Sicily.
To me, it meant only one thing; the Germans had found a way to mount their V-1 rockets on ships.
The world had suddenly become a far more dangerous place.