The overhead lights in the room had been left off; both Pieter and Hans were asleep. Stefan was still awake and sat hunched over the glowing heater with his blanket draped over his shoulders.
‘You all right, lad?’ asked Max.
‘I’m fine, sir.’
Max sighed in the darkness. ‘For God’s sake, Stef, you can call me Max like the others, you know. You’ve been with us long enough now.’
‘Sorry . . . Max.’
They sat in silence for a while listening to the soothing hiss of the heater.
‘So, this is better than sitting out in the open, eh? Just think, we could still be sitting in the back of that truck.’
‘This is much better. Just to be warm again is great. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t cold.’
He couldn’t agree more.
If he lived to be ninety Max knew the most enduring memory of his time on the eastern front would be that of a constant battle with the cold. Staffel KG-301 had been stationed up on the northern end of the frontline near Murmansk for a good portion of the last two years. Up there, even in mid-summer, it was an unforgivably cold place to live.
‘Yes . . . warm is good,’ he replied, turning on his side to look at the amber glow of the heater.
Stefan sat hunched over it, a small, thin, ginger-haired youth with the pale skin of a child unblemished with the knocks and scrapes of life. He was nineteen, but he looked so much younger. He reminded Max of his younger brother, Lucian.
Lucian Kleinmann had been nineteen when he’d died. That had only been eight months previously. He had fallen in Poland, near the Vistula River, just east of Warsaw during the Russians’ summer offensive, Operation Bagration. Max’s parents had been given no details as to how his younger brother had died, just that he had been one of the casualties of the ill-equipped infantry regiment that had been placed in the way. There had been ten years between Max and Lucian, almost a generational divide. In many ways the age difference had made them more like father and son than brothers.
The news had almost broken Max, as it had his parents. A lot of the bitter anger he felt for the death of his younger brother was directed towards the Russians, quite understandably, but a little was also directed towards the German high command, for pointlessly throwing an infantry regiment in the path of a battalion of T-34s, a tactical decision born out of desperation, as they all seemed to be these days.
‘Max? Can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course, ask away.’
‘What will happen if we do make it there and drop the bomb?’
Max spent a moment considering the question. Rall had suggested that there was a growing feeling amongst the American people that Stalin and the communists were becoming a dangerous force in the world, and potentially an enemy that they would end up fighting some time in the near future. This bomb would provide them the final incentive to change sides.
‘The Americans will have no choice but to join up with us and fight the Russians.’
‘And what will the Russians do?’
‘They haven’t the resources to take on America and Britain combined. Even Stalin isn’t that crazy. They would have no choice but to turn around. I suppose we hope they will panic when they see the devastation this new explosive does and promptly withdraw.’
Stefan was silent for a moment, digesting Max’s answer.
He had a good mind, thought Max. One that soaked up information quickly, but more importantly extrapolated from it, applied it and used it.
‘If that happens, the Russians withdraw . . . will that be an end to it? An end to the war?’
Another good question.
‘Of course, because they’ll be out of our land, that’s all we’re after right now. I’m sure that would put an end to it.’
Really?
Max wasn’t entirely convinced by his own answer. Would the war truly end? Maybe it would for a few years, long enough for Germany to replenish her resources. But then what? He wondered whether a leader like Hitler would simply settle for Germany’s pre-war borders. After having conquered most of Europe, would he be happy with that?
Would he fuck. There would be another war.
Another war, a Third World War in ten, fifteen, twenty years? This time fought with planes and these super bombs. The world would obliterate itself with them. For a moment Max wondered whether the best thing to do would be to drop the weapon in the Atlantic when they reached it, where hopefully no one would ever find it and use it.
‘Do you think we’re going to do it, Max?’
‘What?’
‘Do you think we’ll make it across to America?’
The troubling doubts instantly vanished to the darkest corners of his mind as he considered the audacious, ambitious challenge Rall had presented to him. It could most certainly be done.
‘The Major’s put together a clever plan, Stefan . . . of course we will.’
That seemed to satisfy the lad for a few moments, before he looked up once more from the heater and stared at Max. ‘Why did you decide to do this mission? I know why the others did. Pieter I think because he believes in this country, Hans because he just wants some revenge, and me, I voted yes because of my family, my mother, my sisters . . . but you?’
So much like Lucian, always asking bloody questions.
Max suspected Pieter had volunteered because deep down he’d never stopped believing in his beloved Führer, something he would never admit to in public now. There was a lot that he didn’t have in common with Pieter, their politics, their background, their basic view on life differed, and yet it was the shared experiences of the last three years that had forged a rock-steady partnership between them. They had seen three navigators and two gunners come and go, and most of the other original personnel of KG-301 had died, been wounded or transferred to other undermanned squadrons. He wondered, if both of them survived the war, whether they would stay in touch with each other.
Probably not.
They would have nothing in common to talk about other than their wartime experiences. Pieter’s world was factory floors, beer cellars and women. Max’s world had once been teaching, a long, long time ago in his pre-war life.
‘I suppose I want my life back, Stef. I want to grow old in a quiet country village where I know everyone’s face, and the most terrifying thing that happens to me every day is crossing the road.’
He turned to the young man. ‘If the Russians take Germany, we can’t expect an ounce of mercy, and I don’t expect they’ll show us any. If they take Germany, Stef, we’re all as good as dead.’
‘We have to succeed then, don’t we, sir?’
Max nodded. ‘Yes, we do, lad.’
Chapter 25
Schenkelmann
27 April 1945, a southern suburb of Stuttgart
Dr Hauser stood in the middle of the lab and stared at the device. It looked like a small beer keg surrounded by a frame of scaffolding.
This is my creation, MY creation.
Hauser felt the need to remind himself regularly that this thing was his work. Of course, the Jew had made a contribution, but in the end it was just a different way of calculating the same process, and it was obvious now, looking back. Hauser knew he’d have figured it out for himself sooner or later.
This was the fruit of all his hard work; the Jew had merely helped.
Without him the project would never have been put before Albert Speer and consequently would not have received the go ahead.
To be fair, the Jew, Schenkelmann, and his two assistants had done a good job assembling the device, but Hauser had designed the mechanics of the bomb and had drawn out the schematic; after all, he’d spent enough time poring over Heisenberg’s bomb designs to know what the best configuration would be.
If he was going to be totally honest about the distribution of credit, the Jew deserved something for his calculations on accelerating the critical mass, but it was he, Dr Karl Hauser, who had really made this project happen.
Hauser admired the compact device, taking pride in the efficiency of the design.
Such a small, beautiful thing to cause so much destruction.
He approached his bomb and tenderly ran his hand along the metal casing, sensing the kinetic energy inside, the explosive monster lying inert, asleep, waiting.
‘Dr Hauser?’
Hauser felt his skin crawl at the sound of the little Jew’s voice. He turned round to face Joseph Schenkelmann. He was a short, slight man in his late forties, thick dark hair, greying at the temples.
‘What is it, Joseph?’
‘Sir, d-did you speak with the Führer?’ the small man stuttered nervously.
‘Of course I did.’
‘And you explained the . . . the p-problem to him?’
Hauser found his temper quickly fraying at the mention of the ‘old issue’. He forced a smile at Schenkelmann and consoled himself with a little truth.
I won’t have to put up with him for much longer.
‘He is aware of the risk, but is still keen to have the bomb readied for removal tomorrow, Joseph.’
Schenkelmann looked incredulous. ‘He knows? . . . and still he wants to p-proceed?’
‘Yes, I explained the risk, and he and I agree it is marginal. Now if you don’t mind -’
Schenkelmann seemed to turn a shade paler than his usual complexion. ‘M-marginal? Please . . . Dr Hauser, you’ve seen the c-calculations for yourself . . . you’ve seen it. The danger of an infinite reaction is -’
‘- is acceptable given the current situation. Now, we have discussed this I don’t know how many times and I am growing tired of hearing -’
‘The danger of the infinite reaction is f-fifty per cent. Dr Hauser, sir . . . we are gambling the world on a one in two chance!’
Hauser felt something in him snap. He reached out and grabbed Schenkelmann by the arm and spoke in a low, menacing voice. ‘Now listen. The bomb will be readied for the journey tomorrow and you will also prepare the arming codes tonight. There will be no more talk about this infinite chain reaction. Your calculations on this are exaggerated, and they always have been.’
Hauser knew Schenkelmann’s figures were right.
They were right when first he came across the theory papers and they remained unchanged now. The theory, quite simply, was pure genius. Schenkelmann had shrewdly proposed accelerating the chain reaction by firing two uranium bullets at opposite ends of the mass. The advancing ripples from both ends would cause overlapping shockwaves to quadruple exponentially the rate of acceleration. A reaction like that would require so much lower a critical mass of U-235 than had previously been thought. Heisenberg had calculated that tons of U-235 would be needed; Schenkelmann’s technique required only ounces.
The danger, as far as Schenkelmann was concerned, was that such an accelerated chain reaction might cause enough immediate energy to be released to split the nuclei of non-fissile material. The man’s figures convincingly demonstrated the probability to be high, as much as fifty per cent, that the weapon would vaporise not only its target but also an unquantifiable range beyond it.
The mathematical implication was simple, an infinite chain reaction . . . a doomsday bomb.
‘The figures are right, Dr Hauser.’
‘If you do not shut up now, I will have you shot, Schenkelmann. Do you understand?’
Making the threat felt good, powerful. Like throwing a punch. For a fleeting moment he felt like following through on the threat and issuing the command to one of the guards, just to enjoy the thrill of issuing an order and seeing it carried out automatically, without question. He suspected he would have made a fine officer if his expertise hadn’t prevented him from being recruited. He found giving orders so easy, so natural.
Hauser had been assigned half a dozen SS men to guard the small laboratory and keep an eye on Schenkelmann. It had been Speer’s idea. He had been worried about Schenkelmann attempting to commit suicide, sabotage or even flee from the claustrophobic confines of the small underground lab. The men were always present inside and discreetly placed outside the inconspicuous corrugated doors of the building.
Hauser regarded the soldiers as his own private army, to command as he pleased. The novelty had yet to wear off.
The lab had been built into one of the arches of a railway bridge that ran parallel to a small cobbled back street. Behind this unassuming façade, which could easily have been the premises of any small, one-man business, the stairs descended to a cellar that had once been used to store wine. Here, in a space little bigger than a generous living room, Schenkelmann and two lab assistants had been given the task of assembling Germany’s atom bomb. This cellar had been Schenkelmann’s prison since the project had begun; the Jew hadn’t seen daylight in months.
‘P-please, Dr Hauser.’
Hauser felt his face flush with anger, first his cheeks, then his forehead and his ears. He knew he looked as crimson as a baby screaming for milk.
If threatening his life isn’t going to work, then there are other alternatives.
‘This conversation ends now, and you will proceed with preparing the bomb for tomorrow morning or I will see to it that your sister and your mother are visited by one of my men.’
Schenkelmann’s family had been found working alongside him in the munitions factory. It had taken very little string-pulling to have all three extricated from the factory and the women held in ‘care’ while Schenkelmann was put to work. With Albert Speer as the Armaments Minister providing the authority for these arrangements, there had been absolutely no red tape to cut through to move these three Jews. Equally, while they were useful to Speer and Hauser they would never be shipped off to an extermination camp, nor casually executed on the street by some over-zealous Gauleiter. With the rubber stamp of Speer, these three people were perhaps the safest Jews in Europe. They had been lucky to find his sister and mother alongside him in the factory, for now Schenkelmann was beginning to care little about his own miserable life; they still had the leverage of his loved ones to play around with.
Hauser smiled, aware that the threat had worked and that this troublesome little man had been silenced.
‘There, I’m glad we have that unpleasantness behind us, Joseph. Let’s finish the job here, shall we?’
Joseph Schenkelmann stared bleakly at the ground, aware that he had been a stupid, weak man for allowing the project to have progressed this far.
What have I done?
He knew his only consideration now should be to think of some way to sabotage this bomb before it was taken away from him and used in whatever way these barbaric animals had planned. He had hoped all along that the unpredictable nature of his bomb’s design would eventually make it a redundant development. He had thought no one would be stupid enough to use a weapon like this, except of course that twisted man, Hauser. He’d known, from the first conversation with the German, that his tunnel vision would let him see nothing but the glory he would bathe in after its successful deployment. The risk of global devastation had been tidied away somewhere in his distorted mind behind some assurance that the risk was grossly exaggerated. Schenkelmann had been holding on to the hope that at some point someone higher up the chain of command would be made aware of the appalling risks of this project and put an end to it immediately. He’d desperately hoped that the meeting with Hitler, the one that Hauser had been dreamily looking forward to for days, would see the project abruptly terminated.
But clearly now that hadn’t been the case. Hitler was as insane as Hauser.
He could perhaps attempt to sabotage the bomb somehow; God knew why he’d left such a decision so late. But he knew he hadn’t the strength of will to carry out such a bold act; it would certainly guarantee the death of all that remained of his family. At least co-operation ensured their continued survival, and if the bomb failed to trigger the infinite chain reaction he so feared, then there was a chance that all three of them would emerge from this nightmare alive.
‘So? Why are you still standing there? You have a lot to do tonight.’
‘Yes, Dr Hauser.’
‘The arming code for the altimeter trigger will need these values set.’ Hauser handed him a manila envelope. ‘The arming code is in there, and I will test the code when I come back later.’
‘Where are you going, Dr Hauser?’
Hauser raised an eyebrow, annoyed at Schenkelmann’s impertinence. ‘I am arranging to have an escort for our little device.’
‘Yes, Dr Hauser.’ Schenkelmann watched the German leave. He looked around: a soldier stood at the top of the stairs leading down into the lab and one of the two technical assistants was working on sealing the uranium casket. The other one was asleep on a cot in the corner of the room. He looked down at the envelope, still open, and shortly due to be sealed.
He saw a possibility.
He tucked the manila envelope under his arm and approached the bomb. He picked up a notepad, clipboard and a pen.
The lab assistant looked up at Schenkelmann. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Schenkelmann?’
‘Fine thank you, Rüd, I’m just going to run through my checklist, before you and I finish assembling the altimeter trigger.’
Schenkelmann looked down at the notepad and the pen he held in his left hand. He realised the next words he wrote down would be the most important he’d ever written, or would ever write. With only a minute’s thought, he began to scribble furiously, aware that Hauser might return at any time. This was perhaps the last window of opportunity he had left to try and undo his work.
To the one responsible for arming this weapon . . .
He wrote swiftly for over a minute and stopped only when he became aware of his assistant looking up curiously. Rüd was no Nazi, but he was German. Any suspicious behaviour exhibited by Schenkelmann now would be reported to Hauser. In fact, Hauser had probably asked Rüd and Jürgen, the other assistant, to keep an eye on him now that the project was reaching its end.