Vengeance 10

As Walsch turned back into his office, Memling was yanked to his feet and hustled down a bare corridor to a heavy wooden door. A uniformed guard unlocked it, and he was shoved inside. The door slammed shut, and Memling sank down on his haunches, enduring the recurring waves of fear that washed over him with an intensity he had never known before.

* * *

The cell door was opened without warning, and two guards jerked him up and dragged him out into a small yard. Floodlights glared at each corner of the enclosure. Against the building stood two uniformed SS men with rifles slung. Opposite, a badly chipped brick wall edged the yard. At first its significance did not register, but then Memling realised that the scars and chips had been made by bullets and that the two soldiers were executioners. The omnipresent fear receded for a moment; they were going to shoot him immediately, rather than subject him to torture. An emotion approaching gratitude swept through him. Memling took a deep breath, bracing himself as he was pushed against the wall.

It was dark; an entire day must have passed since he had been dragged into the prison at dawn. Rain spattered intermittently, and he shivered horribly in the freezing cold. A dull roaring noise puzzled him; it came from beyond the wall, advancing and receding, but he could not identify the sound even though he concentrated with all the intensity at his command. What were they waiting for? he screamed silently.

An eternity passed before the door opened again and Walsch appeared. He stopped in the centre of the yard and glanced at the riflemen, then at the half-frozen man drooping against the wall. He smiled and motioned towards the building.

A non-commissioned officer pushed something sprawling into the mud. He bent, grabbed a handful of hair, yanked and ran across the yard to slam the figure against the wall beside Memling. Only then did Memling see that it was the woman. Shock coursed through him at the sight of her. Blood streamed from several places beneath her hair. Skin had been flayed from her back and buttocks, and there were burn marks on her breasts and abdomen. She was only half-alive, and they had to fasten a chain around her neck to hold her upright. For a moment she looked at Memling; there was no recognition in her eyes, only the starkest, staring terror.

Walsch had sauntered over then. ‘You may be interested to know, Major Memling, this piece of swine flesh has told us everything.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette, then reached out and yanked the woman’s chin up. ‘As a reward, we are going to give her a surcease from her labours. She has worked quite hard, you know. And it shows.’ He laughed. ‘Pity. She was rather attractive. My men appreciated that.

‘Ah well, as we no longer need her services, of any kind…’ He chuckled at his joke and nodded to the unterscharführer who slowly drew his pistol.

The woman’s eyes fastened on his movements, and in spite of what must have been terrible pain, she mouthed over and over again, ‘No, please, no.’

The unterscharführer raised the pistol and brought it down to rest on the bridge of her nose. The chain collar prevented her from twisting her head away, and the man smiled and pulled the trigger. There was a loud click, and feigning astonishment, the SS man turned to Walsch who shook his head in mock dismay.

‘Once again, Unterscharführer.’

The performance was repeated, and again there was a loud click. Memling lost his head then, dived for the sergeant, and was clubbed to the ground by his guard. Walsch knelt and twisted his head around, forcing him to watch.

‘Once again, please.’

The woman had collapsed against the chain and was choking. The unterscharführer slid a magazine home, racked the breech back, and gently held the woman up while he aimed the pistol once more and pulled the trigger. The gun went off this time, and blood spattered Memling. The bullet had shattered her skull, and she slipped through the chain into a crumpled heap.

Walsch smiled down at him. ‘Perhaps it will be your turn next. Are you strong enough to endure what she did?’

Twice more, at long intervals, Memling was dragged forth to witness similar executions. Each time, Walsch smiled at him around his cigarette and promised that his turn was next.

* * *

The countdown stood at minus six hours. Bethwig turned away from the controller’s ready board, crossed the room, and stepped out into the windblown night. The sea air eased his headache, and he lit a cigarette, ignored by the SS guard huddling in the corner of the entryway for shelter from the wind.

As the launch drew nearer, a curious lassitude had settled on him, and it was with great difficulty that he forced himself to continue. The countdown had gone like clockwork, days of intense rehearsal paying off. No major problems had arisen, and the tricky liquid oxygen tanks would be topped in the final hour.