Chapter 9
Peenemünde Army Research Center, Germany
Tuesday, January 17, 1939
At 10:30 a.m. a car called for Oberstleutnant Walter Dornberger, who uncharacteristically had spent the night outside the facility. Von Braun was already seated in the back, wrapped tightly in his trench coat.
“Guten morgen,” he said when his boss climbed in.
“Ja, I heard you had news on our missing Messfrau?” Dornberger asked.
“A mistaken rumor,” von Braun grunted. “It has been over a year, so who knows, maybe she eloped.”
“We will wind down the investigation quietly. The last thing we want to do is alarm the SS and have them come snooping around our operation.”
Their car stopped at a snow-trimmed checkpoint.
“They certainly will not object to the increased security.” Wernher peered out his window at heavily armed guards. “Auf Schritt und Tritt…keine Maus kam rein und raus…”
“It does not matter,” Dornberger said. “They will use any excuse to force their way in, I am afraid. Becker and I and you—all of us—need to keep this a strictly army operation.”
Their car was waved through.
Dornberger admired the natural beauty of their camp. Although his responsibilities kept him busy from dawn till dusk, he enjoyed the facility’s congenial company. It seemed a long holiday in many respects. They all said so. The rigid class structure, with a clear chain of command, reassured them. The saluting, the singing, even the window cleaning had become part of a routine that made them feel like a big family.
“Dr. Schroeder’s calculations are a problem,” von Braun said, changing the subject. “He is too slow and too cautious.”
“I would think caution is a good thing when calculating chemical explosions.”
“You would think wrong. Tests will bear out the numbers. Replace him.”
Dornberger nodded. “What about Steinhoff? He holds the world record for distance in gliders and an honorary Luftwaffe rank of flight captain. He’s a real Nazi.”
“Sounds like a fun guy. Hire him.”
Their vehicle passed through two inner gates.
At the Administration Building they jumped out and walked the last few hundred yards, past the Materials Test Building and the Tool Workshop, toward a long, low building of red brick. Their colleagues hurried by them in a variety of civilian attire, from smart business suits to official-issue leather coats, with their triangular HBP badges; laborers in ragged overalls spoke in their native tongues.
Dornberger numbered these laborers in the thousands; they did the facility’s digging, fetching, and carrying, the pulling and pushing. Foreigners. He made a mental note to look into their food budget, for he’d received complaints of hunger. However, he judged his permissive attitude toward the brothel in the work camp, where two reichsmarks bought a girl, vodka, and a few cigarettes, to be liberal in the extreme.
Dieter, at some distance, spotted the duo and cried out, “What do you think you are doing, Herr Technical Director?”
Neither von Braun nor Dornberger broke their stride, but the technical director called back, “To what are you referring, my dear Arthur?”
Dieter jogged up to them. His red face nearly matched his red hair. “Herr Technical Director, you cannot surprise me and my whole department by casually stating that three ordinary aircraft gyros can be used to indicate a rocket’s position. You must consult me first on such matters!”
“But, Arthur, a solution boldly asserted is half proven! Nicht wahr?”
Wernher slapped Arthur on the back and left him behind to stew.
Dornberger glanced sidelong at his protégé. Wernher had come a long way since his days in the rocket society. As technical director of the Heeresversuchsanstalt, the young man managed hundreds of subordinates, from janitors to professors, with a sure hand that often astonished the career army officer.
Von Braun had become a grown man of strong build, with broad shoulders and a firm handshake, easy movements and a boyish smile, a fine balance of body and mind; indeed, he radiated good nature and exhibited a surprising knowledge of many things, which, for Dornberger, bespoke of a superior education. Von Braun also had a remarkable gift for leaving behind the problems of his office to enjoy a leisure hour or two of hunting or flying.
I chose and trained him well, Dornberger thought.
They ambled through well-tended gardens of planted daisies and roses yet to bloom, framed by soaring pine trees, and entered a brick building that housed the rocket plant’s showpiece: a well-crafted wind tunnel able to simulate flight parameters.
Together, they crossed a wide sunlit entrance hall to the reception room, where Dr. Kurt Debus waited for them beneath a quotation engraved in the wall: Technicians, physicists, and engineers are among the pioneers of the world.
Von Braun joked, “Are those fellows in the hangar still sticking to their ten o’clock siestas? Whenever I come to the test stand, they seem to be having a break. Have they been converting the alcohol to schnapps again?”
Debus snorted. “No, they gave up schnapps and naps since you did not send those comfortable couches you promised.”
“This is not funny,” Dornberger said. “One man went blind and another died from alcohol poisoning. This ridiculous news has come to the attention of Nazi Party HQ at Swinemünde. Now they are taking an interest, which is just—”
“Don’t worry,” Wernher interrupted. “I’ve already thought of something. Have the dead man brought here. We will nail his body to the main gate and leave it there for three days as a warning. They will think we are even more ruthless than they are. They will leave us alone after that.”
Dornberger nodded. “Good idea.”
The trio inspected the premises, checking schedules. They had to shout to be heard over the shrill hiss of air streaming at high speed through the measuring section, which vied with the roar of rocket motors being tested nearby.
Upon exiting the building, Debus lowered his voice. “Herr Technical Director, I think I have a solution to your little problem of landing on Mars.”
Wernher’s blue eyes lit up, but Dornberger snapped, “Gentlemen, we must concentrate on the coming war. It is not an occasion for idle fantasies. We need results. After all, we cannot expect the foolish behavior of our adversaries to last forever. And army money that was once plentiful is drying up!”
Dornberger’s adjutant, Max Magirius, ran toward them waving an envelope. “Oberstleutnant, a telegram from Berlin!”
Dornberger tore open the envelope and read. “Speak of the devil. Gentlemen, prepare yourselves.” He raised his eyes to theirs. “Playtime is over. Er will unseren Fortschritt sehen—the Führer demands a presentation. He arrives in a fortnight.”
Peenemünde Army Research Center, Germany
Tuesday, January 17, 1939
At 10:30 a.m. a car called for Oberstleutnant Walter Dornberger, who uncharacteristically had spent the night outside the facility. Von Braun was already seated in the back, wrapped tightly in his trench coat.
“Guten morgen,” he said when his boss climbed in.
“Ja, I heard you had news on our missing Messfrau?” Dornberger asked.
“A mistaken rumor,” von Braun grunted. “It has been over a year, so who knows, maybe she eloped.”
“We will wind down the investigation quietly. The last thing we want to do is alarm the SS and have them come snooping around our operation.”
Their car stopped at a snow-trimmed checkpoint.
“They certainly will not object to the increased security.” Wernher peered out his window at heavily armed guards. “Auf Schritt und Tritt…keine Maus kam rein und raus…”
“It does not matter,” Dornberger said. “They will use any excuse to force their way in, I am afraid. Becker and I and you—all of us—need to keep this a strictly army operation.”
Their car was waved through.
Dornberger admired the natural beauty of their camp. Although his responsibilities kept him busy from dawn till dusk, he enjoyed the facility’s congenial company. It seemed a long holiday in many respects. They all said so. The rigid class structure, with a clear chain of command, reassured them. The saluting, the singing, even the window cleaning had become part of a routine that made them feel like a big family.
“Dr. Schroeder’s calculations are a problem,” von Braun said, changing the subject. “He is too slow and too cautious.”
“I would think caution is a good thing when calculating chemical explosions.”
“You would think wrong. Tests will bear out the numbers. Replace him.”
Dornberger nodded. “What about Steinhoff? He holds the world record for distance in gliders and an honorary Luftwaffe rank of flight captain. He’s a real Nazi.”
“Sounds like a fun guy. Hire him.”
Their vehicle passed through two inner gates.
At the Administration Building they jumped out and walked the last few hundred yards, past the Materials Test Building and the Tool Workshop, toward a long, low building of red brick. Their colleagues hurried by them in a variety of civilian attire, from smart business suits to official-issue leather coats, with their triangular HBP badges; laborers in ragged overalls spoke in their native tongues.
Dornberger numbered these laborers in the thousands; they did the facility’s digging, fetching, and carrying, the pulling and pushing. Foreigners. He made a mental note to look into their food budget, for he’d received complaints of hunger. However, he judged his permissive attitude toward the brothel in the work camp, where two reichsmarks bought a girl, vodka, and a few cigarettes, to be liberal in the extreme.
Dieter, at some distance, spotted the duo and cried out, “What do you think you are doing, Herr Technical Director?”
Neither von Braun nor Dornberger broke their stride, but the technical director called back, “To what are you referring, my dear Arthur?”
Dieter jogged up to them. His red face nearly matched his red hair. “Herr Technical Director, you cannot surprise me and my whole department by casually stating that three ordinary aircraft gyros can be used to indicate a rocket’s position. You must consult me first on such matters!”
“But, Arthur, a solution boldly asserted is half proven! Nicht wahr?”
Wernher slapped Arthur on the back and left him behind to stew.
Dornberger glanced sidelong at his protégé. Wernher had come a long way since his days in the rocket society. As technical director of the Heeresversuchsanstalt, the young man managed hundreds of subordinates, from janitors to professors, with a sure hand that often astonished the career army officer.
Von Braun had become a grown man of strong build, with broad shoulders and a firm handshake, easy movements and a boyish smile, a fine balance of body and mind; indeed, he radiated good nature and exhibited a surprising knowledge of many things, which, for Dornberger, bespoke of a superior education. Von Braun also had a remarkable gift for leaving behind the problems of his office to enjoy a leisure hour or two of hunting or flying.
I chose and trained him well, Dornberger thought.
They ambled through well-tended gardens of planted daisies and roses yet to bloom, framed by soaring pine trees, and entered a brick building that housed the rocket plant’s showpiece: a well-crafted wind tunnel able to simulate flight parameters.
Together, they crossed a wide sunlit entrance hall to the reception room, where Dr. Kurt Debus waited for them beneath a quotation engraved in the wall: Technicians, physicists, and engineers are among the pioneers of the world.
Von Braun joked, “Are those fellows in the hangar still sticking to their ten o’clock siestas? Whenever I come to the test stand, they seem to be having a break. Have they been converting the alcohol to schnapps again?”
Debus snorted. “No, they gave up schnapps and naps since you did not send those comfortable couches you promised.”
“This is not funny,” Dornberger said. “One man went blind and another died from alcohol poisoning. This ridiculous news has come to the attention of Nazi Party HQ at Swinemünde. Now they are taking an interest, which is just—”
“Don’t worry,” Wernher interrupted. “I’ve already thought of something. Have the dead man brought here. We will nail his body to the main gate and leave it there for three days as a warning. They will think we are even more ruthless than they are. They will leave us alone after that.”
Dornberger nodded. “Good idea.”
The trio inspected the premises, checking schedules. They had to shout to be heard over the shrill hiss of air streaming at high speed through the measuring section, which vied with the roar of rocket motors being tested nearby.
Upon exiting the building, Debus lowered his voice. “Herr Technical Director, I think I have a solution to your little problem of landing on Mars.”
Wernher’s blue eyes lit up, but Dornberger snapped, “Gentlemen, we must concentrate on the coming war. It is not an occasion for idle fantasies. We need results. After all, we cannot expect the foolish behavior of our adversaries to last forever. And army money that was once plentiful is drying up!”
Dornberger’s adjutant, Max Magirius, ran toward them waving an envelope. “Oberstleutnant, a telegram from Berlin!”
Dornberger tore open the envelope and read. “Speak of the devil. Gentlemen, prepare yourselves.” He raised his eyes to theirs. “Playtime is over. Er will unseren Fortschritt sehen—the Führer demands a presentation. He arrives in a fortnight.”