'Get the truck started!' said the senior administrator, a man in his early twenties called Grob Mitzer.
One of the others, the most junior of the scientists, rushed over to the truck and started the engine. He watched the remainder of the group through the side window. They all stood around the blazing fire, some still throwing piles of documents on the pyre, others mesmerized by the leaping flames that were the final reminder of their failure.
'Damn the politicians!' said Mitzer.
'Damn Hitler!' said the scientist, Heinrich Spiedal, next to him.
'No. It wasn't him, Heinrich. He did what was right for Germany. It was the others. The politicians and the Generals. The clever arses. That fat pig Goering and his kind. Those bastards let him down.'
'He's right, Heinrich. They let him down.' It was Albert Goodenache who now joined the discussion. 'Christ, they're all running for cover now. Did you hear that Martin Boorman was seen just over the border with Russian soldiers?'
'When?' asked Spiedal.
'The other day. You remember that group of nurses that came through on their way to Rostock?'
Spiedal nodded.
'One of them saw him. Some General's daughter. She'd met him before.'
'She said it was Boorman?'
'So she said. And he wasn't even under guard. Just sat in the back of some staff car on his way east.'
'I don't believe it.'
'I'm just telling you what she said.'
'The big wigs are O.K. But what do we do now?'
'Start again,' said the administrator. That was Grob Mitzer's duty and his strength. At twenty one he was the architect of order amongst the unbridled enthusiasm of the young rocket scientists. His nature was to close one file and immediately open another. 'As we did after the Great War. Like the Fuhrer said, this is a thousand year war, that's all. Never forget'
A sudden burst of gunfire in the distance rattled them into sudden activity.
'Time to go,' said Mitzer. He turned and shouted at the others. 'Come on, everybody. Into the truck. Before it's too late. Albert, Heinrich, get in the front with me.'
The group, startled by the ferocity of the latest explosions, ran towards the truck, their faces lit up by the blazing fire and the redness of the erupting sky.
'That's near Swinoujscie,' someone shouted. 'They must have crossed the border.'
'Come on, come on,' urged Mitzer. 'Let's get going.'
He followed the group of hurrying scientists and stood behind them as they climbed into the back of the truck, an unmarked grey Army vehicle which had been used for transporting the work force to the site from their wooden slatted huts the other side of the sand dunes. There were no seats, only a slatted wooden floor on which the scientists stood, holding themselves upright on the bowed metal cross members that were supports for a canvas tarpaulin that had long since been lost.
When the last of the group had climbed on, Mitzer swung the tailgate up and locked it into position with a metal latch.
'Hang on tight,' he shouted. 'It's going to be a bumpy ride.' He ran round to the front and opened the driver's door, startling the young scientist he had sent on ahead to start the engine. Albert Goodenache and Heinrich Spiedal sat jammed together on the passenger side of the short wooden bench seat that stretched across the cab. 'In the back. Join the others. I'll drive. I know the way,' he shouted at the driver.
The man started to protest, but Mitzer cut him short, reached up and pulled him out of the cab. He sprawled in the wet mud. As he started to pick himself up there was a piercing, shrilling sound followed by a booming explosion from what seemed only a few hundred metres away.
'Hurry up, or you'll get us all killed,' yelled Mitzer, putting his hand out to help the fallen scientist. 'Come on, come on.'
The scientist scrambled through the mud to the rear of the truck as Mitzer climbed into the cab and slammed the door.
The engine screamed as he poured on the power, but nothing happened.
'Damn and shit!' cried Mitzer.
'What's wrong?' asked a frightened Albert Goodenache.
'We're too heavy. Too much mud. Too much bloody mud.'
Mitzer took his foot off the accelerator, swung the door open and climbed out into the mud. He rushed round to the rear of the truck.
'Everybody out,' he shouted as he unlatched the tailgate and swung it down. 'It's too heavy in the mud. You'll have to push to get it going.'. The scientists stood there; they were men of reason and considered logic, not an instinctive breed by nature. 'Come on, get out. Do you want us all killed?' He climbed up onto the back and started to push them out; some jumped, most fell into the mud. He leapt down amongst them and started to help them to their feet. 'Push, damn you. Get behind and push. Come on, we only need to get out of this mud then we'll be on our way. Hurry, Hurry!'
He rushed back to the cab and jumped in, put the truck back into gear and gently fed power to the engine.
'Shall we help?' shouted Heinrich Spiedal.
'No, stay where you are,' replied Mitzer.
'But…'
'Do as you're bloody told,' he ordered, then leant out of the cab and shouted back at the group. 'Push, damn you, push, push, push for everything you're worth.'
The shrilling distant sound came again, low to start with, then building in its intensity until it exploded on the sand dunes near the experimental rocket launch tracks. As the shell deafened them, so the truck, having been rocked backwards and forwards by the small group, finally broke loose of its slippery hold and shot forward. The pushers collapsed as they lost their grip.
Another shell exploded nearby.
'Stop!' shouted Heinrich Spiedal. 'Wait for the others.'
Mitzer kept his foot rammed to the floor, not wanting to lose momentum, not wanting to be clawed back into the wet soft earth under the vehicle.
Thirty metres on he drove onto the road and safety.
He stopped the truck to wait for the others.
At that moment Albert Goodenache saw the silhouette of a Russian soldier lift into view across the sand dunes. Before he could shout a warning, the soldier opened fire on the small group.
Mitzer heard the scientists calling, screaming for him to wait as they scrambled out of the mud.
He put his foot down and drove away. The shouts of those left behind disappeared as the sounds of war enveloped them.
The three of them never looked back at Peenemünde, the place that was to have been their shrine. The two scientists said nothing. Their cowardice and shame sat on the bench with them. They had nothing left to say to each other.
After five minutes, Mitzer stopped to check the petrol cans tied to the back of the cab. There were four of them, containing nearly one hundred and twenty litres in total, enough to get them to Berlin. He looked back at the explosions, knew he could outrun the Russians as long as the truck kept going. He tried not to think of those he had left behind. He climbed back into the truck and, without a single glance or comment to his two companions, drove off towards Wolgast and the road to Berlin.
'We should go west, not south,' said Albert Goodenache after they had been travelling for nearly half an hour.
'Why?' asked Mitzer.
'Because Berlin will be lost to the Russians. If not today, then tomorrow. Peenemünde is directly north of Berlin. All their effort will be directed there. Go west, towards the Americans and the British. They're not the barbarians, the Russians are.'
'Alright. We'll follow the country roads. Towards Hamburg. Do you agree, Heinrich?'
The young scientist nodded. He wanted only to get back to his bride of four months, Trudi, who waited for him in Dusseldorf. To hide with her and avoid the questions that would be asked of him, of his Nazi Party membership, of his treatment of the workers he had controlled at Nordhausen and Peenemünde, of what he saw as expediency and others would see as evil.