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‘It has been well established by these Polish fellows, who do indeed possess a few good scientists, that hydrogen peroxide is being used as the oxidiser. Hydrazine, then, would be the logical fuel. Its specific impulse — you are familiar with the term — is far greater than what can be obtained with alcohol and liquid oxygen…’

Memling had taken enough. ‘Captain,’ he had interrupted the tirade, ‘you are an ass. I was at Peenemunde where I worked as a member of the quality control department. I witnessed a test firing. Logic is all well and good, but sometimes it has to bend in the face of reality.’

Reynolds began to bluster, but Memling bored on. ‘I am willing to bet you my figures are more correct than yours, Captain Reynolds. In a few hours we will have an A-Four rocket aboard this aircraft. You and I should be able to determine, just the two of us, if the fuel tanks are made of steel, as I said, or of aluminium, as you maintain. If they are made of steel, I win that part of the bet and you get one good swift kick in the arse. If, when the Farnworth wizards finish their analysis, they determine that my estimate of the payload is closer than yours, you make a public and abject apology to me before the committee. I am well aware of what you told them regarding my work, and it only reinforces my belief that you are an arrogant know-it-all as well as an ass. Now, as an officer superior to you in rank, Captain, I am giving you a direct order. Shut your mouth!’

* * *

The Dakota lost altitude abruptly, jolting Memling from his reverie. He turned to the window to see a bright path of light below and swore angrily. His watch showed just after midnight. They were over the landing site, and the flares lit by the Poles were bright enough to draw every German within a hundred miles. Apparently the Polish officers aboard thought so as well, to judge by their exclamations of dismay.

The aircraft side-slipped, lost more altitude, and bucked in the turbulence. As they came around to line up for the approach more flares were set off until the makeshift landing site seemed as bright as day. Memling rebuckled his seat strap as the jolting grew more severe.

They were losing altitude rapidly now. A stand of trees — only inches below the wings, it seemed — fled past. Then the first flare shot past, and in its glow Memling saw the wing flaps go down, then, unexpectedly, grind up again. Engines screamed and the aircraft shuddered. For an instant he was weightless as the plane staggered, then they were rising with agonising slowness. What the hell, he wondered; but the Dakota was banking hard to port to go around again. The noise added to the lights would surely bring the Germans swarming.

This time Culliford took them straight in. Once over the trees, the aircraft dropped so abruptly that Memling gripped the seat, willing them not to crash. Afterwards he was certain he had left finger marks in the wood.

The Dakota came down hard, bounced twice, and staggered across the field. As the plane turned at the end of its roll, Memling saw a man with a torch point to the right, then chop down abruptly. The engines shut off, and a moment later someone was pounding on the hatch. Memling drew his Colt automatic and heard the unmistakable snicks of four Sten gun bolts being cocked. Gingerly he unlatched the door, remembering a deserted landing field in the Ardennes, and swung it open.

‘Hello, Tommy!’ A bearded man dressed in worker’s clothes and a cloth cap greeted him, one gnarled hand clutching a Mauser rifle. He broke into rapid Polish directed at the four men standing behind Memling, and they shouldered him aside with shouts of greeting, jumped down with their suitcases, and disappeared into the press of people milling about the aircraft.

Culliford materialised at his shoulder. ‘My God,’ he roared above the noise, ‘don’t they know there’s a war on?’

Orders were shouted, and the crowd dispersed. The bearded man climbed inside and shook hands with Memling and Culliford, then threw his arms wide at the sight of the Polish co-pilot. For a moment the two men embraced, laughing uproariously.

‘He says to tell you,’ the co-pilot told them above his friend’s laughter, ‘welcome to Free Poland. He is General Kaspar Kierzek and he commands the Twenty-second Home Army Regiment.’

‘Yes, but for how long?’ Culliford demanded. ‘Those lights will have every damned German garrison in the area about our ears.’ When this was translated, the Pole laughed and went to the hatch. He gestured expansively and broke into a speech.

‘He says there is only one German garrison in the area. His people surrounded the barracks earlier. When the Germans opened the door to see what the noise was about, they heard rifle bolts being cocked and decided they were better off not knowing.