Thank God Lisl hadn’t come, Voorhees thought. He knew that when Adolf Hitler ascended to power, the vivacious pilot quickly became one of his favorites. Her fame peaked after she piloted the world’s first helicopter, whereupon the Führer himself appointed her an honorary flight captain. She was the first woman to garner such rank. Now here she was in Peenemünde—far removed from gliders or soccer stadiums.
“Destinies we’d never dreamed of,” she emphasized. “Unfortunately, these are challenging times, my friends. So no more talk about me. I’m here with an announcement and a proposal. Some of you already know why I’m here, but I’ll now make it official. This week I plan to test-fly a piloted version of the V-1, the V-1e.”
There were audible gasps from some of the crowd but a few of the men stood by silently. They had either worked on the prototype before coming to Peenemünde or had heard about it from coworkers. Others, like Voorhees, were completely taken by surprise.
The gasps died away and after a moment the room went so silent that the grandfather clock in the corner could be heard emitting its single chime—forty-five minutes past midnight, forty-five minutes into the new day.
“Where is the cockpit?” someone asked rather meekly.
“On the fuselage, directly in front of the pulse engine,” the test pilot replied.
There was a momentary pause, then it seemed that everyone present had a question or a comment.
“What about landing?”
“. . . or bailing out?”
“. . . with a flight time of only thirty-two minutes . . .”
“. . . and a range of only three hundred kilometers . . .”
“. . . putting severe limits on any potential targets!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Reitsch said, raising her hands to calm the crowd. “Understand—again—that these are challenging times. But the Führer’s call is our sacred order! And now he calls on us to meet these challenges and to overcome them. The design of this craft is the product of the Luftwaffe’s greatest minds.”
That’s what I was afraid of, three of the scientists thought, simultaneously.
“As approved by our brilliant Führer, a pair of V-1e’s will hang below the wings of our bombers like mistletoe hangs from its host plant. The bomber will draw close to the target . . . then release her mistletoe. The pilot will steer the V-1e, lock on to the target, and then bail out. Since the V-1e will have been destroyed along with its target there will be no landing. You’ll be happy to learn that just last week the Führer himself told me—”
“Bail out at six hundred kilometers per hour?” Voorhees interrupted. “From directly in front of the engine intake? What happens to the canopy? What happens to the pilot?”
There were several more audible gasps and many of the faces in the crowd turned toward Reitsch, expectantly. But the test pilot said nothing, and her silence told them everything they needed to know about the potential for a successful bailout.
Voorhees turned to the man next to him and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, “That thing is a death trap and a piece of shit.” What am I doing? he thought. And why now? Am I losing my mind?
The grumbling had grown louder now. Nobody had ever heard Voorhees speak like this. The officers present made a point of stepping away from the scientists. And the stepped-away-from scientists now regarded Voorhees as one might regard a stranger who had barged into a wedding.
No, I’m not losing my mind, Voorhees thought. It’s von Braun’s words, getting to me. It’s the Statue Man. It’s Lisl.
Hanna Reitsch shot Voorhees an icy stare that lasted only a second, then she was smiling again, as if his last comments had never been uttered. “Of course, I was the first to sign on, and as of a week ago I was pleased to report to our Führer himself that we have over one thousand volunteers.”
Looking around, Voorhees could see that the pride in her voice contrasted with the mood in the room. There were no more questions, and many of those present were trying to think of excuses for hasty but less than obvious exits; the late hour or paperwork that suddenly needed shuffling.
“A thousand heroes! Heil Hitler!” Reitsch shouted, but for several seconds, there was no response, until a pair of officers snapped to attention and returned Reitsch’s Nazi salute. However, their voices served only to emphasize the dread that had settled on the men. A few of the scientists appeared to be in shock and even the officers looked uncomfortable, shifting in place as if their boots had suddenly shrunk two sizes. No one said a word.
Voorhees shook his head, realizing at long last that the Dream was dead. And it had been ridiculous all along, now that he thought about it. For what was the Dream? Nordic mythology sewn together with romantic notions from the nineteenth-century? Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, and the Chariot of Odin arching toward Mars. It was ridiculous and now it is over. “A thousand suicides,” he muttered, and turned away.
“Heroes, not suicides!” Reitsch snarled at him, the soft features of her face suddenly pulled tight. “The Leonidas Squadron!”