The Berlin Tunnel

by Roger L Liles

  “Thank you, Captain Kerr. First, I’d like to….”

  During Colonel Powell’s speech, I reflected on the events of the previous day….

  Feet of Tunnel Completed: 0 Days until Deadline: 261

  Chapter 44

  Wednesday, January 4, 1961

  Kurt drove a black CIA Mercedes sedan with German license plates. Scott and I were passengers, wearing civilian clothes. Thirteen Seabees were scheduled to arrive at Tegel Airport aboard three different commercial jet aircraft. Once everyone gathered in a Hilton Hotel room, we planned to provide them instructions on how to get into Tempelhof Air Force Base through the arrival-hall cipher lock.

  As our car descended into the main underground parking garage, Kurt snapped, “What the hell! That man’s a KGB operative! He’s shaking hands with a senior Stasi agent. They call him the professor.” With considerable effort, he maneuvered the car out of the parking garage and onto a busy thoroughfare

  “This can’t be just a coincidence. We’ve been compromised,” Scott announced.

  “I’ll pull over at that tobacco shop,” Kurt explained, pointing. “It’ll have a pay phone. I’ll call my counter-surveillance team. It’ll take us time to gather and execute the plan I have in mind, but in the interim here’s what we’ll do…”

  In less than an hour, a CIA-owned slab-sided black delivery van pulled into the entrance of the Hilton service garage. Kurt, Scott, and I were hiding in the back.

  “The Hilton Hotel’s Head of Security, a retired U.S. Army Military Police Major named Bobby Shores, will help us every way he can. He’s one of us, a real trooper,” Scott said.

  After introductions, Mr. Shores assured us, “I’ve personally verified that your thirteen men are assembled and waiting in Suite 1107. I’ve devised the perfect ruse to get our two young Captains here into that suite.”

  Ten minutes later, Scott and I were under two food delivery carts covered with tablecloths as bellhops wheeled us to our destination.

  A knock and the announcement, “Zimmerservice—Room Service.” A door opened. “We didn’t order room service, but as long as it’s here, we might as well eat,” someone said.

  Once the bellhops had departed, I crawled out of my hiding place and immediately held up a cardboard sign: Don’t say anything—the room is probably bugged. I moved the sign around so all could see it.

  The room went from boisterous comradery to silence, until a big beefy man behind me suggested, “Dig in. Then we’ll take a tour of the town.”

  Turning the card over, I wrote: I’m Captain Kerr.

  Taking my pen, the big man replied: Chief Weber. Senior NCO here.

  I scribbled: The commies surround us. Help’s on the way.

  Meanwhile, Scott locked and dead bolted the door, closed all of the curtains and began to look for listening devices.

  Fifteen minutes later, three knocks, a pause, followed by three more knocks. Scott let a man into the room that neither of us knew.

  Scott, Chief Weber, and I followed him into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and instructed, “Call me Jerry. The place is crawling with bad guys. Kurt’s working on a diversion, but we must be patient. Several of them appear to be armed.” Opening a briefcase, he handed each of us .38 caliber handguns and shoulder holsters, which we put on.

  Holy shit. “Are we expecting a shootout?” I murmured under my breath.

  Scott and I wore three-piece civilian suits. I briefly wondered if it was legal for us to be armed while out of uniform and off the base. Since the shower was still running, I asked, “Can we use these guns?”

  “Berlin is still legally a conquered enemy city. In each zone of occupation, the senior military commander is the ultimate authority. He can command elected German officials to take whatever action is required to maintain order. We work for him. So, to answer your question, here in the American Zone we can carry these weapons in order to protect American interests.”

  “What about our opposite numbers out there?”

  “Russian officials can move freely through Berlin and carry arms. Those East German Stasi guys can legally come over to our zone, but they have no authority, and by our regulations they shouldn’t be armed.”

  Leaving the shower on, Jerry got out a walkie-talkie. He pulled a three-foot-long telescoping antenna out of the large oblong box. “Ranger one to base. Over.”

  “Base.”

  “In position, ready for action.”

  “Roger. Stand by for instructions. Reinforcements expected in thirty minutes.”

  “I’d better go out and let my men know what’s happening,” the Chief advised me in a gravelly deep voice with a foreign accent. He quickly returned. “One of my men, Hans Jelnicky tried to leave, but others restrained him.”

  Taking a pair of handcuffs out of his briefcase, Jerry handed them to the Chief, who understood. “I’ll make sure he stays here.”

  “Scott, do you understand what’s happening?” I asked. “The East Germans have one of the finest hotels in West Berlin surrounded. Why are they threatening an armed confrontation?”

  “The only thing I can think of is that this guy…Jelnicky…spilled his guts to someone.”

  “He doesn’t know about our objective.”

  “No, but he does know that thirteen Seabees were given Top Secret clearances and assigned to work on a highly-classified construction project in West Berlin. Once they learned that much, finding details would immediately become a Stasi and KGB high priority.”

  “Unfortunately, you’re probably right,” I agreed. “But wouldn’t attacking us in this hotel cause an international incident?”

  “If Kurt hadn’t been with us and recognized the KGB and Stasi agents, they might have learned about our little construction project and put a stop to it with little fuss. After determining the location of the cipher-locked door today, next week they could follow someone to the building. Game, set, match, just like that.”

  Jerry received a message. “Rover One, there may be a change of plans. Standby.” He turned the shower off, waited a few minutes, then turned it back on, as if several men were taking turns in the shower.

  No panic attack so far. Not even fast breathing. Amazing.

  Forty minutes later, Kurt knocked on the door, pushed in a delivery cart, and joined us in the bathroom. “We’re ready to leave. All of us will move from here to the service elevator at the end of the hall, down to the service garage and out that exit into two unmarked panel trucks.”

  “What about the bad guys?” I asked.

  “The Berlin Police have forced them to leave the hotel, but they’re waiting on the streets,” Kurt replied. “Due to the Four Powers agreements, they actually have every right to be in this hotel and out there. They aren’t supposed to be carrying arms, but they are. Regrettably, the police have decided not to press that matter at this point in time. Chief, are any of your guys proficient with firearms?”

  “Yes, two in particular. Kowalski and Nowak. They fought in the Korean War.”

  “There are two grease guns and a couple of bandoliers of ammunition under the cart I brought into the room. They need to load their weapons. One of those two will lead the way, and the other will cover our rear.”

  “Where are we going?” Scott asked.

  “Do you have a suggestion?”

  “Let’s go to U.S. Military Police Headquarters at McNair Barracks,” he recommended. “We’ll be safe there, and they have facilities which will allow us to determine what happened.”

  “Perfect. Jerry, use your walkie-talkie to tell everyone our destination.”

  We formed a line—Nowak led the group, followed by several Seabees, the Chief with his weapon pointed at the ceiling, Jelnicky in handcuffs between two senior NCOs, Scott with his gun pointing down, me, the rest of the Seabees, and then Kowalski.

  Scott turned to me. “Old buddy, it’s show time. Get your weapon out and try not to shoot yourself in the foot. Even more important, don’t shoot me!”

>   “Don’t worry; I know how to use this weapon. During marksmanship training in ROTC, I qualified as a small arms expert. How about you?”

  “Get ready, Wyatt Earp. A showdown may await us.”

  Slowly, all eighteen of us made our way down the hallway. A guest opened the door beside me and cried, “Dorothy, get down. It looks like World War III has started in the hall!” The door slammed shut.

  Deep breathing…from the diaphragm…don’t panic now…not here…not now!

  Everything went smoothly, and I remained calm.

  Once in the basement, Kurt took charge of assigning people to various roles. “These cargo vans have no seats in the back, so most of us will stand or sit on the floor. My men will drive. Captain Taylor, you’re the armed, front seat passenger in the lead van; you’ll provide driving directions to McNair Barracks. Jerry, communications through your walkie-talkie, lead van. Nowak, you protect the lead van from the back window.”

  With a glance, Kurt commanded, “Captain Kerr, passenger seat, second van. The Chief, Kowalski, and I will take Jelnicky in the trailing van.” He looked at the remaining eight men, “Four of you get in the back of each van.”

  Seven people were crammed like sardines into the back of the two vans and had to stand. Kurt clutched the second walkie-talkie and took a position at the back window of the trailing van, leaving no doubt about his role in our escapade.

  The driver made a right turn. I heard someone groan and looked back. People struggled to keep their balance.

  Jerry reported, “At the top of the parking garage ramp, a car is blocking the street to the left. To the right three individuals have seen us and taken positions with theirs hands inside their coats, their other hands out, palms up, to stop us. What should we do?”

  Into the walkie-talkie, Kurt shouted, “Van one, gun the motor immediately! They want us to surrender Jelnicky.”

  The driver ahead of us hit the accelerator. I heard groans and whispering as everyone in the back of my van bounced around. Jerry reported from the lead vehicle, “We hit one of the Stasi agents. Just a glancing blow, but he’ll probably be limping around for a few days.”

  Our convoy sped to the first corner, took a right, then a left onto a major three-lane thoroughfare. Scott said, “Go straight ahead for about a mile, then we’ll take another left, so stay in this lane.”

  I assumed we were now safe until I heard Kurt shout, “Three vehicles are following us. They’re obviously willing to take risks, perhaps even armed intervention. They desperately want to find out more about our mission and question Jelnicky in one of their prisons. Any suggestions anyone?”

  From the lead van, I heard, “There’s a stop light up ahead. What should I do?”

  “Move into the left turn lane and execute a U-turn before reaching the intersection,” Kurt instructed. “We’ll try to lose them in traffic.”

  Both vehicles executed this maneuver, which disrupted the flow of oncoming traffic and almost caused several collisions. Those in the back lost their footing and were a jumble on the floor.

  Using the open stretch of road ahead, our drivers rapidly accelerated. The three vehicles in pursuit used the corridor we’d created to stay with us.

  Looking out the rear window in amazement, Kurt said, “God damn those bastards. They’re still on our tail. Ideas, anyone?”

  “This street leads to the British Sector,” Scott advised. “Should we enter their area?”

  “No. Under no circumstances,” Kurt commanded. “The Limeys are very protective of their rights. There’ll be hell to pay if we step on their toes.”

  “Tempelhof is the closest U.S. military installation. Head there. My security guys will admit us,” Scott said.

  I protested, “We want to avoid associating the Seabees with me or anything going on at Tempelhof.”

  “We need a safe place, or we’ll be protecting ourselves with firearms,” Kurt replied. “Shootouts in the middle of West Berlin are discouraged by our superiors—both civilian and military. I screwed up. We should have waited for an armed convoy escort.”

  “Tempelhof is our only choice,” I conceded.

  “Scott, select the route. Negotiate it as quickly as possible.”

  “Affirmative, Kurt. Three stop lights up, turn right and go straight for three-quarters of a mile, then a left, a sharp right, and we’re home.”

  Our van just managed to get through a yellow light at the next intersection. The crashing sounds of an accident indicated someone behind us had not fared as well.

  Kurt shouted. “We’ll, I’ll be damned! The first car following us just managed to avoid a collision with turning traffic, but the second vehicle was broadsided. With only one car full of men left, I don’t think they’ll try anything. Proceed with the plan to Tempelhof.”

  As Kurt predicted, the lead Stasi/KGB car followed us to the base, pulled up at the curb outside the main gate, and watched us pass through the guard post. The security guards later reported that the sedan’s passengers tried to see us exit the vans.

  Our vehicles entered a covered parking area within the Air Force-controlled airport building. Scott directed all eighteen of us down a corridor, up to a set of stairs, which led to the barracks area acquired for the exclusive use of my work crew.

  I tried to determine what impact the day’s events would have on my mission. My conclusion: Instead of anonymity for the start of my project, we were the target of intense interest. That was bad, but not devastating. And I didn’t have a panic attack.

  Feet of Tunnel Completed: 0 Days until Deadline: 262

  Chapter 45

  Wednesday, January 4, 1961

  Late that afternoon, we gathered in the drab interrogation room at Tempelhof, which was furnished with standard issue U.S. military gray metal conference tables and chairs. Mark, Scott, Chief Weber, and I, a representative from the Judge Advocate General’s Office, and a stenographer were present.

  Senior Chief Petty Officer Carl Weber—a tall, broad-shouldered, massive chested man—stood out among the assembly.

  “Before we interview Jelnicky, tell us about him, Chief Weber,” Mark requested.

  The Chief’s bright, alert brown eyes took in everything despite thick, horn-rimmed bifocals. “Like me, Jelnicky was originally from Gdansk in what is today Poland. He was allowed to move to the States when an aunt agreed to adopt him after the war. He joined the Navy in 1951 during the Korean War.”

  “So, he’s now a Petty Officer Second Class?” Scott confirmed.

  “Yes, sir. Jelnicky just turned thirty. He’s recently divorced. When he returned from an unaccompanied eighteen-month assignment to Subic Bay, he found that his wife had moved in with a local contractor. In the divorce, he gave up his kids in return for no child support.”

  “I suspect he wasn’t happy about that,” Mark observed.

  “He was crazy about his wife and kids. He received counseling at the base, and I thought he’d finally accepted his loss.”

  “Chief, he might open up if you question him,” Scott suggested.

  Two Air Policemen escorted the obviously chastened man into the interview room.

  The Chief’s calm demeanor contrasted dramatically with his cauliflower ear and many times broken nose. He cleared his throat as he approached Jelnicky, and his normal gravelly tone sounded somewhat subdued. “Hans, I guess you know you’re in trouble. It’ll go much easier for you if you tell us what happened.”

  When Jelnicky addressed him in Polish, the Chief instructed him to reply in English.

  After hesitating, he responded in heavily accented English, “Chief, I was a vulnerable fool.”

  “Tell us how.”

  “When I found out I was coming to Germany, I wrote to my aunt. She replied that I should look up my only other family—a second cousin. I wrote to him at an address in West Berlin. He asked me to join his family for the Christmas holidays. I accepted.”

  “You were supposed to leave New York yesterday, but you’ve been here f
or eleven…twelve days. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, I arrived on Christmas Eve.”

  “What happened to the ticket the government issued you?”

  “It’s in my suitcase, unused.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I met my cousin. He indicated he’d moved to East Berlin, because it cost less to live there. I told him I’d recently been granted a high-level security clearance and didn’t feel comfortable traveling into a communist-controlled area.”

  “Then what happened?” Chief Weber asked.

  “He replied, ‘You can join us for Christmas dinner in the East, what harm could that do?’ I did. Once there, I met another cousin, a drop-dead gorgeous female. She insisted we were ‘kissing cousins’…uh, you know…”

  “Go on.”

  “She joined me in West Berlin the next day. To impress her, I moved from a modest pension to a nice hotel. We toured both Berlins—the nightclubs, bars, movies, restaurants, museums—had a glorious time. We also spent a lot of time in bed. We’re in love. I want to be with her.”

  “What did you tell her about yourself?”

  “That I was a Navy Seabee who’d been assigned to Berlin to work on a construction project. After much cajoling, I told her nine of us had been selected to work on the project because we were native German speakers…”

  “—Go on.”

  “…and we could help hide the construction project from the Germans on both sides of the border.”

  “How did she react?”

  “At first, I thought she was just curious. For the last few days, she’s repeatedly pressed me for details. So, I clammed up.”

  “Did you tell her anything else?”

  “That’s all I knew! Oh, and that I’d be in Berlin for a year, perhaps even until March of next year.”