First published in Great Britain in 2012 by
CLAYMORE PRESS
An imprint of
Pen & Sword Books Ltd
47 Church Street
Barnsley
South Yorkshire
S70 2AS
Copyright © Colin Fulton, 2012
PRINT ISBN: 978-1-78159-078-2
EPUB ISBN: 9781781599785
PRC ISBN: 9781781599792
The right of Colin Fulton to be identified as Author of this work has been
asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988.
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available from the British Library
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Contents
Historical Background
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Author’s Note
Historical Background
In February 1945 the US Air Force launched the largest daytime bombing offensive against Berlin, dropping over 2,250 tons of bombs on the German capital.
The Reichsbank, Germany’s state bank, received twenty-one direct hits. This left the building badly damaged, its vaults unsafe and meant that most of its contents were at risk. The German authorities decided to take most of the Reichsbank’s treasure away and hide it for safekeeping. Some US $200 million (1945-worth) in gold bars, weighing around 100 tons, plus much of the paper currency reserves, as well as a great deal of foreign currency (approximately $4 million in US currency alone) was sent in trains from Berlin. All this loot was placed in a salt mine at a place called Merkers. This was captured intact by the US Army. After this disaster, the Germans spent the next six weeks transferring their remaining bullion and currency reserves around what remained of the Reich in armoured trains, an area that included parts of northern Italy, Czechoslovakia, Austria and Germany, looking for somewhere safe.
Much of the treasure ended up back in Berlin, was stolen, disappeared or captured, mainly by American troops and the SS.
For example, one consignment of 730 gold bars, sacks of gold coin and currency worth US $10 million (in 1945 figures or $250 million in today’s figures) earmarked for shipment to Bavaria went missing and was never found. In another incident, a group of SS Troopers under the command of a thirty-nine-year-old SS Brigadier General Josef Spacil, robbed the new Reichsbank headquarters in Berlin at gunpoint. They stole jewels, securities and foreign exchange valued at US $9 million.
There were many other robberies, smaller and larger, during this time. In fact, after the war, US Army officers in league with former SS officers stole a major proportion of the remaining Reichsbank’s reserves. It was never recovered and is listed in The Guinness Book of Records as the largest robbery ever. In 2010 terms the figure would be in the region of US $4.5 billion.
Note
In order to retain a sense of authenticity, German spellings have been used on several occasions throughout the book.
Prologue
18 January 1944
The radar operator’s voice was tense over the intercom. The pilot could hear the man’s sharp breath as he strove to keep the excitement from his voice.
“We should be able to pick up the coast very soon, Major. That is if the navigator has done his job correctly.”
The pilot smiled to himself. He turned to the co-pilot who lifted his eyes upwards and gently shook his head. It was no secret that the navigator and radar operator did not see eye-to-eye. Professional jealousy, or just different people with an inability to get on, the pilot did not know nor at that particular moment did he care. Their constant bickering, which at first had been amusing, was now beginning to get on his nerves.
“If that electrician can get his fancy,” said the navigator.
“Cut the shit or I’ll have you both cleaning the latrines for a week,” the pilot’s voice cut across the querulous reply.
The toilets at Mont de Marsan were not known for their cleanliness, a situation not helped by Luftwaffe regulations that no French civilians were allowed onto the base to clean them or do any other menial duties.
“I am almost certain that we are on course, Major.” The navigator’s voice contained a hint of contrition. “The cloud is continuing to make accurate reading almost impossible, but …”
As if in answer the big plane was suddenly bathed in glaring sunlight as it emerged from the cloud.
The co-pilot put up his right hand to shield his eyes from the glare while at the same time search for his sunglasses with the other. With an exclamation he hurriedly placed them on his nose cutting the glare instantly.
The Ray-Bans were much prized for they were the best sunglasses available. These had been liberated from a B17 captain and the co-pilot made sure that they never left his person. There were greedy hands everywhere. However, no sooner had he put them on his nose and tried to re-focus his eyes when the plane was enveloped in greyness once again. But, as the plane droned westwards the sky began to lighten and gradually the clouds dissipated from almost ten-tenths to half that. This made the navigator’s job easier and he was able to confirm (with a hint of superiority for the benefit of the radar operator), that yes, they were on course.
“That’s fine,” said the pilot. “Now I want everyone to keep their eyes wide open. The coast cannot be far away even if radar has not picked it up yet.”
A few minutes later the radar operator, sweating over his instruments, informed the pilot that the FuG 200 Hohentwiel search radar had indeed done its job. This time he made no attempt to hide his glee.
“It’s the coast, Major, about fif
ty kilometres away, maybe a few kilometres less.”
There was a moment’s silence while the news sunk in. After just over thirteen hours in the air they had reached the coast of America.
The pilot’s voice cut into the intercom. For once even he was excited. In an effort to keep this excitement from his voice he became very terse, sounding clipped and officious.
“Now keep your wits about you. All of you, keep a careful watch for any other aircraft. We are unlikely to be expected, but you never know.”
The cloud was dispersing rapidly until the aircraft, alone in a blue sky, was bathed in brilliant sunshine. As the heat permeated through the Perspex the two men at the controls began to perspire, the moisture running down their faces soaking their shirt collars.
The pilot removed his microphone headpiece so that he could take off his battered peaked cap. He replaced the headpiece and peered out over the nose of the aircraft.
Both he and the co-pilot saw the coast at the same time, though the pilot with years of experience was the first to react. He dipped the nose of the aircraft slightly so that he could see the distant coast better, at the same time speaking into the intercom.
“There you are comrades … the promised land.” He spoke neither in jest nor in irony. To many in Europe it seemed, even at this time, to be the land of peace and opportunity.
The pilot glanced at his altimeter. It read just under 2,000 metres. I wonder if I should climb any higher, he thought.
“My God,” the co-pilot exclaimed softly.
The pilot had seen it too. There in the distance was a greyish brown haze and at its base the unmistakable outlines of tall, tall buildings.
“New York?” queried the co-pilot, although he knew the answer.
“New York.”
“Oh what I would not give for one small 250-kilogram bomb to drop on the Empire State building. That would give those bastards a taste of what the Reich has been receiving … just one little 250-kilogram bomb.”
“Save your breath, Klaus,” snapped the pilot. “We have done what we set out to do. It is possible. Now, if Speer and his lot can build us enough of these beauties we can do what you would like to do. Flatten New York.” He called up the radar operator. “Sigi! What distance are we from New York?”
“About twenty kilometres, Herr Major, maybe a little less. Please, Herr Major, can I come up and see?” The radar operator was always the most formal in addressing the pilot.
The pilot answered in the affirmative and a few moments later the radar operator was standing, half crouching between the two pilots. The pilot let him gaze for less than ten seconds and then began to turn the huge six-engined plane away. A few seconds later it was back on an easterly course, returning the way it had come.
“Gunners give me a quick report. Do you see anything?”
One by one they answered in the negative. The pilot ordered them to keep their eyes open and not to relax as they still had a long way to go. He then ordered the flight engineer to make a report on the fuel situation and the state of the engines. Everything was reported to be in order. The Junkers JU 390 was as perfect as when it had taken off from its French airfield in the dark early hours of the morning.
Germany’s most advanced long-range aircraft and its crew had been sent on a special mission: to see whether it was feasible for the Luftwaffe to bomb America, particularly New York, and return safely. Already the crew of the big bomber had proved such a raid was possible. Now, all that was left was to return to Europe safely.
Ten minutes later the clouds closed in around the Junkers once again and the crew began to relax. As far as they could tell the Americans were none the wiser and now they were safe from prying eyes.
So far it had been almost too easy.
The pilot handed over to his co-pilot and began to review the flight in his mind, searching once again for any hidden problem that might hinder such a mission occurring again. Easy, though this flight may have been, it was another matter entirely to return with a load of high explosives with the aim of actually crossing the coast to bomb America’s most iconic and largest city. Yet, he knew it could be done. The question was when? Germany was already bleeding heavily and time was not on her side.
To have any effect, a raid on New York would have to be mounted within the next six months. America was sending vast amounts of men and material to Great Britain and its bombers were flying in ever-imposing numbers over the Reich. A serious raid on New York would force the Americans to divert valuable fighter planes to protect their homeland and this would leave the American B17s with fewer escort fighters as they flew across Europe. It would also be a huge morale boost for the German people.
He turned to his co-pilot. “Well, Klaus. What do you think? Will the High Command give us some of these beauties and allow us to bomb the shit out of New York, or will it all be too hard?”
The co-pilot shrugged his shoulders and lifted his eyebrows. He did not reply, but the gestures said it all.
In his heart the pilot hoped he was wrong. He badly wanted to fly the North Atlantic again. Strangely, his wish was to be answered, but not because of any decision by the Luftwaffe High Command. He would make that return flight, but in a completely different guise and for a completely different reason.
Chapter One
20 October 1944
Sturmbannführer Friedrich Schonewille was one of those people whose looks and demeanour are improved by a uniform. And when that uniform bore the jagged runes of the dreaded SS then its occupant became truly imposing.
In civilian life Schonewille looked to be what he once was: an inoffensive, moderately successful accountant. His limited success was not because he lacked brains or the ability to use them, but rather because he was cautious by nature. This was heightened by the times in which he lived. The Depression had instilled in the German people a sober caution about anything to do with money, especially their own money.
With neither the backing of a rich family nor the necessary contacts to help his career, he had soberly and carefully built on his clients to further his small practice. One of those clients had been a local Nazi Party official who, in the winter of 1931, had attempted to recruit Schonewille. At first the accountant had not wanted to commit himself, although he was careful to make his hesitation appear like a minor matter caused by an excess of work and other commitments, rather than a lack of interest in the party.
The truth was that he was not easily swayed by oratory and Hitler’s speeches left him un-moved. Although not interested in politics, he was aware that the Nazis were not yet regarded as quite legitimate in Germany even though their political power was growing rapidly. At any rate, he did not want to alienate his more conservative clients.
But, all this changed in January 1933 when Hitler was made Chancellor. Even though Hitler only headed a coalition government and President Hindenburg was still alive, Schonewille recognised that now was perhaps the time to join the National Socialist Party. This had an instant and positive effect on his practice, which translated itself very quickly to his bank account.
The party had plenty of brown shirt toughs. What it needed was organisers, technocrats and planners. Schonewille’s financial ability was quickly recognised and he became very valuable in organising the finances of the party in the surrounding districts. Although he gave his time freely, local businessmen soon learnt of his growing importance and switched their allegiance to his practice, which began to prosper.
By 1936 he was an official of some importance and his growing recognition and authority within the Nazi Party began to manifest itself in his character. It also gave him the impetus to join the SS and thus be part of Germany’s elite.
Friedrich Schonewille was a driven man and the political party to which he belonged enabled him to release those insecurities and personal hatreds that had bedevilled him for so long. At another time, in another place, he would have remained a normal person, albeit one who nursed a deep-seated grudge. Now, eight years lat
er he had become a truly twisted and evil man.
None of this showed in his person. Stripped of his uniform he would have looked almost nondescript. He was of average height with bland looks, brown eyes, brown hair and a rather slight physique. His smile, when he used it, was rather engaging and his voice, though quiet, with little presence and penetration, was well modulated.
On entering the SS in 1938 he had quickly adopted a military bearing and affected attitude that fed his growing feelings of self importance and superiority over many of his fellow countrymen, especially if they were civilians. Yet he still carried the shibboleths that had plagued much of his life and with many people his feelings of superiority were only skin deep. To his superiors he was deferential and largely acquiescent, although he became adept at making sure they were well aware of his work and successes. Partly because of this he had earned a reputation of self effacing, ruthless efficiency.
One thing he did keep well-hidden, though, was the size of his ambition. He knew only too well the forces that existed in the SS and the people who controlled the organisation. It was not wise to tread on too many toes. Despite this he was not above subterfuge and subtle bribery to gain advancement.
To an observer the only thing that made him appear different from the rest of his ilk was a little leather pouch attached to his gleaming belt. This pouch contained a silencer, something that was not standard issue to officers in the SS or in any section of the Wehrmacht. Schonewille had a gunsmith modify his army issue 9mm Walther so the silencer could be screwed onto the barrel of the automatic. The SS officer had originally wanted the silencer fitted to a smaller Walther PP, but the gunsmith had advised him it would have an adverse effect on the stopping power of the 7.65mm bullet and, therefore, he should have a weapon of heavier calibre and with a greater muzzle velocity. He recommended the larger, heavier Walther, known throughout the German Army as the P-38 and which had acquired a good reputation for reliability and accuracy.
It was this weapon, together with his quiet manner, that had earned Schonewille the nickname Stille Maus, or quiet mouse. To those special inmates of the camps, those who were political prisoners, or of the old political order, the appearance of the quiet mouse meant instant death, the executions carried out almost without sound for the silencer reduced the gunshots to a strangled cough.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 1
