All that the evening’s meeting had really brought about was the realisation that he was now in a very difficult position. If he did not report what had transpired by the morning, he was implicated whether he liked it or not. Schonewille could not have cared less whether Heger and his wife were picked up by the Gestapo. Yet by the same token he now fully understood the military situation and what this held in store for Hitler’s Reich. Therefore, he had to plan ahead if he was to save his own skin.
The question was, whether to say yes or no to Heger. There was one other problem. He did not know the rank or identity of the mysterious third member and it was quite likely that if he attempted to report on what was being planned he might find himself being arrested on the orders of that third party. At eleven o’clock the air-raid siren started its mournful wailing.
“Teufelnoch a mal,” he swore. He remembered the lone reconnaissance plane in the sky above Berlin. He should have understood then that there was a good chance the capital would receive yet another visit from the Terrorflieger, as Goebbels’ propaganda unit called them. Schonewille smiled to himself. The Gauleiter was conveniently forgetting Warsaw, Rotterdam, London, Coventry, Moscow and the dozens of other cities visited by the Luftwaffe.
His annoyance and frustration increased when he realised the residents at Heger’s apartment block were likely to leave and go to the air-raid shelters providing an almost impossible task for the watching Hitler Youth.
He swore again and wondered whether he should go to the shelter himself. He hated the claustrophobic feeling of the shelters and their sweaty, fearful inhabitants. He decided against it. If the bombing got too close he would go down to his own cellar. It was not as deep as a proper shelter, but it would protect him against anything except a direct hit.
At any rate, Sophia would not leave the house. She was paranoid about going out in the streets at night when security and identity checks were at their peak. Although her identity papers were legitimate and therefore foolproof, she was still afraid that somehow she would be arrested. The only incriminating evidence against her was the number tattooed on her arm, yet she still resolutely refused to have it removed. To Schonewille’s logical mind this was sheer stupidity as it also put him in danger. He kept telling himself he should force her to remove the tattoo, but lately he had not been able to make himself confront her over the issue. When he had first done so the look of loathing she gave so unnerved him that he let the matter drop.
The Jewish woman was the one chink in his armour. He loved her and the more time he spent with her the more emotionally attached he became. That she did not reciprocate the feeling never entered his head. After all, had he not rescued her from a holding station prior to her deportation to a concentration camp, risking his career and maybe even his life?
To his relief the bombing was distant, still loud and frightening but not close enough to cause him to leave the house or even go to the cellar. It was obviously a raid on a particular strategic target, probably a factory or industrial complex rather than an indiscriminate attack on the city and its population. In less than an hour it was over and the all-clear sounded.
When he finally went to bed he first opened Sophia’s door to see how she was. She answered his solicitous questions, assuring him she was not afraid of the bombing, although it had kept her awake. She wished him a good night and as an afterthought added, “I hope your meeting was successful?”
He gave her a curt non-committal answer and went to his own room. Sleep eluded him and he was hollow-eyed and irritable when he arose just after six in the morning. He went to the kitchen and made himself some Ersatzkaffee. God it tasted foul after the wonderful brew served to him by Heger. The thought irritated him still further. He made Sophia breakfast in bed and then settled down to wait for his spies.
The two Hitlerjungen arrived on the dot at eight o’clock. He let them in and made them some coffee. They had done a thorough job and Schonewille was most impressed. Emil did most of the talking.
“We were very worried when the air-raid siren sounded, but we were lucky, Sturmbannführer. Everyone left the building and went to the one shelter. Just to make sure there was nobody left inside we went into the building and knocked on every door yelling ‘air-raid, everybody into the shelter’, but nobody answered,” he smiled smugly. “When the all-clear sounded all the people went back to their apartments. There were no visitors and nobody left the building until just before five o’clock. Then two men and one woman left and, as you ordered, we followed them. It was simple. The two men worked at the same factory and clocked on for the morning shift. The woman went to the station where she met her husband, an artillery major home on sick leave. We guessed that because his arm was all bandaged up and he used a stick, he limped very badly.”
“Were there any visitors to the block, people you did not know?” questioned Schonewille.
“Nein, Herr Sturmbannführer. Nobody came to the apartments at all.”
As far as he could be Schonewille was satisfied, though he realised that this did not preclude his fear of being set up. But, if this was happening why … what would be the reason? He was not aware of any enemies within the SS.
The two youths were looking at him questioningly. Finally Wolfgang spoke. “Did we do right, Herr Sturmbannführer?”
To the boys’ delight he was profuse in his thanks. He went to his study and returned with three blocks of chocolate that had been filched from some prisoner-of-war Red Cross parcels.
On being handed these prize delicacies they stammered their thanks. He saw them to the door and answered their salutes. His final order was that they tell no one what had happened.
At nine in the morning he rang Heger at the bank and told him he would join them. To his annoyance Heger did not seem surprised. As he put the receiver back in its cradle he wondered when he would meet the third man.
Chapter Three
6 November 1944
The Seafire was moving to cut off their retreat to safety, turning its white spinner up to meet them.
Major Peter Wenck swore to himself. If he got back to Tromso he would have a word to say to the intelligence officer for he had not warned them that the convoy had contained an aircraft carrier. True it was only an escort carrier, a converted freighter of some 13,000 tons and only able to carry eighteen aircraft. But if some of those eighteen aircraft were Seafires, the naval version of the Spitfire, then any German bomber meeting them was in for trouble.
The distance to the safety of the clouds was perhaps ten kilometres and the Seafire was between them and it. The British aircraft would be able to make at least two passes before they could reach its woolly confines, more than enough time for the Junkers to suffer a mortal blow.
Although the Seafire was a Mark III version, a derivative of the Spitfire Mk Vc and therefore not the most advanced of the famous aircraft, it was still at least forty miles an hour faster than the Junkers 188 and infinitely more nimble.
Wenck’s first decision was to jettison the bomb load. There was absolutely no chance of evading the Seafire with the bombs still on board and it would not help the German war effort if he was killed. He told the bomb aimer to jettison and moments later four 1,000-kilogram anti-shipping bombs left their wing racks and tumbled towards the Barents Sea.
He spoke to his radar operator and the gunner who manned the power-operated turret immediately behind and above him. “Sigi, forget the radar, there’s no chance of going for the convoy. Get on the radio and tell headquarters the convoy has a carrier and then get to the belly gun. Manfred, you had better look lively now. If you don’t know already, that little bit of nasty out there can turn on a Pfennig and he won’t stay in your sights for long. Heaven help us if he gets on our tail.”
He then addressed the navigator. “Rolf, leave your pencils and charts and man your gun. What I just said to Manfred is the same for you. Now, I want you all to talk to one another just like we’ve done before, but only more so. I want to know everything th
at’s happening.” His mind raced as he thought to escape the British fighter. “I’m going to try and take a shot at him as we head for the clouds. I don’t think he will be expecting this and it might give us the breather we need.”
The Junkers armament included a single twenty millimetre cannon firing forward, controlled by the pilot. He flicked off the safety catch of the firing button on the spade control and took a quick look around the sky to make sure there were no other enemy fighters about. The Seafire was about three kilometres away, 1,000 metres below and closing rapidly. I hope you don’t expect this, thought Wenck as he manipulated the pedal controls and turned the control column to his right.
The big German bomber dived at a shallow angle towards the British naval fighter, picking up speed as the pilot activated the boost switch feeding a volatile mixture of water and methanol into the Jumo engines. With both engines giving out their maximum overload horsepower the distance between the two closed in seconds.
Wenck squinted into his gun-sight, turned his aircraft slightly and, as the Seafire approached the outer ring, pressed the gun button. The Junkers shuddered as the MG 151 cannon spewed forth its armour-piercing and tracer shells, but in less than three seconds the Seafire was out of danger with not a shot having landed.
Surprised the British flier might have been, but he was a good pilot and quickly evaded Wenck’s shells by dipping his nose and heading under the Junkers. Unless Wenck wanted to make his dive even steeper so he could continue to bring his gun to bear on the Seafire, there was no way he could continue to be a threat to the fighter. To do so would reduce his chance of reaching the clouds and safety. So he kept on going, for he had gained the breather.
The Seafire was now a little to the German’s left about 500 metres below and as the Junkers sped past it lifted its nose to start a loop and at the same time fired thirty twenty-millimetre cannon shells and over one hundred .303 bullets in a quick deflection shot. This manoeuvre meant that as he reached the top of his climb he would be able to drop his nose and dive after the fleeing Junkers.
Wenck turned the aircraft slightly to port so the Seafire would have to turn even tighter, and then banged the throttles to the end of their gates. It would be a near thing.
Two shells and half-a dozen bullets had already struck the rear of their plane, a testimony of the accuracy of the British pilot.
“Skipper, he’s above us and closing rapidly,” yelled the gunner, turning his turret to meet the threat.
“Fine, fine Manfred. Tell me when you think he’s within range, and start firing the moment you think you can reach him. Try to put him off his aim.” Little chance of that, he thought.
Suddenly he heard the twenty millimetre gun in the turret start to yammer and could hear the cartridge cases spilling into the collection sack.
“He’s shooting, he’s shooting,” yelled the gunner and navigator in unison. The latter also started firing his smaller calibre weapon from the rear of the cockpit, though in reality it was a wasted gesture since the Seafire was still out of range of the thirteen millimetre machine-gun bullets.
Wenck jinked the aircraft slightly, but to no avail. The Junkers staggered from repeated cannon shell strikes and then suddenly the light was cut as they entered the cloud.
Lieber Gott, I hope there are no breaks in the cloud, he prayed as he checked the Junker’s mad dive. The prayer was not answered.
Again the cockpit was bathed in light as they emerged from the cloud, but immediately in front there was another column of white and he turned slightly towards it. Ten seconds later they were again enveloped in its woolly mass.
This happened several times and by the time they emerged into clear air five minutes later they had no idea where they were. More importantly, there was no sign of the Seafire.
Checking his instruments he noted that the starboard engine was running hot and spied a thin stream of grey smoke emitting from under the engine’s cowling flaps.
“Oh shit,” he said. He had already turned the boost off, for the engines were not designed to give an over-boost of power for very long, and now he throttled them back still further.
He monitored the oil and cylinder head temperatures of both Jumos for a few minutes and was relieved to see the gauges hold and not climb any higher. Still, it was a long way home and a flight on only one engine was not something to look forward to.
The altimeter registered 1,000 metres and for a moment he contemplated trying to climb higher. Height was all important at a time like this, but he quickly reasoned against it.
The Junkers 188 was painted with a mirror wave camouflage, wavy pale blue lines over a dark green base. This made the aircraft almost impossible to see from above. If he stayed at this height he would be safe from any fighter overhead.
“Rolf can you give me a course for home yet?”
The navigator answered in the affirmative and gave some instructions. Wenck swung the bomber round by nineteen degrees and headed back almost due south towards the coast of Norway.
They were approximately half-way between Bear Island and their base at Tromso situated in the extreme north of Norway. That meant they were about 240 kilometres from the airfield. Wenck asked the navigator to also work out an alternative course for a closer base, Banak, only about one hundred kilometres from North Cape, the northern most tip of Norway. He wanted an alternative route in case the engine started to give up.
The sky through which the Germans were flying was among the most desolate in the world. Although winter was officially three weeks away the air was just a few degrees above freezing and the sea below was vicious even though the day was relatively calm. A crash-landing and their survival could therefore be measured in minutes. This was compounded because in these northern November climes the light was already very low, creating a hazard for fliers, especially those nursing a crippled plane.
Wenck had been leading a pack of eight bombers to attack an Allied convoy that was skirting the Arctic pack ice just south of Bear Island on its way to the Russian port of Murmansk. He had lost sight of the rest of his squadron because of cloud shortly before the Seafire had stumbled upon them.
Now, free of any immediate danger he wondered how they had faired. He decided against using his radio to find out. Whatever had happened had happened. There was nothing he could do now. If he got back to base he would find out soon enough.
As it transpired the plane gave no further trouble, although by the time he sighted his airfield the starboard engine was running very hot. Still, he landed safely enough and avoiding the mud puddles carefully taxied to the dispersals area. His ground crew were there to greet him and quickly began to make a thorough examination of the damage.
It was with some relief he noticed some of his charges were already back, but it changed to apprehension when he counted two missing. After two hours they still had not returned and he knew there would be eight empty chairs in the mess that night. The telegrams back to the Fatherland would be brief. Missing in action. The reality was there was little chance of them surviving.
The other five crews all had a similar tales to tell. Only one crew had sighted the convoy, but before they could attempt an attack they had been bounced by Seafires. They were lucky to have made it back. Despite their search radar the others had been unable to find the main body of the convoy and had turned away on sighting the enemy fighters. With nightfall just an hour away there was little use in trying another sortie. Weather permitting they would have to wait until tomorrow.
Following the de-briefing Wenck made his way to his hut. His corporal had stoked up the pot belly stove. making the hut warm and inviting. He sat hunched on the edge of his bed for a few minutes rubbing his eyes before turning up the wick on his hurricane lamp and turning to a pile of papers in a wire tray.
After reading the first official missive he tossed it away with a groan and turned instead to two letters on the edge of the small table. The first was from his father who was a Luftwaffe area commander in sout
hern Norway. His parent had little to say, except the usual banalities about health and survival. But, as usual, there was warmth in the letter and Peter Wenck was grateful to have received news about his father. Of his mother he had not heard for more than a year. Vigdis was back in Iceland and had been so since her husband had sent her there early in 1940. Letters through the Red Cross were unreliable to say the least.
The second letter was much more interesting; intriguing in fact. It was a short note from his half-brother. It inquired after his health, apologised for not having written for four years and suggested that when he next came to Germany on leave they should get together.
Hardly likely, he thought. He had more important things to do than visit a man he hardly knew and did not much care for, even if he was his brother.
He then turned back to his papers and after working his way through half the pile came across something that took him totally by surprise. It was an official document stating that he was being flown back to Germany for seven days leave. He returned again to his brother’s letter and wondered whether the two were linked.
It was too much of a coincidence.
Chapter Four
At four in the morning Wenck crawled out of his bed. The wind was shrieking outside and he could hear the rain banging against the tin roof and the single window with its four opaque panes of glass. A stream of ice cold air rushed in under the door, lifting the dust in little whirling eddies and moving the papers on his desk.
Mouthing obscenities he knelt down and folded a newspaper that was lying on the floor and wedged it under the door. The pot-belly was almost out and he used another newspaper and some kindling to re-start the embers before loading it up with timber.
Satisfied that the room would be warm again in half-an-hour he went back to bed, grateful that he did not have stay up and prepare himself for a dawn take-off whenever the light finally appeared in this northern clime. At any rate, if this weather kept up there would be no flying today.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 5
