Three hours later his adjutant opened the door and let the full force of the cold air in as he stumbled on the step and came inside.
“Shit, it’s cold. God, I hate this weather,” he said setting down a thermos on the table and taking off his overcoat and balaclava.
Wenck did not stir. The thought of getting out of his snug cocoon did not excite him at all, even though the room was now quite warm courtesy of the pot-belly. The other man put his hands on the form under the mountain of blankets and shook it vigorously. It immediately changed shape and a muffled voice ordered him to go away. The intruder persisted.
“Come on Peter, rise and shine. It’s a lovely day outside. It’s already three degrees above freezing and the met boys have promised that the temperature will soar upwards by another two degrees at least. Groβer Gott, we might even be able to take our shirts off and get brown.”
“More likely windburn and frostbite,” retorted Wenck cautiously, poking has head out from under the blankets like a seal surveying the terrain from the safety of an ice hole.
The other man stepped back and laughed. “Come on Peter, I have brought some coffee for you and I have some good news.”
“What is it?”
“No, I won’t tell you until you get up … So come on, shake a leg.”
“All right, all right. But, I tell you what Leo, it had better be good,” grumbled Wenck, throwing back the bedclothes and gingerly placing his be-socked feet onto the floor.
Captain Leo Swabisch busied himself with pouring steaming black coffee into a mug and adding a generous measure of sugar from a paper bag, which he returned to his pocket.
Wenck had made him his adjutant chiefly because of his ability to scrounge. The coffee and sugar were perfect examples. The former was real coffee and almost impossible to obtain and the latter also real and strictly rationed. Yet Swabisch had managed to obtain both in some quantity through the black market the last time he had visited Oslo. His scrounging prowess was not only limited to foodstuffs and other perishables. He also had a winning way with women.
The mechanics were equally impressed with his ability to barter, swap, procure and even steal hard to obtain parts for their much abused aircraft.
He was a popular officer, his rank partially a reward for this popularity and his scrounging abilities. But, a captain was as far up the ladder as he would go. Though brave, his flying abilities were barely average and his leadership qualities were severely stretched at his current rank. Nevertheless, his attributes made him an ideal adjutant and with Wenck making all the hard decisions Swabisch was proving to be an admirable helper. After getting partially dressed and with both hands clasped around a warm mug, Wenck was at last willing to face the day
“Now Leo, what is this news? Has the Führer decided he is not infallible and we are going to give in or has he promised yet another terror weapon with which to win the war?”
Swabisch grinned at this sacrilege. “Now, now Major,” he said with mock severity. “You mustn’t say those things. It could reach the ears of Burgdoff.”
Wenck sighed and grunted in derision. Hans Burgdoff was one of their senior pilots, an able zealot who regarded Hitler as God. “There has to be one in every squadron doesn’t there Leo?” said Wenck with a sigh. “Now for God’s sake, tell me the good news.”
“Young Hans Ulrich and his crew are safe. They crash-landed on a small island just off the coast. He was trying to make Banak but the engines gave up the ghost. It also seems that the plane is salvageable.”
“This is good news, Leo. Check up on his Junkers, although I doubt we have either the resources or the time to try and get it back. Any news of the other crew?” Swabisch shook his head. “Oh well, getting Ulrich and his lot back is a bonus. What’s the weather forecast like?” Swabisch took out a torn piece of paper from his pocket and read from the scrawled notes.
“Gale force winds, forty to fifty knots, raining and ten-tenths cloud. But, and it is a big but, the met boys predict that it might weaken sufficiently to allow us another crack at the convoy later this afternoon.”
Wenck was not impressed. He told his friend to get a status report ready by 0900 hours and to schedule a squadron meeting that should include all flight leaders, the head mechanic, chief armourer, the meteorological officer and a naval representative from the nearby base.
“You know Leo, it is amazing how much more co-operative the navy is these days now that they depend on us even more to protect that useless fat bitch out there.” He was referring to the battleship Tirpitz, which was moored gravely wounded only a few kilometres away.
Swabisch nodded his head, his face losing its sunny disposition for a moment. “Do you think the Engländer are going to have another go at the old girl again?” He was a romantic at heart and it hurt him to see the once proud and beautiful capital ship in such dire straits.
“Teufel, Leo. Use what the devil gave you. They have tried so many times now and you know what they’re like. They’re a bloody tenacious race. It takes them a while to become angry, but when they do they’re more stubborn than us. You can bet a million Reichsmarks to Göring’s medals they’ll be back to finish the job.” His adjutant sighed and nodded his head.
Both knew the Tirpitz’s days were numbered. The British had feared the battleship almost as much as her sister ship the Bismark and had dubbed her the Lone Queen of the North.
The Tirpitz had spent most of the war based in northern Norway and although she had rarely left her anchorage, her very presence was a threat to the Allied convoys heading for Murmansk and Archangel. Put simply, the Allies (mainly the British) had to guard most of the Russian convoys with battleships and cruisers or at least ensure a task force containing these ships was nearby just to make sure the Tirpitz never tried anything nasty.
By her very presence the German ship was tying down many of the Royal Navy’s heavy units, ships that were sorely needed elsewhere. Consequently, through the auspices of the Fleet Air Arm they made repeated attempts to sink or at least cripple the Lone Queen. In this they were only partially successful. It was not until the RAF stepped into the act and sent a force of Lancasters from No.9 and the 617 Dambuster squadrons to Russia that they accomplished their task.
The Tirpitz had been based at Altenfjord, out of the reach of land-based British bombers. So the Lancasters were sent to Yagodnik near Archangel in northern Russia to await good weather. On 15 September 1944, twenty-eight Lancasters left Yagodnik for their first strike. Each was armed with the monster 12,000 pound armour piercing bomb known as the Tallboy. They reached her just as the smokescreen hid her from view. The Tirpitz survived, but only just. Wenck described her condition.
“I have been told, not officially of course, she is now no longer seaworthy and with her top speed down to a mere eight knots any strike against an allied convoy in the wild Barents Sea is out of the question. At any rate High Command still believes the Allies could make a seaborne landing in northern Norway and with the Russian forces now close by, that’s why they decided to move her further southward and use her as a floating fortress.”
Consequently, the Tirpitz limped 320 kilometres south and was anchored just off Haakoy Island, five kilometres from Tromso. This was a Godsend to the British for the ship was now just within range of its Lancaster bases in Scotland. On 29 October the Lancasters once again tried to sink the Tirpitz, but bad visibility spoiled their attack and only one near miss was recorded. Immediately, the Germans moved two squadrons of fighters to the nearby airfield of Bardufoss where Wenck was stationed.
At precisely 0900 hours Wenck met with his flight leaders and the other personnel he had requested. The naval representative arrived late, but at least he was there.
The first questions were directed to the meteorological officer. He was a small man with a receding hairline above a high sloping forehead. He was out of his depth in such rambunctious company and had the annoying habit of always hedging his bets whenever he was asked to predict the weather
. This earned him the nickname of Vielleicht, or Maybe.
When asked what the forecast for the next twenty-four hours was, he prevaricated. “The weather is being affected by a big cold front and we can expect forty-five-to-fifty-knot gale force winds for most of today. Cloud cover should be up to ten-tenths at altitude and dropping to 1,000 metres or less when the winds abate. There will also be some rain. Flying is out of the question.” He paused for a moment and everybody waited expectantly.
“Maybe the cloud will lift a little and the rain will stop about …”
The rest was drowned out by a roar, followed by much hilarity.
“Good old Vielleicht …”, “Make us guess why don’t you …”, “In other words you don’t know…”
The naval officer, on the other hand, was more precise and certain in what he had to say. He warned that unless another attack was made on the convoy before nightfall it would be too late as the ships were already within range of Russian fighters and would reach the Kola Inlet by nightfall. From there it was just a short distance to Murmansk.
Wenck was not impressed. “I tell you this, comrade, you can wish as much as you like. If the weather does not improve significantly there is no way I’m taking my men up in this muck. We probably would not be able to take off anyway, and as for finding the convoy … well you can forget it.” Wenck shook his head with finality.
At any rate, the report on the serviceability of the aircraft was giving him cause for concern and there was some doubt whether they could actually field a strikeforce of sufficient strength. With the loss of two Junkers the day before and Wenck’s damaged plane not yet repaired, the squadron was down to five operational aircraft. There were a similar number of Heinkel He 111s available, but nobody wanted to fly these outmoded and superseded models.
The rest of the morning was spent with paperwork or resting in the mess reading dog-eared copies of Signal.
Late into the afternoon the wind abated sufficiently for Wenck to take off and make a short flight to gauge the weather conditions. It was useless. The cloud cover was absolute with rain squalls and visibility down to nothing. After half-an-hour he called it off and returned to Bardufoss.
In the evening, the missing crew arrived making it a good excuse for a party, a drunken affair livened by the arrival of half-a-dozen female members of the Kriegsmarine. Outnumbered at least five-to-one the ladies received an overwhelming degree of attention.
The next morning the weather had abated somewhat and the squadron was ordered to start flying standing patrols to the east and out to sea just in case there were any more air attacks on the Tirpitz. This move was necessary since the storm had damaged the radar station. However, Wenck did not take part.
A coded message was received in the early hours of the morning ordering him to immediately fly to Narvik where he would be picked up by another plane and flown to Oslo. From there he would be transferred to a third aircraft and flown to Germany.
Perplexed, he did what he had been ordered, though a sense of foreboding began to gnaw away at his thoughts. Similar coded messages had been a feature of his career in the past and each one had brought about difficult missions coupled with extremes of danger. He reasoned that any such mission, at this stage of the war would be suicidal and he was now too war-weary and tired to contemplate such an effort. It was a dour and irritable man who left for Narvik at 0800 hours.
From there he boarded a Heinkel He 111, which had been converted to a military transport. They re-fuelled at Trondheim and reached the Norwegian capital after a six-and-a-half hour journey. He was due to board the other plane almost immediately but it had developed engine trouble, so he was told to report back at seven o’clock the following morning.
Unsure of where to go and with no accommodation arranged, he stood uncertainly for a moment to collect himself. A thought struck him and almost on a whim he went to an administration block and enquired as to the whereabouts of his father. He was in luck. Wenck Senior was now stationed at a military airbase some fifteen kilometres away. A phone call followed and his father promised to dispatch a staff car, which could pick him up within the hour. As it transpired it was almost two hours, but the thought of seeing his parent again after almost a year nullified his annoyance at the extra wait.
“My boy, it is wonderful to see you,” said the general when they met, placing his hands on the younger man’s shoulders and then hugging him in a most un-military way. They stepped apart and looked at one another with affection. No strict Prussian reserve and formality here. The affectionate Vigdis had banished such stiffness long since. At any rate, father and son were very close and it showed.
“Hello Father, you look well. Keeping out of trouble?”
“I try Peter, God knows I try. But, you know how it is. To get ahead and stay out of trouble these days one needs to be a real arschlecker and I still refuse to say yes when I know it should be no, or vice versa.”
His father led him through a series of corridors returning the salutes of half-a-dozen-or-so flunkies as he strode to his destination. At the door of his office he ordered his secretary to make sure they were not disturbed and then ushered his son inside. Motioning him to sit down he crossed to a large and very ornate oak sideboard and poured a generous helping of a clear liquid into two large crystal tumblers.
“Vodka my boy. I now know why the Russians fight so well. I’m told their troops are given liberal quantities of this rocket fuel before they’re sent against our boys. Quite a kick eh?”
He downed a large measure, breathed deeply and rubbed his stomach. Looking at his son, he paused for a moment and then said soberly, “You look tired Peter. What’s it been like up north?”
Wenck Junior described the conditions in half-a-dozen earthy and pithy sentences and then downed another mouthful from the tumbler. He studied his father.
Generalmajor Helmuth Wenck had just turned fifty-seven, but the years had been more than kind. Peter scrutinised his father’s face and for the first time realised that if he looked after his health he would weather the years just as well and become a mirror image of his parent. The older man could have passed for forty-five. His hair was still thick and blonde with only a hint of silver. The eyes were clear, the skin tanned and healthy, the bearing straight and the movements firm and decisive.
“Well, Father, as for you though, you don’t look at all tired.”
“No, not now, but I was in Finland until they capitulated early in September and this was a very rough period. I was buggered when it was over.” He paused for a moment’s reflection and then went on. “When I got back they gave me three weeks leave and instead of going back to Germany I went up to Bergen and stayed with a German woman who has a house on the coast there … No, no it wasn’t like that at all,” he said hurriedly at his son’s raised eyebrows. “She is elderly, about sixty or so (Peter thought this funny considering his father’s age, but he did not say anything). Ugly as sin, though a lovely person. She was a friend of the family and married a Norwegian businessman just before the last war. Anyway, she has a house right on the sea and I stayed there and slept and fished and slept.”
He laughed. “Did me a world of good. And as to your dirty thoughts a few seconds ago, the answer is no. I have been faithful to your mother since I last saw her four years ago. I cannot believe it myself, but there it is. I have been like a Jesuit.” He paused, closed his eyes and then spoke wistfully. “By Jesus, I miss her.” He raised his voice an octave or two and went on vehemently. “I tell you, Peter, when this stupid war is over I am going to leave Europe. I am going to take your mother and go somewhere warm and far away. Maybe back to America, I do not know. But, I tell you this, I am not living in Germany again unless there is no alternative.” His son said nothing. He was not surprised, though his father’s bitterness was more pronounced than usual.
“Well my boy, what brings you here?”
Peter Wenck spoke briefly of his orders and then added, “I’m worried, Father. The orders were
in code and marked secret. That can only mean trouble, something big and I have not the faintest idea what it’s all about. There is something else that is strange. It may be a coincidence, but I also received a short letter from Friedrich suggesting we meet when I next returned to Germany.”
Helmuth Wenck looked shocked. “You might be right, it certainly smells to me … and from what I know of your brother anything to do with him is schlecht … schlecht, schlecht, schlecht.” He shook his head, more in sorrow than annoyance. “When did you see him last?” The younger man thought for a moment.
“Around late 1940. Yes, December 1940, when I was home on leave. We had a short meeting. It was at my instigation, but it was not a success. You know what he is like,” he went on. “What about you?”
“Oh some time in late 1942. His mother was killed during the first of the big raids, on Hamburg. You remember, I wrote to you? I thought it right to see him. After all, she was my first wife even though she was a silly, shrewish bitch. Strangely, though, he was quite reasonable. I think he was touched by my coming to see him. At any rate for the first time I was quite impressed with him. He had won an Iron Cross second class for his part in some skirmish in Russia and by all accounts thoroughly deserved the medal. And I told him so.
“Still, he is in the SS and you know how I feel about those psychopaths. When I was in Germany again last … oh, late in August last year, I tried to see him again. He was then with the administrative arm of the SS. Economic section I seem to recall, something to do with the concentration camps. On learning that I tried no further. I had been hearing some pretty ghastly things about those camps and God help us Germans if they’re true.” Peter asked what he had meant. “I’m not sure, but I’ve been told that we are slaughtering thousands of people, Jews mainly.”
“Oh come now, Father. I grant you these camps are probably not nice, but …” He got no further.
His father broke in angrily. “Teufel, Peter. You cannot be that naïve. You were in Russia. Surely you heard about what went on there?” He paused for a moment and then continued vehemently. “We are led by a madman, a common little guttersnipe, surrounded by common little guttersnipes. Have you met Himmler or Goebbels, eh? No? Let me tell you, in the old days they would not have been allowed in a decent club let alone been given the sort of power that we’ve let them amass. Even Göring, my old comrade Göring, is now, to use a British expression, as mad as a March hare!
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 6
