They argued and planned for another hour. There were still too many loose ends and their frustration level increased as the conversation continued. Eventually, they finished their deliberations and Peter flew back to the Kragero base.
Nobody bothered him, although the station commander stuck his head around the door of his sleeping quarters and enquired whether he wanted anything. The young pilot, deep in thought irritably waved him away. An almost sleepless night followed, but in the dead hours either side of four o’clock his jumbled thoughts began to find solutions. One idea was the key. If properly handled and with luck on their side, it would considerably reduce the risks of their dangerous venture.
In order to solidify his ideas and because his addled brain was beginning to find the strain of coherent thought too taxing, he got up and, wrapping his flying jacket around his shoulders to ward off the late autumn chill, began to put his thoughts down on paper.
Half-an-hour later, with the plan approved in his own mind and a logical strategy locked in his brain, he took the five sheets of roughly-scrawled paper and set them on fire. As he watched the flames in the waste paper tin consume the evidence he felt a growing sense of pride and excitement.
It was the same feeling he had experienced on the Russian Front almost two years before when he had planned the long-range bombing raids and again in September the same year when he was part of the team that schemed and organised the flight to New York.
Chapter Ten
3 December 1944
The Focke Wulf FW190 bounced twice over the uneven concrete and then, as its speed lessened, dropped its tail wheel onto the ground.
Swinging the fighter from side-to-side so he could see around the bulk of the huge BMW 801 radial engine, he cautiously swung off the runway. He taxied down a short perimeter track and was then guided across a strip of grass to a small blast pen constructed of sandbags reinforced with pine logs and rammed earth.
Two ground crew immediately began re-fuelling the fighter while a third helped him slide back the canopy and assisted him down the wing onto the ground. With a curt Dankeschön he returned their salute and began the 150-metre walk to the nearest buildings.
Nearby he could see some more revetments, though these were much larger than the one that now housed his fighter. Curious, he diverted his course slightly and strode over to the nearest pen, a massive affair similarly constructed, but with the added protection of camouflage netting to hide its contents from prying eyes in the air.
Fifteen metres away he stopped, his excitement mounting. Inside its protective walls was a large four-engined aircraft. This was what he had come for.
A corporal in the uniform of the Luftwaffe ground corps stepped out of the shadows and approached. Scarcely three metres away he halted. Wenck saw that he held the regulation Mauser Gewehr 98 across his chest and noticed his right forefinger was curled around the rifle’s trigger.
The soldier eyed Wenck up and down for a moment, noting the airman’s rank and the decoration at his throat. Then he said quietly, “I am sorry, Herr Oberleutnant. You cannot be here without a pass, es ist verboten.”
Wenck nodded his head slowly and walked away. Security was certainly tight. He was not sure whether this was a good or bad omen.
The nearest building was an unprepossessing concrete structure, built next to what had once been a large farmhouse. Surrounding both in a large semi-circle were several more buildings, some wood and some made of corrugated tin. On the far side were half-a-dozen more large revetments. All seemed quiet.
A figure appeared at the door of the concrete building and walked with a purposeful stride towards Wenck. On reaching him, the man saluted and said by way of introduction, “Raetzer, Sir. Kapitan Nils Raetzer. We were expecting you, Herr Oberleutnant.”
He motioned Wenck inside the building and led him through what appeared to be an operations room. It was empty except for a dozen chairs and a number of map boards leaning on trestles. All were covered in black cloth. At the far end was an open door. Passing through, Wenck was confronted by a Luftwaffe major with the same Knight’s Cross hanging from his throat.
“Oberleutnant Wenck, I presume? Welcome to Finow. I am Major Peter Stahl. I command this Staffel.” He motioned to the captain. “You can go, Nils. Now, Oberleutnant, how can I help you?”
Wenck spoke succinctly and with authority. This would have to be handled very carefully. It also helped that he outranked Stahl. “What I am about to say is top secret, Stahl.”
The other nodded with a gentle shake of his head. “Everything here is top secret, Sir. One more secret won’t make the slightest difference to me.”
Wenck smiled inwardly, but he kept his voice and demeanour cold. “I am requisitioning one of your aircraft … at least I will be after I have familiarised myself with its handling characteristics.”
Stahl shrugged his shoulders. He did not seem surprised. Nor did he seem to care. He held out his left hand. “Your orders.”
Wenck took out an envelope from his breast pocket and carefully extracted the document. “They are not specific, Major. However, they are all I need and all you need to provide me with assistance.”
Stahl looked at the signature at the bottom and then looked into Wenck’s eyes. “This is somewhat irregular, Sir.” The voice was questioning, probing. “I may have to check this out with headquarters. The Reichsmarschall has never been involved in our operations before and these planes are very valuable.”
Wenck narrowed his eyes and his voice took on a hard edge. “Major, you will obey my orders to the letter. If it is further authority you need, here is something I’m sure will convince you.” He extracted a second document from another envelope and held it in front of Stahl’s face.
The major noted the letter’s origins and scanned its contents until his eyes came to the signature. His features stiffened and he swallowed. His whole demeanour changed and he stammered slightly. “Of course, Sir. I will do whatever you wish.”
“Fine, fine,” acknowledged Wenck, allowing a frosty smile to appear on his lips. “Now, listen and listen carefully. If there are any enquiries as to what we are doing, you are to say nothing. But you must inform me immediately as to who has been asking questions. I will give you a radio frequency and a call sign later. To your staff you can just say that the aircraft has been transferred to another squadron for a special operation.”
Stahl nodded, said he understood and then asked what sort of aircraft he wanted. Wenck told him and without any hesitation the major led him out of the building to the revetment where he had stopped only ten minutes before.
This time the corporal stayed clear.
The two airmen walked over to the revetment and entered through a small gap at the rear of the structure. Once inside Wenck reached up and gripped the leading edge of one rear wing. He had never seen one up close, although he had once seen several dozen as they flew in a box formation across Belgium on their way to northern Germany.
It was a B17, Boeing’s big four-engined bomber which, together with the B24 Liberator and the British four-engined heavy bombers, was laying waste to much of Germany.
“It is a Boeing B17F, one of the last of that model,” said Stahl. “It is one of the best we have. It was captured in October last year. The pilot managed to land in a large field in Denmark after one of its engines was damaged and failed. The undercarriage was also damaged in the forced landing, but our engineers had enough spare parts on hand to repair it. Unfortunately, there were no immediate spares on hand for the damaged engine.
Wenck moved slowly around the American bomber as Stahl went on with its history.
“At any rate the biggest problem was getting it into the air again from such a small field on only three engines. So, it was completely stripped of its armour and armament and then successfully flown to Rechlin for flight testing. From there it was transferred to 2. Staffel of the Versuchsverband Oberbefehlshaber to help in training our fighter pilots on how to attack American bombe
r formations.” He paused and then continued. “After a complete re-fit, it joined this Staffel only two weeks ago.”
Wenck was now at the back of the pen staring up at the aircraft’s nose. Underneath one of the navigator’s windows in line with the wing root was a painting of a semi naked woman. Wenck laughed and pointed to the voluptuous figure. Stahl’s lips barely moved. He had seen it often enough. The title in front of the painting was still in English. The B17 was called Miss Nonalee Two.
“What’s she like, Major?”
“As I have already said, Sir, she is fine. In fact she is one of our best aircraft. Since the re-fit she’s never been damaged and she has already served us well,” he said.
“Right, Major. Then I’ll take her.”
After his sleepless night fifteen days earlier Wenck had again flown to Halden to talk to his father. It was an important conversation. When it ended five hours later they had, for the first time, set the groundwork for a coherent scheme on which they could build a strategy to escape from Germany.
Peter Wenck’s plans were based on two premises. Firstly they had to keep the elder Wenck’s role secret from Grauwitz and secondly, they had to find a suitable aircraft able to fly them unhindered over a long distance.
“Father, I do not think the Junkers is the right aircraft,” said Peter.
Wenck senior listened silently as his son went on to explain his theory.
“We agree that the major ingredients are an aircraft with sufficient range and of a sufficient size to fly a long distance with at least three people, plus a reasonable pay load. There is no doubt the 390 fits the bill. However, I do not think it, or any other German aircraft for that matter, is suited for the task …”
“What do we do then?” broke in his father with a perplexed frown and a wave of his hand. “Use a British aircraft?”
“Close, Father, close. We use an American one.” General Wenck stared at his son incredulously. “That’s right, we use an American plane. A B17.”
“Ha ha ha. I suppose we just ask Eisenhower.”
Peter Wenck was enjoying himself. He shook his head and grinned. “Nein, we already have B17s. In fact I believe the Luftwaffe has several of them, as well as most other Allied aircraft.”
Peter explained how after the reconnaissance mission to New York he had flown the 390 to an airfield in northern Germany for some radar tests. The base was a top secret establishment and housed many of the Reich’s latest aircraft.
“You would not believe what I saw there, Father. All manner of aircraft. Some of which still amazes me. Anyway, one day last year I saw a Boeing B17 land. I was intrigued because, although it was painted in German markings, it had no yellow paintwork on its under-surfaces. In other words, it was not being used for training or combat training purposes.”
He went on to explain that on the same evening the American bomber took off shortly after dusk and returned eleven hours later. At all times security around the aircraft was very tight and its crew were housed in a separate billet away from the main body of the airfield.
“Later on, after I had been there for a week or so, I found out more about what was going on. One evening after a few schnapps, one of the senior officers let slip what the B17 and its crew were up to. Himmel, it’s quite a story.”
The young pilot dropped his voice conspiratorially. “Apparently, there is a special squadron in existence called Kampfgeschwader 200. They have all manner of allied aircraft: several B17s, B24 Liberators, British bombers as well as a large range of fighters. In fact just about one of every type of combat aircraft flown by the Americans and British.”
He explained how the B17s were mainly used for reconnaissance and intelligence work and operated far behind enemy lines, often wearing their original insignias and markings. Although he had not been told the precise nature of their missions, Peter Wenck told his father he believed that KG200 was mainly being used to drop or land agents in Russia and North Africa.
“Himmel, Father. The officer even told me how they had flown to West Africa and back.”
Returning to the matter at hand, they discussed the relative merits of using the American aircraft as against the Junkers or another Luftwaffe machine.
Peter Wenck said he thought their biggest problem would come when they left the confines of German air space. Aircraft recognition was widespread and wherever they ultimately landed a German bomber would be immediately recognised. Then there was the problem of enemy fighters. There was more chance of being intercepted by Allied fighters than German ones.
The general commented, “This is all well and good, but how can we commandeer a B17?”
Wenck nodded his head and said smugly, waggling his finger at the same time, “Has your son inherited brains, or has your son inherited brains? Friedrich told me Grauwitz was expecting to fly the money out of Germany. Therefore, either he has an aircraft lined up, or at least has the authority to get one. I hope it is the latter.”
“What I propose is this. We contact Friedrich and tell him to ask Herr Grauwitz for some sort of authority to allow me to get hold of a big plane. We don’t let either Friedrich or Grauwitz know about Göring’s letter, we just keep it up our sleeve. If they ask what type of plane, I’ll tell them about the 390. I mean, that would be perfectly logical, wouldn’t it?”
Intrigued, his father just nodded his head.
The younger man paused for a moment, collected his thoughts and then hurried on. “As planned we use Göring’s letter to get hold of the Junkers 390. Whatever authorisation Grauwitz gains we use to get hold of one of KG200’s B17s.”
His father broke in. “Why do we need Grauwitz’s letter or authorisation?”
“A number of reasons, Father. We want to keep your name out of Grauwitz’s earshot if possible. Similarly, it was your idea for Göring’s letter to be kept secret from both my brother and the SS Gruppenführer. You have made sure my transfer was to the Kragero base while you are stationed here at Halden. Also, my transfer was signed by the commander of the Norwegian bomber fleet. Therefore, if somebody digs very deeply you are not involved at all and this gives us an ace or two up our sleeve.”
He gave a conspiratorial grin and went on. “My brother told me he did not trust Grauwitz and consequently he would not mention your being involved. I think he’s telling the truth, but just to be sure, we tell him no more than is necessary. If he asks, we appear vague, or say that things are still being worked out.”
He asked whether his father agreed. The other nodded.
“Now, back to the bases, and this is important. We station the Junkers at Kragero while the B17 can be stationed secretly here at Halden. There is even a hangar here and it is large enough to hide it from prying eyes.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Finally, if we want to get our hands on a B17 we might need greater powers of persuasion than that provided by the Reichsmarschall’s letter. Grauwitz might just be able to provide that. If not, we will have to chance it with Göring’s letter.”
He leant back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, grinning in satisfaction. “Well, Herr General, Father dear. What do you think, eh?”
Chapter Eleven
30 November 1944
Brigadeführer Emil Grauwitz paced up and down the small anteroom. After a few minutes of this aimless and restricted form of exercise, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the small portrait of the Führer hanging on the wall opposite. Sighing, he transferred his gaze to his feet and for the second time in as many minutes became irritated at the smudge of mud on his otherwise immaculate left boot.
Grauwitz was not normally nervous. The fact that he was made him even more irritable, especially since the occupant of the next room was beneath his contempt. Unfortunately, that person was undoubtedly the most powerful person in the Reich, bar none.
There came the sound of a door opening and Grauwitz looked up.
A voice said: “The Reichsführer will see you now.”
He followed
the underling down a short passageway and knocked on a solid oak panel door. A muffled voice said, “Kommen Sie herein.” They entered into a largish room and the door was shut behind him. He stepped forward and willed himself to appear calm.
The figure behind the desk was neatly writing something at the bottom of a document. For a moment he did not look up and when he did so the light from his desk lamp glinted on his owl like glasses.
Heinrich Himmler did not smile. There was no expression on his face. There was a chair by the desk, but Himmler made no suggestion that he be seated. He just asked what he wanted.
Grauwitz started with a bang. “Reichsführer, your orders are not being followed and I …”
“Orders, what orders?” interrupted Himmler, his voice rising slightly and his eyes squinting through his glasses in concentration.
Grauwitz’s mind was racing. Now that he was committed he had to go on. Yet he knew he must be careful. The man in front of him might be small in stature, but he was powerful, utterly ruthless and he was no fool. Second man in the Reich he might be, but he had amassed an awesome degree of power.
After the abortive attempt on his life four months ago, Hitler had turned more and more to his loyal lieutenant. The Führer had nobody else to turn to. He did not trust the Wehrmacht generals any more, the navy had proved itself ineffective, while his faithful paladin Göring could not be relied upon to do anything properly.
With the army in disgrace, the Reichsführer’s Waffen SS grew in size and importance as more and more equipment and men were diverted to its ranks. Now it numbered some thirty-eight divisions with three-quarters of these at full strength and numbering some of the most powerful fighting units left to the Reich.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 12
