Peter shifted his gaze and peered at his wristwatch. The luminous dial told him it was ten minutes after midnight. Barely half-an-hour had elapsed since they had landed and not more than a dozen words had been spoken between them and their guide.
It had been relatively easy to get to the Channel Islands. Helmuth Wenck had sent a coded message to Hüffmeier and von Schmettow informing them of their arrival on the night of the fifteenth and impressing on them the need for total secrecy. To reinforce his message he included a reference to the Reichsführer.
The Messerschmitt 410 Hornisse was one of a handful based in southern Norway for night defence and the Wencks had chosen it as their mount because not only was it fast and had a reasonable range, but it was equipped with an efficient radar. The last thing they wanted in any flight to the Channel Islands was to blunder into a bomber stream of British heavies on their way to unload their cargoes on the Reich. Not that the bombers would prove a hindrance. It was the accompanying deadly Mosquito night fighters with their sophisticated radar, heavy armament and good turn of speed that could cause a problem.
They had left Kragero shortly after eight in the evening, heading south-south-west over the North Sea. A direct route was out of the question. It would have quite literally taken them over London and south eastern England, a move which at that time was quite suicidal. The British defences were such that few German aircraft were able to penetrate the air space of the United Kingdom and survive. Therefore, they headed directly down the slot of the English Channel, travelling fast and low. The former equated to a maximum cruising speed of 500 kilometres per hour and the latter, a height varying between only 300 and 1,000 metres. The height was not good for fuel consumption but they had no choice.
Eighty kilometres north of Dieppe they turned thirty-eight degrees to starboard on a heading, which took them over the Cherbourg Peninsula and onto Guernsey. The airport was in the south of the island, six kilometres from the main town St Peter Port and relatively easy to find. The flight had taken just over three hours.
The Austin backfired again. This time the naval officer turned his eyes from the road and said out of the corner of his mouth, “I am sorry, Herr General, but we do not have much petrol left on the islands, and what there is, is of poor quality. Consequently, what few vehicles we have run a little roughly.”
There were no lights visible as they negotiated the narrow roads. Even when they began to travel down the relatively wide promenades of the town itself, no lights or people were to be seen. During the whole trip they had passed through only one road block and the two soldiers manning the upright pole merely waved them on.
They passed the Gaumont Palace, the only picture theatre in St Peter Port. It was decorated with a large portrait of Hitler over the entrance. A few seconds later they stopped with a squeal of badly-worn brakes and were led inside a large stone building. There was no waiting, no formalities. They were simply ushered into a room containing two people. Both were instantly recognisable by the photographs the Wencks had been shown by Meunier. There was some saluting (mainly by Peter Wenck who was the junior officer present) and then von Schmnettow came over, extending his hand to Helmuth Wenck.
“Herr General Wenck, it is a pleasure to see you again. How long has it been? Seven, eight years?”
The air force general shook his head and said he did not know. At the same time he shifted his gaze to the other man who stood impassively in the corner of the room two or three metres away. “Vice Admiral Hüffmeier. I am pleased to meet you.”
Hüffmeier’s face broke into a shallow smile. In the dim light Helmuth Wenck could see that unlike von Schmettow the naval officer had not shaved and his burly features were darkened by a dozen hours growth.
“Tea, coffee?” asked von Schmettow. “The former is very good as befits this outpost of the British Empire and we still have some quantities left. The coffee on the other hand is the vilest ersatz concoction and I would not recommend it.”
Helmuth Wenck and his son both requested the tea.
The island’s commanding officer pressed a button and a uniformed lieutenant entered, took the order and left without a word.
Von Schmettow waved them to some chairs and came quickly to the point. “Well, gentlemen. What is this all about? You have the admiral and I very intrigued.”
Helmuth Wenck chose his words carefully. He wanted to give the impression their mission had the highest possible clearance. Von Schmettow was a spent force and while it was obvious he was not a Nazi, he was equally a member of the old school and would not condone what the Wencks were planning. Hüffmeier, on the other hand, would probably have them arrested and shot as traitors.
“What I am about to say is top secret. It comes from the highest quarters. However, I must warn you of two things. One, I am limited in what I am allowed to tell you and two – you must not breathe a word of this to anybody. It must not be discussed. Do you understand?”
Von Schmettow looked a trifle bored, but the naval officer was quite patently intrigued. He nodded his head in enthusiasm. Helmuth Wenck went on. “My son Peter is a specialist on long-range missions. His success and bravery can be gauged by the decoration at his throat. You may have read about his exploits in Russia. What you will not have read, but may know about, is that he has actually piloted one of our secret long-range bombers to New York and back.”
Both von Schmettow and Hüffmeier looked across at Peter Wenck approvingly.
“Well now, this is what I am allowed to tell you. We are planning a very special raid. A long-range mission, which will shake the Allies. As the Führer has said so often, all is not lost. We have new and even more wonderful V weapons with which to strike back and all we need is time. Our mission will give us that time.” He paused for effect and went on. “All I can tell you is that we need these islands, or rather one of your aerodromes as a temporary base – a staging post, from which to re-fuel. We have a special aircraft being converted at the moment in readiness for the mission.”
“What authorisation do you have?”
It was von Schmettow who spoke. Hüffmeier on the other hand was smiling broadly and rubbing his hands together.
Helmuth opened his briefcase and extracted the two envelopes. “I have two letters, gentlemen. They are open-ended, yet very specific. Their authors are Reichsmarschall Göring and the Reichsführer.”
Helmuth Wenck offered the two envelopes. Von Schmettow shook his head and waved his hand. Hüffmeier on the other hand took the envelopes and asked which one was Himmler’s. On being shown, he extracted the letter and scanned its contents. He did not bother to open the other. There was no doubt whose missive he regarded as the most important.
The vice admiral asked what it was that they required.
Peter Wenck spoke for the first time. “How much aviation gasoline do you have stored here?”
“Almost none, Colonel. We have no aircraft and we are lucky to receive one flight a month from the Fatherland,” said Hüffmeier.
The airmen half expected this. The chronic shortage of petrol was slowly strangling Germany and it had been too much to hope there would be sufficient stocks on the islands to meet their needs. As usual, they had made a contingency plan.
Helmuth Wenck explained how they would contact them within a week to arrange the transfer of sufficient stocks of fuel to Guernsey. They were momentarily interrupted by the officer with the tea. There was a studied silence as the cups were passed round and the liquid poured.
When the man had left, von Schmettow asked some specific questions that the elder Wenck parried. Hüffmeier, on the other hand, was duly impressed and obviously willing to help in any way possible. Finally, von Schmettow rose from his chair and again shook hands with the two fliers.
“Well, mein Herren, I must bid you adieu. I have to get some sleep since I have a busy day tomorrow. No doubt my comrade here will want to talk some more,” he said with a slight touch of condescending irony.
They all rose and salu
ted, with the vice admiral extending his right arm in the Fascist salute. “Heil Hitler.”
Von Schmettow half-raised his hand, but said nothing. The door closed behind him.
They began to ply Hüffmeier with questions. Was there a dump that could safely store large quantities of fuel? Were the containers clean and moisture-free? Were there sufficient pumps on hand and did they operate? Finally, how often did Allied aircraft fly over the island and did they ever attack?
The answers to the initial questions were all in the affirmative. To the remaining two Hüffmeier explained that Allied aircraft were infrequent and generally covered only the two principal towns and their ports. “We still have several naval craft which they keep an eye on,” he said. He paused for a moment and then blurted out, “And well they might. I intend to use them for my own little raid,” he said looking intensely at the Wencks.
Helmuth Wenck groaned inwardly. “I hope this will not endanger our mission,” he said severely.
The other shook his head vigorously and denied the possibility.
The air force general did not believe him. He knew the ex-sailor was desperately trying to seek favour with his superiors and had already tried one raid on the coast. He had no doubt others were being planned.
The danger was that, in doing so, he might raise the wrath of the Americans who might mount an air-raid that could damage the airfields on Guernsey or Jersey and possibly hinder their escape plan.
He was tempted to pressure Hüffmeier into being more circumspect, but did not want the vice admiral asking awkward questions or referring the matter to his superiors. Therefore, he just used a veiled threat. “Remember mein Herren, this mission has the highest priority. I am to report to the Reichsführer in a few days about the status. Therefore, I want no problems, verstanden?”
Hüffmeier nodded his head and Helmuth Wenck let the matter drop.
If Hüffmeier’s patriotic zeal was dampened by this affirmation, then it did not last for long. He invited the two fliers to visit one of the big gun emplacements.
Although Peter Wenck would have liked to, they both knew it would not be possible. It was already gone two o’clock in the morning and they still had a long flight back to Norway. Nevertheless, in order to keep in the vice admiral’s good books they promised to do so when they returned.
The same Austin took them back to the airfield, backfiring and lurching along the narrow roads and lanes.
“I had an old horse that used to fart like that,” said Helmuth with a chuckle as they reached their destination. For some reason, they both found that simple inanity very funny and to the amusement of their escort broke into almost uncontrollable laughter. They were still convulsed with mirth as they strapped themselves into the night fighter.
The cockpit drill brought them back to reality. They had barely enough fuel to get back to Kragero and would have to be very judicious in their use of the throttle. It would not be conducive to their health if they ran into enemy aircraft. Unfortunately, such proved to be the case. Their return route was a mirror image of the trip down, a slight dog-leg and then back up the slot of the English Channel. But, with Hull some 250 kilometres off the port wing they ran into a strong force of British bombers returning from a raid on Germany.
Helmuth Wenck, sitting in the rear monitoring the radar unit, informed his son there were a number of strong blips showing on the screen. They had both hoped that by flying very low the chances of encountering any enemy aircraft would be slight. The reality proved them wrong.
They ran into two British Halifaxes. Both were flying low for the simple reason that they could not maintain height. One was flying on two engines and the other on three. For a moment Peter Wenck was tempted to attack, but the uselessness of such a gesture and the need to conserve fuel negated any reason for heroics. It was as well that he did. A Mosquito also crossed their path and moved towards them, but as the Hornisse continued northwards, the British fighter moved back to protect its injured charges.
The fuel warning lights were shining brightly when Peter Wenck finally lowered his undercarriage and flaps and lined the aircraft up with Kragero’s runway.
Chapter Seventeen
27 January 1945
The atmosphere in the Reichsbank had not changed. The Reich might be crumbling and its capital reduced to ever increasing piles of rubble, but the bankers and their clerks still came to work and still administered to the financial needs of the country and the millions of accounts ranging from those belonging to the mighty SS to the humblest minion of the state.
Schonewille sat in a heavy leather armchair waiting for Grauwitz. Since the meeting with his father and brother eleven days previously, he had been trying to gain a meeting with the SS legal officer, but to no avail.
Mindful of Germany’s worsening situation and the need to find out Grauwitz’s and Heger’s timetable, Schonewille made repeated attempts to arrange a meeting with them. Heger he did meet, but with no results. Schonewille at first thought his old friend was just being obstructive, but eventually came to the conclusion that Heger was almost as much in the dark as he.
Finally, on the twenty-sixth, Heger informed him that Grauwitz would see him the following day at nine in the morning.
The room was cold, so he kept his overcoat on as he ruminated at the latest news on the military situation. Things were going from bad to worse.
The day before, Hitler had completely revamped his eastern armies, sacking generals and creating new commands. The Russians in the headlong push westwards had now cut off fifty-three German fighting divisions, twenty-six in the Courland peninsula and twenty-seven in East Prussia. The Führer had ordered the towns and cities of these areas to be turned into fortresses, particularly the famous old military town of Königsberg.
Up to now the German people had faced the growing threat from the east with stoicism and determination; but with the Red Army over the borders of the Reich and with ever growing numbers of refugees spilling across the country, pessimism and the first signs of panic began to appear among the usually docile German populace.
The Wehrmacht and its comrades in the SS front-line divisions were fighting as brilliantly and resolutely as ever, but faced with shortages of fuel and other materials and the numerically superior Red Army, they were constantly being pushed back.
Hitler hardly helped the situation by constantly interfering with the plans of his principal commanders. Finally, he formed a new command, Army Group Vistula, and placed this vital force under the leadership of none other than Heinrich Himmler.
Schonewille realised time was running out. In the west the army groups of Montgomery, Bradley and Devers were preparing to attack the west wall, Hitler’s vaunted defensive positions on the German border, and in the air the Allied bombers were continuing to pound the cities and factories into rubble.
There came a sound of footsteps in the passageway. The door opened and Grauwitz strode in. Schonewille heaved himself to his feet and gave the Fascist salute. It was returned, but without enthusiasm.
Brigadeführer Emil Grauwitz looked tired. There were dark rings under his eyes and his body language was not as self-assured as when they had last met. He waved his arm, indicating that Schonewille should resume his seat. He himself sat behind the writing desk, which held centre stage in the small room.
“Well, Herr Obersturmbannführer, I understand you have been trying to see me. What can I do for you?” he said with an air of irritation.
Schonewille hesitated, but then decided that nothing would be gained by tackling the subject matter obliquely. Both knew why they were here. Nevertheless, he started cautiously and with a little guile.
“Herr Brigadeführer, I felt it was important for both of us that we should talk. I have done everything that you have asked. Funds from the camps have been placed into the special account and I have completed the necessary paperwork to cover our trail. I have managed to arrange a special aircraft to be on standby on forty-eight hours notice of any move you
might wish to make and I have arranged the special flights of those Jews that you want to have flown to Sweden. What I want to know is, what now?” He paused for a moment, but as Grauwitz did not respond he went on. “I mean, when will we make a move?”
Grauwitz gave a thin smile and wearily rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. When he did speak it was with a measure of friendliness that Schonewille had not encountered from him before. “Schonewille, my friend. Let me just say this. The time is not yet upon us when we can make the moves that you mention. There is a lot more to this than meets the eye, as you would well realise. I will tell you what needs to be done when I feel everything is ready.”
Schonewille tried not to let his irritation show, but it crept into his voice nevertheless. “With respect, Herr Brigadeführer, I need to know something. So far, I am the one taking the risks, and for what? At any rate, the profits from the camps are drying up. There is nothing to be gained from waiting much longer and I …”
“Enough, Obersturmbannführer,” snapped Grauwitz. His dark eyes blazed and his nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. “Now you listen and listen carefully. It is I who will decide what and when it will happen. Do you understand?” Schonewille sat stock still and silent and Grauwitz continued, his voice now low and menacing. “You will do as I say and when I say it. I am not a fool and I am aware you have been making plans of your own. Therefore, I warn you. Be careful. At the slightest hint of treachery I will have you up against a wall with a firing squad lined up in front, verstanden?”
For a moment Schonewille’s brain froze. A tight band of nervous tension spread around his chest and he thought he would be sick. Yet, he focused on keeping his face impassive.
“I assure you, Herr Brigadeführer, that I have done nothing to endanger your plans,” he countered. While strictly correct, it was part bluff. At the same time, he badly needed to know whether Grauwitz actually knew something or was just second-guessing. Unfortunately, unless he wanted to ask specific questions there was no way of checking. This he did not want to do since it might alert Grauwitz in some small way as to what was happening. So he tried another tack. He made his voice sound plaintive.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 18
