The Reichsbank Robbery

by Colin Roderick Fulton

  He opened a battered leather satchel and extracted a small spiral pad from which he detached half-a-dozen pages that had already been torn from the metal rings. He then produced a number of maps and laid the paperwork on a card table covered in a green baize.

  “Now, let’s start from the beginning,” said the diplomat with all the air of a tutor about to impart his wisdom on a recalcitrant pupil. “I have already suggested the Dominican Republic as the choice for a re-fuelling stop. While there are several countries in the Caribbean that could, on the surface, have fitted the bill, I finally picked the Dominican Republic for three reasons. One, although the country is nominally on the Allied side there are a great many Fascist sympathisers there who revere the National Socialist cause. And of course Trujillo, who runs the country, is a dictator like our own beloved Führer,” he said with a sardonic smile.

  “Two, we need an airfield on which the sight of a Boeing would not be too unusual and three,” he paused for a moment before continuing. “We need someone who can be bribed to supply us with the necessary aviation gasoline and to keep his mouth shut.”

  Meunier unfolded one of the charts and spread it on the table. It was a large map of the West Indies and Central America, taking in the southern tip of Florida in the north, Venezuela and Columbia to the south, the Leeward and Windward Islands to the east and Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula to the west. In the middle was Cuba and the island of Hispaniola, which held the republics of Haiti and the Dominican Republic. He turned the chart around so it faced the pilot and stabbed a finger at the island.

  “There, on the north coast you will see the town of Puerto Plata. Nice place, typical Caribbean port, white buildings, swaying palms, little cantinas, pretty girls … and an airfield.”

  Wenck looked up and grinned, but said nothing. Meunier went on. “The commandant of the airfield is Lieutenant-Colonel Ferdinand Savory of the El Cuerpo de Aviacion Militar,” he said with a mock flourish of his hand, his Spanish accent perfect. “In case you did not guess, it’s the Dominican Military Aviation Corps.”

  Meunier explained how he had met the colonel back in 1938 when he was helping Admiral Canaris set up an intelligence network. Before the war German agents had used the Dominican Republic as an important centre for their operations in the Caribbean. Their head was a man called Karl Hertel who operated under the guise of a sales representative for several imported German products.

  Savory was a gambler and his penchant for spending money had brought him into the orbit of Hertel’s circle of paid informers. Whatever his weakness, Savory was well-connected and possessed a shrewd brain. As a (then) captain with a good future and an active dislike for America because it constantly meddled in his country’s internal affairs, he was to become a valuable ally.

  Meunier explained how the Republic’s dictator, Rafael Trujilo, had always sympathised with the Fascist cause until the promise of American military aid had made him throw in his lot with the Allies after Pearl Harbour. In the round-ups and arrests that followed, some agents and other members of the German legation capitulated, but not Karl Hertel.

  “Hertel has been watched pretty closely, but he’s still been of some use to us,” said Meunier. “It took some doing, I can tell you, but through what is left of Canaris’s network I was able to contact Hertel who in turn approached Savory, and we’ve come to an agreement. It’s quite simple. I’ve arranged a coded signal. When we are ready to leave we transmit the signal and he’ll make sure he is at the Plata base until we arrive. Then for 10,000 US dollars in cash he will have the Boeing re-fuelled.”

  At the mention of the money, Wenck grimaced. Meunier caught the facial expression and questioned its reason. The pilot explained about the bombing of the Reichsbank.

  For a moment the elderly diplomat sat stunned. “Shit, I had not heard. Christ, they’ve kept that quiet,” he muttered. “Well I’ll tell you this, no money means no gasoline, wherever we stop.”

  Wenck held up both hands, palms outwards. “Don’t worry, at least not yet. I have a feeling deep in my gut our secretive friend Brigadeführer Emil Grauwitz will still have a few tricks up his sleeve. I bet that scum has other ideas on how to lay his hands on some money. At the same time my brother might also come up with some cash through his own links with the Reichsbank.”

  Meunier shrugged with exasperation. There was no option but to continue, so they decided to go on with their plans. They turned to the question of fuel and the range problems with the Boeing. Wenck replied in some technical detail.

  “Give or take a few kilometres the distance from the Channel Islands to the Dominican Republic is 8,270 kilometres,” said Peter. “With the modifications we have completed so far on the B17 we have managed to extend her range to about 6,000-plus kilometres. We can put a couple more tanks in her which will probably add about 500 kilometres to that distance.” He paused for a moment and asked if Meunier understood. The latter nodded his head. “Then there is the matter of performance. We can pare a great deal of weight from the bomber. In service trim the aircraft is well armoured and carries a dozen or so heavy machine-guns.

  “I have no intention of flying unarmed, but since we will have a reduced crew there is no necessity to carry a full complement of weapons,” continued Peter. “Father has already started to strip the aircraft. We have taken off the waist guns and all their ancillary equipment, plus the two cheek guns and a fifth weapon in the mid-upper position. Finally, we plan to remove the ball turret in the belly of the aircraft with its two weapons. That’s a total of seven heavy calibre guns with all their mountings, ammunition and other equipment. The turret, which weighs a bloody lot, also creates drag so we will gain from this,” he said pausing for a moment to see if his friend understood. Meunier nodded.

  “Now, what this means in weight reduction we’re not exactly sure, but I can tell you it’s a few thousand kilos plus, of course, we won’t have the weight of a full crew. The upshot is that we believe the aircraft will be able to fly 7,000 kilometres, maybe a little more, and that’s still not enough.”

  Meunier pursed his lips and then surprisingly gave a little smile. He extracted another map. Placing it on the table, he turned it around so it faced the pilot. “I just might have the answer,” he declared with a self-satisfied smirk. He stabbed a finger at the map. “Spanish Sahara,” he declared, as though by mentioning the name he was immediately clearing the problem. “I’ve been a busy little diplomat and I’ve had some luck.”

  He first questioned Wenck on whether he remembered meeting a Spanish Air Force major in Berlin in 1941. “Major Andres Garcia Lacalle of the Ejercito del Air. He was part of a Spanish purchasing mission looking at the latest Heinkel He 111s. Apparently, you undertook to brief them on the new aircraft and gave some pretty fancy flying demonstrations.”

  Wenck shrugged his shoulders. He remembered meeting some Spanish pilots, but could not specifically recall Lacalle.

  “Well no matter,” said Meunier. “He remembers you and knows something of your subsequent career, courtesy of Signal. Quite a coincidence really. But, what is also of importance is that he is very pro-German.”

  Meunier explained how he had used some friends in the Spanish embassy to search out and contact a friendly Spanish Air Force officer who was based in Spanish Morocco and could lend assistance. The person they identified as a likely target was Lacalle. In the intervening four years the erstwhile major had risen in rank and was now a full colonel.

  “Lacalle is based in Spanish Morocco, but his command and sphere of operations also includes the Spanish Sahara,” he explained. “I have yet to finalise the details, but so far I have gained a promise of help from Major Lacalle. We will be able to land at one of two places. El Aiun on the northern coast of Spanish Sahara, or at a place called Ifni, or to be more precise, the town of Sidi Ifni. If you look here you will see that Ifni is a Spanish enclave within Morocco a couple of hundred kilometres north of the Spanish Saharan border.”

  Wenck became very exci
ted. He looked at the map closely, mentally converting the scale to the distance from either of the two Spanish colonies to the Caribbean. “Donner, das ist gut, sehr gut. It is a saving of about 1,500 kilometres,” he said enthusiastically.

  “I’m glad you like the idea,” Meunier replied. “It has other advantages as well. As I said, I had originally thought only of Spanish Morocco, but Ifni and El Aiun are infinitely better because not only are they well away from Spain and the British at Gibraltar, they are also very remote and therefore away from prying eyes.”

  Wenck was silent for a few minutes as he studied the map and tried to see if there were any holes in Meunier’s plan. As far as he could ascertain there were none. He nodded his head in acknowledgment and then asked whether Meunier had any details of their final destination. The latter explained how originally there had been three possible destinations. The first two were Colombia and Costa Rica where there were still German agents operating.

  “Unfortunately, they both have the same problem. Namely, how do we divest ourselves of the Boeing. If we simply leave it parked somewhere the Americans will eventually find it. By checking its serial number and tracing its origins they will find out how your bomber was last heard of over Germany. They will then put two and two together.”

  Wenck agreed with this rationale and suggested destroying the plane. Meunier replied how even burnt-out wrecks left serial numbers and a fire might create even more unwelcome interest.

  “Your father and I have discussed at length on how you both had thought of ultimately getting to America. I also would not mind ending my days in the land of the free. Therefore, I have come up with something which is audacious, but could work. We fly to America, park the aircraft and leave her there.”

  “Ha ha ha,” chortled the younger man. “Very funny. So we just park it at some airfield, unload the money and head into the nearest town?”

  “Precisely!”

  Wenck sat stunned for a moment. Meunier just looked at him beaming, then reached into his satchel and took out an American magazine. Flipping through the pages he finally found the one he was looking for and handed it to the pilot.

  “Here you are, a good example of a popular American weekly magazine, courtesy of our Foreign Ministry, or to be more exact our embassy in Portugal. As you can see it is barely three weeks old … there, on page sixteen.”

  It was a short article, obviously meant more for its propaganda value than its intrinsic news value. It contained a photograph and a short story about an airfield that was to be the final resting place of hundreds of useless and obsolete American aircraft. The gist of the article was how America already regarded the war as good as won and the authorities were beginning to earmark aircraft as surplus to their needs, with most being broken up.

  One line caught Wenck’s eye. It stated how even early models of the Boeing B17 were beginning to be withdrawn from service and transferred to this airfield that was situated north-west of Phoenix in Arizona.

  It was so simple Wenck could not believe it. He shook his head and said, “You mean we just fly from Puerta Plata to Arizona, land our plane at this graveyard, unload it and drive away?”

  Meunier just nodded his head.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  24 March 1945

  Friedrich Schonewille peered down the railway track and wondered whether the train would be on time. It was a perfect spot for an ambush.

  The track curved away slightly into a cutting that he knew from earlier reconnaissance stretched back about two kilometres. The furthest side of the cutting continued to almost where Schonewille was standing. This would make it easy to handle the troops on the train, for their own forces hidden on the top of the cutting could fire downwards with little fear of major retaliatory fire.

  At the same time the soldiers to his right would be able to use their anti-tank guns to immobilise the heavy weapons on the train.

  The Russian officer’s German was poor. For the third time in as many minutes he asked whether the train would be on time. Schonewille was tired and apprehensive and his patience snapped. He rounded on the hapless lieutenant. “You know as much as I do, Lieutenant. Just wait like the rest of us and shut your mouth.”

  The man pursed his lips and flushed. He turned away, but not before the SS colonel had seen the hatred in the man’s eyes.

  Then, in the distance they heard a train whistle, mournful in the early morning air.

  On the day Schonewille met with Peter Wenck, the bulk of the Reich’s gold reserves were transported to the Kaiseroda Mine at Merkers.

  Almost one hundred tonnes of gold bullion worth in excess of 200 million US dollars was boxed and loaded onto thirteen railway flat cars for the journey south. More trains followed until the operation was finally completed on 18 February.

  By this stage, the value of the Reich’s reserves stored in the mine was more than $310 million, with as many millions more in art treasures and other valuables. For the moment at least it was safe from predators and the dangers of war.

  Meanwhile, as the winter receded, so the Russians began to stir and re-start their offensive westwards while on the other side of Germany the Americans, British and Canadians began their push to the Rhine. Although Germany was being squeezed on two sides, at its narrowest almost 500 kilometres still separated the two Allied forces. From the north to the south this area stretched from the Baltic to the Adriatic, a distance of 1,000 kilometres. It was still a huge area.

  In this gap the German military machine and the industry that fed it with armaments still functioned, albeit under immense strain because of the Allied air offensive. For the millions of Europeans still enslaved and brutalised, their final liberation still seemed a long way off.

  Poland had been liberated, as had nearly all of France and all of Belgium, but the Germans still controlled nearly all of their own country, plus half of Holland and all of Denmark and Norway in the north. In the south and east they still held sway over part of Hungary, nearly two thirds of Czechoslovakia, all of Austria as well as northern Italy and part of Yugoslavia.

  On 2 March the first American units reached the Rhine, the last great defensive line left to the Wehrmacht in the west.

  In the east the pressure on Berlin by General Zhukov was reduced as the Russian diverted his efforts to helping his comrade General Rokossovsky clear the German forces from Pomerania, thereby clearing his flanks before the final push to the German capital.

  On 3 March the shadowy Grauwitz finally contacted Schonewille, ordering him to a rendezvous that evening. The meeting took place in an SS building near the navy headquarters overlooking the Landwehr Canal. An air-raid had just finished and although it had not been heavy, the city was again covered in smoke leaving the entire populace nervous and dispirited.

  On entering the heavily guarded building he was greeted by an SS captain of about twenty-five who introduced himself as Hauptsturmführer Bremer, saying he was Brigadeführer Grauwitz’s aide.

  He recognised the captain as the same officer he had seen dining with Grauwitz when he’d had his first meeting with his brother the previous year. Bremer escorted Schonewille along a maze of passages and down into the cellar where a number of offices had been created.

  The door of the office was left open and the captain stood watch outside. Grauwitz was obviously taking no chances on being overheard.

  The SS Brigadeführer still looked tired. If anything he looked a trifle more haggard than he had at their last meeting and had obviously lost weight. Also, in the intervening few weeks a significant number of grey hairs had appeared at his receding hairline. To Schonewille he looked like a man under extreme pressure.

  “Good evening, Obersturmbannführer, how are you?” he said pleasantly.

  Schonewille was instantly on his guard, but he answered that he was well.

  The lawyer gave his characteristic thin smile and then asked what he thought of the current military situation.

  Schonewille hesitated, involuntarily shi
fting his gaze to the man in the doorway. Grauwitz saw the move and said off-handedly, “Ah don’t worry about Lutz. Not only is he loyal to me, he is also a realist.”

  “Then, Gruppenführer, I think we have two months at best. The Americans and British are at the Rhine. It will hold them for two or three weeks at most. In the East …well, who knows?” he shrugged his shoulders. Grauwitz nodded and Schonewille continued. “It all depends on how long we can hold them in Pomerania. The Russians won’t advance on Berlin until they have cleared their flank, that’s one rule of warfare we’ve taught them often enough.”

  Grauwitz nodded his head, then abruptly changed the topic. “How is your brother going? I understand he still has the big Junkers on standby.”

  It was more of a statement than a question. So Schonewille answered the former by saying his brother was well and the latter in the affirmative. At the same time, he mentally told himself to contact Peter and warn him of Grauwitz’s knowledge. He’s obviously got somebody watching, he thought to himself.

  The SS general then asked how quickly Peter Wenck was able to use the big Junkers if ordered. Schonewille lied. “I have not spoken to him for some weeks, Herr Gruppenführer, but I would imagine it would be at short notice.”

  Grauwitz looked pleased and so Schonewille quickly followed up with two questions of his own. “How soon before you plan to move, Sir, and have you devised a way of obtaining some money?”

  “Direct as always, aren’t you? Well, no matter, I have brought you here to explain all.” He crossed to a wall where a large coloured map of central Europe hung. He pointed to Hungary. “As you are no doubt aware, Budapest fell to the Russians on 13 February. The last monetary reserves of the Hungarian government were moved to Prague by rail a few weeks previously. Now, my information is that we are planning to move some of this to Munich.” He moved his finger across Czechoslovakia to southern Germany.