The Reichsbank Robbery

by Colin Roderick Fulton

  He went to the third carriage and found more valuables. He bent down and broke the seal on one of the sacks. Loosening the cord he pulled it open and was confronted by a hoard of gold coins glistening in the carriage’s light.

  He squatted silently for a few moments, almost overcome with the emotion of what surrounded him, quickly picked up the sack and with an effort lifted it to the doorway. It was an even more difficult task getting it down the ladder, but he managed it. He called Bremer over.

  “Hauptsturmführer Bremer, I am delighted to say it is here. All the money we need is here. Take these men to the woods and have them guarded. I’ll get the trucks moved over here so we can start unloading.”

  Bremer opened his mouth to speak and then, catching the look on Schonewille’s face, shut it quickly. With a muttered jawohl, he turned away and began to lead the bank officials away.

  Schonewille hurried to where the trucks were parked and ordered their drivers to back them up to the three carriages. For the next ten minutes he supervised the transfer of the carriages’ contents into the lorries. The first, which was being driven by Chuikov, received a carefully chosen cargo of boxes holding gold bars, plus various sacks of gold coins and foreign currency. Where possible, he chose sacks carrying Swiss francs or American dollars but, as some were unmarked and he did not have time to examine their contents, he just had them transferred to the back of his chosen vehicle.

  When it was loaded, another took its place and he had his truck driven to the edge of the wood. If he could, he wanted to try and escape straight away, but the crackle of gunfire stopped his thoughts dead.

  The sound came from the woods some hundred metres away precisely where the surviving troops and civilians from the train had been taken. He ordered Chuikov to wait for him and then began to walk in the direction of the gunshots. Then just as suddenly it stopped.

  What the bloody hell am I doing? he thought. Now was the time to make good his escape. It was obvious what had just happened. Grauwitz and his cohorts had slaughtered the prisoners and there was an odds-on bet his turn would be next.

  Just then Grauwitz emerged from the trees with Kube a metre or so behind. Schonewille was caught off-guard and knew if they attempted to try and kill him then and there, he would stand no chance for his weapon was in its holster.

  To his relief, Grauwitz seemed to have other things on his mind. His eyes were closed and he looked to be in some pain. His bowels were heralding another attack. Suddenly Schonewille had an idea.

  “Herr Brigadeführer. There is a toilet in the first carriage. Why don’t you use it? There is also a wash basin and I believe some hot water.”

  Grauwitz turned his head and a smile flashed across his face. “Danke, danke, Friedrich,” he said gratefully.

  Motioning for Kube to follow he walked awkwardly to the carriage and climbed inside. For a moment Schonewille’s thoughts were only of escape, but he knew Grauwitz would have him followed. He had to get rid of the SS brigadier. He turned and ran to the truck. Chuikov was standing by the tailgate watching.

  “Do we leave now, Sir?” he said.

  Schonewille shook his head. He had to trust the Ukrainian who, on the surface at least, seemed quite prepared to leave with him. He went to his Volkswagen and extracted two stick grenades from behind the seat. Sticking them in his belt, he ordered Chuikov to wait and then moved quickly towards the shattered locomotive. On reaching the front buffers, he turned and looked around. Nobody seemed to have taken any notice, so he slipped between the locomotive and the armoured truck and onto the far side of the train.

  Walking as quietly as he could, he stopped by the tender and extracted his P38 and the silencer. Screwing the cylinder to the barrel he paused, listening. Then, taking a deep breath he climbed up the ladder to the doorway on the opposite side of the carriageway. Luckily it had been left open. Silent or loud, he thought to himself and quickly chose the latter. Silence is never absolute and the slightest sound would alert the SS corporal. So as he climbed the steps, he called out Grauwitz’s name. Once in the passageway he paused and then called Grauwitz’s name again. As he did so he moved inside, left side first, his right hand holding the automatic down low behind his right thigh.

  Kube was standing half-way along the carriage leaning against one of the sleeping compartments. Although he did not look suspicious, he was alert and his right hand clutched the handle of the Schmeisser machine pistol. Not daring to get any closer, Schonewille lifted the Walther and fired twice. Even so, he was almost not quick enough and the SS trooper started to move away from the wall and lift his weapon when the first bullet struck him in the stomach. The second hit him in the chest. As he sank to the floor, Schonewille strode over to where he lay and shot him again for good measure.

  All three shots were virtually silent, the automatic making only a dull cough every time Schonewille pulled the trigger.

  Quickly stepping over the body, he reached the compartment housing the toilet.

  He turned the handle with his left hand, found it unlocked and kicked it open.

  Grauwitz was sitting on the bowl, his trousers around his legs and a look of surprise on his face. Schonewille allowed himself a moment’s triumph. He smiled as a look of realisation and panic crossed the SS lawyer’s face and then before he had time to move he shot Grauwitz in the chest. The impact of the bullet jerked the man’s body backwards and his head hit the pipe running down the back of the wall with a hollow clang. Schonewille fired twice more at close range, the Walther jerking in his hand.

  The man’s body was still perched on the seat, a large pool of blood soaking the front of his tunic. Schonewille smiled again and then closed the cubicle door. His heart was pumping as he stopped to listen. He could hear voices outside, but nothing untoward.

  Quickly he dragged Kube’s body over to the toilet and laid it on the floor, hard up against the door. Crossing over to a notice board screwed to one wall, he extracted a drawing pin and knelt down besides the body. Pulling one grenade from his belt, he unscrewed the base cap and carefully jammed the bomb under the SS corporal’s body so it could not be seen. Then, with the utmost care he pinned the string protruding from the handle to the bottom of the door.

  It was a crude but effective booby trap. Anybody opening the door would prime the grenade and five seconds later it would explode.

  Unscrewing his silencer, he put it back in its pouch and holstered the automatic. Picking up Kube’s machine pistol he made sure the safety catch was off and climbed outside. Nobody took the slightest notice.

  With an unhurried step, he made his way back to his lorry. Passing one of the Volkswagens, he opened the driver’s door and jammed his second grenade between the seat and the sides of the vehicle. Unscrewing the base cap he shut the door and then, leaning over, he wound the priming string around the door handle. Hey presto and another booby trap had been set.

  The other Volkswagen was too far away to bother with, so he continued walking towards where Chuikov was still standing.

  Suddenly, Bremer appeared from behind another vehicle and hurried towards him.

  “Where is the brigadier?” he shouted

  “He went to the first carriage to have a shit,” said Schonewille.

  Bremer frowned at Schonewille’s impertinence and turned towards the carriage. Schonewille waited until he was inside before he ran to his truck.

  “Now Ilya,” he said clapping the Russian soldier on his shoulder. “Are you with me?”

  The other nodded enthusiastically and climbed into the lorry’s cabin. Schonewille clambered over the tailgate into the back of the vehicle and noted with satisfaction that Chuikov had placed a Mauser Mg 42 light machine-gun inside. He banged the back of the cabin and the lorry began to move off. They had scarcely moved a dozen metres when from the first carriage came a dull explosion.

  In the rear of the truck Schonewille slapped his thigh with satisfaction.

  “Fuck you, Grauwitz and you too, Bremer,” he said out loud a
nd chortled with glee. He looked out the back, but the wrecked train was already shielded by trees and was out of sight.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  0750 Hours

  As Bremer hurried to the carriage looking for Grauwitz, he cursed under his breath. He had found the execution of the civilians and troops who had manned the train extremely distasteful. He recognised the necessity, but nevertheless would have preferred to have had somebody like Schonewille oversee the killings.

  At the same time he badly wanted to have Schonewille killed and he wondered why Grauwitz had waited so long. His distaste for Schonewille was by now almost overwhelming and over the past few days he had been having difficulty in trying to mask his feelings while in the SS officer’s presence.

  Maybe he is going to wait until we get to the airfield, after all, he thought.

  As he climbed up the carriage ladder he called out Grauwitz’s name, just as Schonewille had a few minutes prior. Annoyed by the lack of response, he pushed open the door leading to the main part of the carriage and called out again, a sharp edge to his voice.

  “Teufel, zum Teufel,” he swore as he caught sight of the corporal’s body.

  He moved forward and without a moment’s hesitation pushed open the door of the toilet cubicle. Grauwitz’s un-winking, sightless stare confronted him. In shock, he lowered his eyes and this saved his life. The movement of the opening door had not only pulled the string, priming the grenade, it had also jerked the bomb forward so it protruded slightly from under Kube’s inert form.

  He flung himself back and, twisting round, made for the entrance. He had only moved half-a-dozen metres when the grenade exploded, pitching him onto a pile of suitcases stacked near the entrance. Luckily for Bremer, Kube’s body deflected and soaked up much of the explosive force and shrapnel. However, it ripped out a large section of the cubicle wall and sent a splinter the size of a child’s school ruler spinning across the carriage and into the back of the SS captain’s left shoulder. Immobilised with shock and temporarily deafened by the blast, he lay unmoving for almost two minutes.

  He was found by the Russian lieutenant and gingerly helped to a sitting position.

  The Russian called out through the shattered train window for a first aid kit and when it arrived he ordered two soldiers to pinion Bremer’s arms and hold him tight. Then, with a large pocket knife he cut open the back of the SS officer’s tunic, laying bare the wound. Without any preamble, he clasped the splinter tightly and yanked. Fortunately, it was not buried deeply inside the flesh, although it ripped out a large section of Bremer’s shoulder and caused its owner to shout out in pain and anger.

  The Russian then liberally poured some disinfectant onto a wad of cotton wool and again, without any preamble, applied it to the bleeding wound. He cleaned it as best he could and then roughly applied a thick gauze bandage.

  By this time Captain Lutz Bremer was re-gaining his faculties. Groaning with pain, he pushed himself to his feet and lurched over to the cubicle. Kube’s remains were quite literally spread over the opposite wall and ceiling, but it was not the corporal he was concerned with. He wanted to make certain his former commanding officer was in fact dead, although he realised there was not the slightest chance of him having survived the explosion, even if Schonewille’s bullets had not done their job properly.

  He need not have bothered. The force of the blast had ripped off a large section of the door, sending it scything upwards like a large blade. An executioner’s axe could not have done a better job, for it had neatly severed Grauwitz’s head from his mangled body and carried it upwards, impaling it on a shattered piece of the ceiling.

  By this time Bremer’s rage had completely suborned his pain and he turned to the lieutenant who was standing impassively watching.

  “Where is Obersturmbannführer Schonewille?” he asked his voice shrill.

  The Russian turned down the sides of his mouth and shrugged his shoulders. He did not know, although he had seen a truck drive away moments after the explosion.

  Bremer pushed passed the three Russians and, still oblivious of the pain, climbed down the ladder. Once on the ground, he looked up at the two Russian privates and ordered them to douse the inside of the carriage with petrol and set it on fire. He did not want Grauwitz’s body identified by the authorities when they found the train. If they did, it would ultimately lead to him and if he was unable to escape he did not want either the Gestapo or his fellow officers to be on his track.

  He then paused for a moment thinking about his next move. He looked at his watch. The operation had taken just over an hour-and-a-quarter. They could not afford to hang around any longer.

  “Lieutenant, order your men to drive the trucks to the airfield at Traunstein, just like we discussed last night. Leave your most senior NCO in charge. In the meantime, we must try and get to the Obersturmbannführer before he reaches the airfield. His lorry will be relatively slow and we still have the two VWs and one of the small trucks in which to catch him, but we must move quickly. Get half-a-dozen of your best men and some light machine-guns and follow me.”

  He hurried towards one of the VWs with two of the Russians in tow while the lieutenant quickly rounded up some extra men and guns and moved towards the small truck. A corporal and two soldiers loaded with weapons went to the nearest VW. The NCO opened the door and was already sitting in the driver’s seat when Schonewille’s second booby trap exploded killing all three and setting the wreck on fire.

  A shocked Bremer quickly vacated his Volkswagen yet, when thirty seconds had passed and there was no further explosion, ordered his two companions to make a quick examination of the vehicle. When this showed nothing was amiss, he climbed back inside and headed off up the road followed by the Russians in the small truck.

  With a start of almost fifteen minutes, Schonewille should have been at least a dozen kilometres ahead and almost to Seigsdorf. Such was not the case. They had been travelling for just under ten minutes at a steady forty-five to fifty-five kilometres per hour when the engine of the Opel gave a cough, cleared itself, coughed again and then died.

  For the first time that day Schonewille felt truly frightened. As Chuikov lifted the bonnet and began to ferret inside the engine bay he began to pace up and down, alternately looking back down the road.

  “For fuck’s sake, Sergeant, what’s the matter with the bloody thing?”

  “Fuel blockage, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “Of course, Sir, but I’m not sure how long it will take.”

  Schonewille breathed deeply. Every few minutes he enquired as to the Ukrainian’s progress. After the third time Chuikov did not bother answering, just continued with his repairs to the engine’s carburettor and fuel lines.

  Then, down the road there came the unmistakable sound of engines revving hard.

  “Shit, oh shit. I hear motors. How long now?”

  Chuikov was tightening the last clamp on the fuel line. He had cut a finger and the petrol was causing it to sting. It also made working difficult.

  “Almost ready … a few more seconds … there. Now let’s try the pig.”

  Schonewille turned the ignition on. For a few agonising seconds the engine turned over and refused to fire. Then, as the petrol reached the carburettor it fired … died, fired again and caught.

  They both clambered into the cabin, Schonewille at the wheel.

  “Now, Sergeant, listen carefully. A kilometre or so along the road I’ve prepared a little surprise. Originally it was designed just to sever the phone lines. Now it might just be a little more useful. When I stop, grab the forty-two from the back and find yourself some cover, but make sure you can see around the bend for at least fifty metres or so, verstanden?”

  Chuikov was not quite sure what Schonewille had planned, although he now knew enough about the SS lieutenant-colonel to recognise the man’s devious foresight. He also remembered the time when he had been left at Seigsdorf’s inn, alone.


  The Opel was pulling well with no hint of another blockage. Yet he was in no doubt that if one of the pursuers was a VW it would catch him relatively quickly. They reached the bend where the telephone pole with the two grenades was located. He negotiated around it and drove on for fifty metres before pulling over onto the grass verge so the pursuers would not see the Opel as they came up the narrow road.

  Chuikov alighted with alacrity and scurried around to the rear of the lorry. Reaching over the tailgate he grabbed the light machine-gun and, looping two belts of ammunition around his neck, walked a dozen paces to a ditch where he dropped to the ground and carefully sighted the weapon. Schonewille, meanwhile, was crouched low next to the telephone pole. It was with relief he spied the two grenades still in position.

  The Volkswagen and the small truck hove into sight, travelling fast. Schonewille waited until they were almost at the bend, before pulling the two strings and then rolled backwards down the slope, clear of the pole.

  He could not have timed it better. The grenades shattered the base of the telephone pole and it toppled across the road dragging down the telephone wires just as the driver of the Volkswagen turned into the bend. It landed scarcely half-a-dozen metres in front of the vehicle and such was its speed that the driver had no chance to stop in time. In panic he wrenched the wheel hard over and careered into the pole at an angle, the force of the impact causing the VW’s front left-hand wheel to rear up over the obstruction before being torn off. The vehicle then turned over and landed upside down in the ditch.

  At the same time Chuikov fired two long bursts at the following truck, killing the driver and severely wounding a second man in the cabin. It veered to its left and struck the bank, coming to a dead stop with its engine stalled. The Russian lieutenant in the back quite literally dived over the tailgate onto the road, followed by two of his men as another dozen or so bullets hit the truck.