Hüffmeier raised an eyebrow and turned to his lieutenant, asking whether the man understood.
Minutes later, Peter Wenck was strapped into the pilot’s seat with Leo Swabisch next to him. His father leant over. “Can we get away from the British?”
“Oh, I think so. They will be expecting us to head back up the Channel or over the Cherbourg peninsular like I did before, not to head west. But, just to make certain I will keep very low. I think, and I hope I’m right, they won’t have a chance of finding us.”
The plan worked without fault. A third of the way down the runway and just when it became difficult to see, the lights were switched on. Scarcely thirty-five seconds later, the Boeing became airborne and Peter Wenck called over the radio to Hüffmeier’s lieutenant and the lights were instantly turned off.
He kept the Boeing low as he crossed the coast and then, banking gently, pointed her nose to the west and headed out of the English Channel towards the Atlantic.
For Parker-Davis and his men there was nothing. The moment he spotted the runway lights he banked sharply and stood the night fighter on one wing so he could view the whole panorama of the night sky stretching down to the sea, where the dim outline of Guernsey and the other Channel Island could be seen 8,000 feet below.
Calling to the radar operators to keep a sharp watch he peered into the darkness. Yet neither he nor the radar operators found anything. Then the lights vanished and, cursing, he banked once more and headed for Guernsey.
Nothing.
Five minutes, later he gave up.
“Maybe he did not take-off after all, Skipper,” suggested his radar operator and navigator.
“No, Jimmy. I don’t know why, but I bet my Aunt Fanny to a pound he’s slipped the net … we’ve lost the bugger again.”
Just to be sure he turned and flew to the eastern side of the Cherbourg Peninsular and then up the Channel at full emergency boost, but found nothing.
Already almost one hundred kilometres away, Peter Wenck was starting to breathe easier. Lizard Head and Land’s End were about 150 kilometres from his starboard wing tip with the Isle de Ouessant a similar distance from his port wing tip and in front the Atlantic beckoned. He slowly began to ease the Boeing upwards into the inky sky. From now on, they were clear of their countrymen and the ills of Europe.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
25 March 1945
0310 Hours
As well as specific German gauges that had been added to help the Luftwaffe crews, Miss Nonalee Two still had all her original instrumentation. Since her crew were German and the flight manual was written in English with its imperial measurements, it was necessary for any Luftwaffe personnel to be completely familiar with what needed to be done and how to accurately read the original gauges and dials.
Consequently, as the Boeing continued its climb Peter Wenck kept a wary eye on the American altimeter. When it reached 10,000 feet he checked that its German equivalent read just over 3,000 metres and then switched on the booster pumps to ensure the engine-driven fuel pumps increased their pressure to keep the flow of petrol at the desired level.
The Boeing had been designed essentially as a high altitude aircraft and operated more efficiently above 20,000 feet or 6,500 metres. Below this altitude, its fuel consumption was much higher. However, since they did not carry a full load of oxygen they had to compromise and fly a little lower.
On reaching 16,000 feet he levelled off and checked all the instruments. The cylinder head temperatures of the four Wright Cyclones were all in the range of 202 to 210 degrees centigrade, which was excellent. The oil temperatures only varied one or two degrees either side of seventy-five degrees Centigrade, while the lowest oil pressure was only seventy pounds per square inch. Again, the last two sets of figures were very good. Satisfied with all the readings, he synchronised all four propellers, trimmed the aircraft and switched to Auto-Lean. For long-range cruising the recommended speed was only 155 miles an hour, or 240 kilometres per hour, so that was the airspeed he set, though he would have liked to have flown faster.
Shortly after, Helmuth Wenck, who had been stationed at the navigator’s position in the nose of the Boeing, used the intercom to inform his son of the need for a course change. Peter Wenck complied and banked gently onto the new heading so the bomber was now flying approximately south-west over the Bay of Biscay.
Scarcely eight months previously this had been one of the most hard-fought-over pieces of sky and sea in the war. The Kriegsmarine had used Bordeaux as one of their principal U-Boat bases and, consequently, the British had concentrated much of their anti-submarine efforts on and over the Bay of Biscay in an effort to keep the U-Boats from escaping out into the Atlantic. But now, with all of France in Allied hands the German submarines were long gone and this stretch of water was now a backwater empty of aircraft and ships.
Three hours after leaving Guernsey they crossed the 44th Parallel and shortly thereafter changed course slightly so Miss Nonalee Two was flying almost parallel to the Spanish coast 180 kilometres away.
Dawn found them passing through broken cloud almost opposite the Portuguese city of Porto some 230 kilometres from their port wing tip.
It was at this stage that Peter Wenck finally handed over to Leo Swabisch and then made his way to a fold-down bed situated near what would have been one of the waist gunner’s positions. Scarcely half-a-metre directly opposite, Sophia lay awake. At first the sound of the engines and the cold had kept her sleepless, but after half-an-hour-or-so and with the problems of Guernsey far behind, the steady beat of the engines had had a soporific effect and she began to drift off. The sound of the pilot’s movements down the fuselage and the dawn’s bright light chased the slumber away. Even though she was dreadfully tired and the lack of oxygen made her feel a trifle lightheaded and listless, she lifted herself onto one elbow and looked directly at Peter Wenck. She noticed with concern how exhausted he looked: the eyes sunken deep with dark rings etched above his cheek bones.
Wenck sat hunched on the edge of the bunk and pressed his forefinger and thumb between the bridge of his nose before wearily rubbing his eyes. He gave a deep sigh.
Raising his head he noticed her dark, liquid eyes staring at him. He smiled boyishly and asked how she was faring. Sophia said she felt a little lightheaded, so he knelt beside her and unhooked an oxygen mask from where it was hanging, placed it against her face and switched the cylinder on. Telling her to breathe deeply he gazed intently at the woman, noting her beauty and the returning colour to her cheeks as the oxygen enriched her lungs.
“Are you feeling any better?” he asked as he took the mask away.
“A little, Oberstleutnant,” she said.
“Please call me Peter,” he answered and received a wan smile together with a little nod.
She enquired how he felt and whether things were progressing smoothly. He answered both in the affirmative and then lay down on his bunk.
He was asleep in an instant, but she continued to watch him. Sophia already had a strong liking for the two Wencks, particularly the pilot and since the flying kit hid the bulk of his Luftwaffe uniform, in her mind he had almost ceased to be a member of Germany’s armed forces.
As the threat of the SS receded, so she felt a waning of her need for Schonewille. His persona and his presence still had an effect, but it was lessening and doing so quickly.
Since her rescue from the holding centre almost twenty months previously, she had lived a sort of half-life, never daring to be herself. It was a sort of suspended state where she existed, but no more. Once, when she had dared open her soul and confront her life, she had likened it to living in a tunnel.
At one end were the terrors of the past and on the other, the vagaries of the future. The former she dared not recall and the latter, so uncertain as to necessitate a denial of hope. She was alone, of that she was certain. While her mother had not been Jewish, her gentile background had not saved her or her son. Sophia’s father and her brother had been t
aken away months before the Gestapo came for the two women. Why they had been separated and not taken away together she had never found out. Her father’s parents had also disappeared, while her mother’s family had been killed in an air-raid. So there was nobody left.
Although she was German, she now had a deep revulsion for anything to do with Germany or its people. She desired, above all else, never to hear the German tongue again. Of her future with Schonewille she was not certain, her feelings a trifle confused.
As she watched over the sleeping pilot she felt sad. Here was a decent man, an intelligent and brave soldier with whom she would have been happy to have had a relationship, but now, despite the feelings of affection the moment he opened his mouth, he was dammed by the language that came forth.
She lay back, daring to dream of the future for the first time since the soldiers had come for her and her mother. As the engines continued their gentle drumming beat, she finally drifted into sleep.
The travellers continued southwards through broken cloud that gradually thinned out until, shortly after crossing the 35th Parallel, the sky became clear of any white and Miss Nonalee Two was alone in an azure sky.
They had been flying for almost eight hours when Helmuth Wenck left the navigator’s position and went aft to where Meunier and Schonewille shared the wireless operator’s cabin next to the bomb bay. It was a bit crowded, so Wenck senior asked his son to go and sit next to Swabisch while he and the diplomat had a discussion. Reluctant to leave, Schonewille at first argued that he wanted to stay. Helmuth Wenck lost his temper.
“For fuck’s sake, Friedrich. Meunier needs to use the radio and then I need to wake Peter so we can make a decision about our destination. We have to contact Lacalle. Four of us won’t fit in here. You are not needed, so stop procrastinating and move.”
When Schonewille had left the compartment, the two older men exchanged glances. Meunier raised his eyes and eyebrows to which the general just shrugged.
Meunier turned on the radio and attempted to raise the Spanish Air Force officer, Major Andres Garcia Lacalle. Early the previous morning, while Schonewille was looting the Reichsbank’s train and Peter Wenck was waiting nervously at Traunstein, the diplomat and Helmuth Wenck had received a radio message from Lacalle, which instructed them to fly to a military airfield near El Aiun. But, to complicate matters, there was still a chance that at the last minute they might have to change course and land at the Spanish enclave of Ifni. He had instructed them to contact him when they approached the 30th Parallel for a final confirmation of their destination.
After ten fruitless minutes at the radio, Meunier gave up. Helmuth Wenck ducked his head and passed though the bulkhead that led to what usually would have been the waist gunner’s position. Both Peter and Sophia were still asleep. He gently shook the pilot by the shoulder.
Four hours sleep had replenished Peter Wenck’s reserves of nervous energy somewhat, but he was still desperately tired and he yawned continuously. A few deep whiffs of oxygen had the desired effect and he joined the other two in the radio compartment.
Meunier explained how Lacalle could not be raised.
“At present we are some 470, 480 kilometres from El Aiun. If we are to head for Ifni, we had better change course immediately,” said Helmuth Wenck.
“Mm,” grunted Meunier. “Lacalle was quite specific. We were to fly to El Aiun in the Spanish Sahara unless he told us otherwise. I don’t think it matters where we end up, both fit into our plans, so I think we should head for his first choice.”
“And hope that’s where he will be,” added the elder Wenck.
He was about to continue when Peter broke in. “We don’t have a choice, Father. He obviously had his reasons for wanting us to fly to El Aiun so it’s what we’ll have to do. We just stay on our present course.”
There was just one other thing that needed to be done before they landed. All the German uniforms were gathered and stuffed into two sacks. These were weighted with two empty oxygen cylinders and jettisoned into the Atlantic. All three soldiers kept their decorations and medals, a risky move considering their presence would identify them as German soldiers, yet given what it had taken to win them it was an understandable whim, risk or no risk.
Soon after they had their first sign of land since leaving Guernsey. In the distance off their starboard wing tip were tiny smudges of land, two of the Canary Islands, first Lanzarote and then shortly afterwards, Fuerteventura. On hearing the news, Peter Wenck scrambled back to the cockpit, although he left Swabisch at the controls and sat in the co-pilot’s seat. Schonewille went aft to the rear gunner’s turret and his father manned the dorsal turret. They did not want to be surprised by any Spanish aircraft, so it was best to be prepared.
Their precautions proved to be unnecessary with no aircraft being sighted, so after half-an-hour they all began to relax a little though the gunners stayed at their posts.
Nine hours and thirty-eight minutes after they left St Peter Port, they sighted the African coast and began the descent to the area near El Aiun where they knew the airfield was situated.
Meunier still sat at the radio trying to make contact with Lacalle, but the instrument remained mute. They also had some difficulty in finding the aerodrome. When it was finally sighted Peter Wenck, who was back at the controls, lined the Boeing up for its final approach.
Although the runway was rather crude, a parched, packed dirt affair with few markings to differentiate the runway from the remainder of the airstrip, the landing was made without undue drama.
They taxied in a cloud of dust to where a group of men had gathered next to what was obviously the main administration building.
By no stretch of the imagination was this a prepossessing structure. To Peter Wenck the main building looked a little like Hollywood’s idea of a desert fort garrisoned by the Foreign Legion. It was topped by what was an open air control tower covered by a faded white canvas awning. Next to this building was a large open hangar and two or three large tin sheds. Just inside the hangar was a Fiat CR 32 biplane fighter and two trucks of indeterminate age.
The aerodrome was set in a shallow depression surrounded on three sides by low barren hills almost devoid of vegetation. There was no sign of any other habitation though a clearly marked dirt road passed through a double-strand wire perimeter fence and headed west towards the coast.
Peter Wenck cut the engines and they waited in silence as the dust settled and the propellers stopped turning. It was decided only three of their party should make the initial approach to the group of men still grouped impassively near a doorway in the middle of the main structure.
Peter and his father dropped easily onto the ground from the forward hatch, but the rather corpulent Meunier needed a little help. The heat hit them like the blast from a freshly opened oven. Twenty-four hours previously they had been in a cool early spring climate. Now they were experiencing the type of heat never felt in Europe. Both fliers were dressed in American Air Force uniforms, while Meunier was wearing a grey shirt and a light-coloured jacket with matching trousers.
It was fifty metres to the assembled men and they walked forward unhurriedly trying to keep their wariness from being noticed. By the time they had walked the short distance separating the Boeing from their welcoming committee, all three were sweating profusely.
There were five men in two groups facing them. Two were obviously mechanics for they were wearing what could have been overalls, although the sleeves and the lower portion of the legs had been cut away. Of the other three, only one appeared to be in uniform although such a description would have caused a Wehrmacht officer to have an apoplectic fit.
The Germans stopped and when none of the Spaniards came forward Helmuth Wenck spoke softly to Meunier in English. “Speak to them, Conrad. Try out your Spanish. Ask them who is in charge.”
“Por favor, quien es el jefe aqui?”
There was some movement, which mainly consisted of some shuffling of feet, so Meunier tried a
gain. “Senors, please, who is in charge?”
The man with the uniform stepped forward and announced that he was in command.
“Your name?” snapped Meunier, deciding that politeness might not be the way to go.
The Spaniard hesitated before answering. “Porque quiere saber?” he queried arrogantly, asking who wanted to know.
Meunier turned to the two pilots and gestured with his right hand. “General White and Colonel Bradley of the Eighth Air Force. They are here to meet with Major Andres Lacalle.”
The Spaniard again hesitated and then gave a lackadaisical salute. He was clearly not impressed. The Germans returned the gesture saluting in the American way. It was also a much more precise gesture and had the desired effect, for the other man stiffened noticeably.
“Lieutenant Luis Murillo,” he said, but there was still a note of truculence in his voice.
Meunier enquired whether the other spoke English. The answer was a shake of the head.
“This is getting us nowhere,” said Meunier to his friends in English. General Wenck hesitated for a moment and then suggested Meunier ask where Major Lacalle was. The diplomat nodded and enquired as to the whereabouts of their contact.
Murillo shrugged his shoulders and said almost matter-of-factly, “Major Lacalle, quedo de venir ayer tarde, pero no ha llegado y no sabemos nada de el.”
Meunier cursed softly and then translated without looking at the Wencks.
“He claims Major Lacalle was due at El Aiun late yesterday, but so far has not arrived and they’ve heard nothing from him.”
When he finished translating the Spanish lieutenant added a few words accompanied by a rather sardonic smile. Again Meunier translated. “He’s just added that the major is well known for saying one thing and doing another.”
“Shit, what do we do now?” enquired Peter Wenck to his father when Meunier had repeated Murillo’s answer.
Helmuth Wenck mouthed his own obscenity and moved closer to Meunier. Keeping his voice low he suggested Meunier try to obtain the necessary aviation gasoline without Major Lacalle’s presence.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 33
