The Reichsbank Robbery

by Colin Roderick Fulton

  “Why should we stay here?” again demanded the SS officer. “I suggest we go outside and reconnoitre.”

  It was more of a demand than a suggestion. General Wenck, though, agreed. “He is right, we should check out our surroundings,” he said, noticing the effect his words were having on his first born. Schonewille nodded his head, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. It was like they were little boys once again.

  “Friedrich and I will check both hangars. The rest of you stay here.” He proceeded to take off his shirt and jacket. When he had stripped to his underpants, he turned to Schonewille. “It is up to you, Friedrich. If you want to live in soaking clothes, you can go out as you are.”

  The other nodded and also began to strip off. The general made it clear they would not take any weapons with them and then, without any preamble, climbed down the ladder, followed by his son.

  Those inside the aircraft watched them walk to the hangar on their right, the one opposite the crew entry door and the furthest away from the aircraft. It was difficult to see clearly because of the rain’s intensity, but they saw them open a door and slip out of sight.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  26 March 1945

  1500 Hours

  “The paradise of God,” said Meunier.

  “I beg your pardon?” queried Peter Wenck.

  They were sitting on two folding canvas chairs under the belly of the bomber, just behind where the leading edge of the wings joined the fuselage. The rain had stopped and brilliant hues of blue began to appear through gaps in the rapidly clearing cloud. In the distance a huge rainbow added a dimension of colour to the sky. The heat was already bordering on the oppressive, humid and energy-sapping.

  “The paradise of God,” repeated the diplomat. “Those were the words of Columbus who discovered the island of Hispaniola. He thought it was the most beautiful place on earth.” He stopped for a moment and then when the pilot did not answer continued with his history lesson. “You know, this island had the first permanent Spanish settlement in the New World, Santo Domingo, or as it’s called now, Ciudad Trujillo, in honour of this country’s esteemed leader,” he added with a trace of sarcasm.

  “Seems a long way from the Reich,” mused the pilot and then added, “I wonder what’s happening. I wonder how far the Allies have advanced.”

  “Who gives a damn?” said Meunier.

  The vehemence in his voice was so strong that Wenck turned to look at him. He questioned his companion about his attitude. Meunier searched his face for a moment, his countenance creased into a frown. He seemed to be deciding on something. Finally, he spoke, his words low, his intonation clipped and his eyes never leaving the pilot’s face.

  “Have you asked yourself why your father and I have been so determined to leave Germany and why we have so little thought about our comrades still fighting for their lives, eh?” He almost spat out the words, his tone now rising in anger.

  The pilot shrugged. “Well, I suppose it was like me … a way to escape and do so with some money …”

  Meunier broke in, his voice sarcastic, his words belittling. “Don’t give me that shit. Your father has told me you’ve been worried about the war for some time, but with us, it is much more than that. Quite simply, your father and I do not want to be in Germany when the Allies and the rest of the world realise fully what we’ve done.” Peter Wenck looked questioningly at the diplomat who continued after another moment’s hesitation.

  “We all know of the concentration camps. What we don’t know, or what we have not let ourselves believe is what actually goes on inside them.” He again paused and this time when he continued speaking his voice was low and full of emotion. “Peter, my dear friend. Over the past two months I have been gathering, or rather verifying information about the camps and what I have found out is so horrible that I believe the world will wreak a terrible vengeance on the German people. The camps have been used as extermination centres. If my information is correct, we have quite literally planned and carried out the systematic murder of millions of people.”

  The pilot stared at the man, unable to comprehend what he was saying. “Oh, come now. Surely you must be exaggerating. It is beyond reason. And how does one kill millions of people and how or where does one get rid of the bodies?”

  Meunier sat still for a moment and to the pilot’s horror began to weep, the tears welling up in his eyes and running down his pudgy cheeks onto his shirt.

  “My dear boy, we are an efficient people. As I’ve said, if my information is accurate and I believe it is, we are gassing the prisoners. Then we are burning them in huge ovens. Men, women and children. It has been going on non-stop for at least three years.”

  Peter Wenck sat rigid, a wave of horror spreading over his body. His chest began to hurt with a pain so strong he thought for a moment he was having a heart attack, and his mouth went dry.

  Again, he tried to suggest that Meunier’s information was wrong. The diplomat shook his head vigorously. He explained how he had received information from several reliable sources. One, he said, had been a close friend, another diplomat, who like he had worked for Admiral Canaris. The man’s son had been a committed Nazi and had joined the Waffen SS in 1939. On being wounded on the Russian front he had been sent to Dachau and while on leave had boasted to his father what was happening at the camps.

  “My friend came to see me, he was so shocked. He had made some checks of his own. It was very difficult to verify, you see, even at the most senior levels of the Reich it is a secret. At any rate, he confirmed what Kurt his son had said. He told me he intended committing suicide. And that’s just what he did. He asked his son to come home because his mother was ill and then quite simply shot him. He then shot his wife and finally, himself. He committed suicide.

  “Your brother, I’m afraid to say, knows all about it. He was part of the system. Although he was not part of the killing, his job was to visit the camps and liaise with their Kommandanten and do the book-keeping. You know, add up all the money and valuables stolen from the inmates,” he said in explanation as Wenck’s brow furrowed, not understanding, or rather not wanting to understand.

  “Unmöglich, unmöglich,” he kept repeating.

  Meunier went on to explain how Schonewille had rescued Sophia from one of the holding camps prior to being transported to Auschwitz and although the Jewess had been extremely reticent in talking about her experience, she had confirmed several points.

  “Jesus. Well what’s their relationship like then?” the pilot asked.

  “Oh, I believe it’s like any relationship when somebody rescues you from hell. I think she’s grateful and I think … no I’m sure, she’s used what women have always used when confronted with a choice as stark. She’s used her body to protect herself, though to be fair, he is obviously very much in love with her and has risked a lot to do what he has done. You should bear that in mind when you spend time with her. He is very jealous and if you mix this together with his obvious sense of inferiority to both you and your father, you get a dangerous mix of emotions.” He looked warningly at the pilot.

  Peter Wenck felt sick. He had been enjoying the peace and the rest from their travels. Now he felt a deep anger. The sharp pain in his chest had been replaced by a dull sickening ache.

  The sound of feet came from behind. His father, dressed again in his US Air Force uniform, stood over them. His son blurted out, “Christ, Father. Conrad has just told me about the camps. Christ,” he repeated shaking his head. “Das is unglaublich,” he said.

  “Unbelievable it may be, but it is true nevertheless. Believe me, nothing felt better than taking off my Luftwaffe uniform. Nothing in God’s name will ever induce me to call myself a German again.”

  All three lapsed into silence. Despite the clearing weather, the airfield still appeared deserted. It was over an hour since the general and Schonewille had opened the door of the hangar and slipped inside. Except for a DC3 and three other small nondescript light aircraft, the building h
ad been deserted.

  They had explored some offices on the far side that were also empty of any humans before crossing the tarmac and entering the second hangar. This too contained a motley collection of aircraft augmented by two petrol tankers and an immaculate Cord sports coupé.

  On returning to the Boeing, the Germans had waited until the rain stopped and then all had stepped outside to stretch their legs. A few minutes later, the Model-T Ford re-appeared and the same man who had greeted them on their arrival handed over a large basket crammed with food and two bottles of light red wine. To their questions on what was happening, he just shrugged his shoulders and told them to wait.

  It was at this time that Helmuth Wenck remembered seeing three folding canvas chairs in one of the hangars and went to fetch them. They alternated between sitting outside in the gathering sunshine and keeping watch from the cockpit of the B17. One of the hangars had also contained a small wash room and toilet so, one at a time, they had used the sink and its hot water to have a rudimentary wash and, in the case of the men, a shave, their first since leaving Norway.

  Peter Wenck had insisted on one pilot always staying in the cockpit in readiness for a quick take-off. He was determined that at no stage would they be caught unawares. The minutes ticked by. “This afternoon siesta you mentioned, how long does it take?”

  “Oh, usually it takes from three to five hours, give or take an hour-or-so,” said Meunier with a wide grin. He seemed to have re-gained his sunny disposition, the tears of a few minutes ago banished in the general well-being of the sunny Dominican afternoon.

  Time dragged on. Then the stillness was broken by the sound of an aircraft engine firing up, quickly followed by the sound of a second engine coming to life. Both were obviously of the same type. After a few seconds, the noise dropped in crescendo and the engines could be heard idling. The two Wencks ran to the farthest hangar and peeped around the front in the direction of the aerodrome’s administration buildings. They could see a dozen white-uniformed figures standing about twenty-five metres from a large twin-engined passenger plane.

  “Curtis, a C46 transport,” said the pilot in a low voice, his aircraft recognition impeccable as always.

  “It’s probably the American legation Savory was talking about.”

  They watched in silence as the transport’s door closed and the pilot once again revved up the engines and began taxiing away from the terminal towards the main runway. On reaching it the American pilot did not hesitate, turning the big transport onto the flight line and immediately accelerating away. Once airborne, the plane banked to its right, away from the hangars and the parked Boeing, and headed south in a shallow climb in the direction of the Dominican capital.

  The two Germans hurried back towards their own aircraft. Swabisch got into the cockpit in readiness for a hurried take-off. Peter Wenck wanted to stay outside with his father and Meunier, but the Luftwaffe general pulled rank.

  “No, Peter, I want you inside. Man the front Browning. Put Friedrich in the top turret since this means he will not be able to use it unless the engines are started and you or I give the order to shoot.”

  The two older men then dragged the two chairs clear of the plane and sat down. The general took the safety off his big Colt and stuck it in his trouser belt in the small of his back. It was uncomfortable, but he ignored the pressure on his spine.

  They did not have long to wait. The sound of the Ford could be heard and seconds later it had stopped only a few metres from the seated Germans. Both rose as a tall immaculately-dressed officer stepped from the car and moved towards them.

  “Colonel Savory, I presume?” said Helmuth Wenck in English. His European accent was not noticeable.

  The other man nodded and also spoke in English, his accent also impeccable. “I trust your rank is accurate, for I know the uniform is a misnomer.”

  “Yes, Colonel, the rank is genuine and so is the authority it represents. And yes, I do not hold the rank of general in the US Air Force.”

  Savory smiled and gave a crisp salute. He was a handsome man. Dark-haired, a little above average height, with soft brown eyes and a small, neatly trimmed moustache. The general returned the salute and Savory turned to Meunier. “And now, my old friend, Conrad. How are you?”

  “Fine, fine, thank you, Colonel. How is the family?”

  “Thank you, they are well. The two girls are now thirteen and ten years old. The boy, my son, is almost nine.” His voice showed the pride in his heir.

  Wenck listened impatiently as the two chatted. In exasperation he finally broke into the conversation. “Colonel Savory, the gasoline. You have it as agreed?”

  The Dominican nodded and then asked whether they had the $50,000 as promised. Both Germans smiled at each other, though there was no mirth in the gesture, rather a ‘I told you so’ weariness. Meunier had warned his friend that Savory would probably try to extract more money from them, although the scope of the increase surprised them.

  “This is the most corrupt country in all the Americas, and as you know that is certainly saying something,” said the diplomat. “Colonel. Our agreement was for $10,000,” he said, a querulous edge to his voice.

  “I know, I know,” said Savory in a cajoling voice. “But I have had added expenses, a few extra payments.” He did not use the word bribes.

  Helmuth Wenck’s voice went hard. “And pray, what happens if we won’t pay this extra amount?”

  “Why then, you will have to stay here until the Americans discover your presence. I’m sure they would like to get their aeroplane back.”

  “Now you listen, Savory, and you listen very carefully for there will be no argument and no negotiation. I am a man of my word and we have nothing to lose. If the gasoline is not here in five minutes we will take-off and then we will machine-gun this base until it’s so full of holes the rats will think it’s cheese. Understand?” Savory’s eyes went dark and he nodded very slowly, never taking his eyes from the German’s face. “And just to make sure there is no attempt at a double-cross, there is somebody up there in our plane’s nose with a nice heavy-calibre machine-gun. You will stay here until the gasoline is delivered.”

  “Very well, General, I will comply. But, I stress I will need more money.”

  “We can give you another $10,000. That’s $20,000 in total. Unless you have paid an unnecessary amount in bribes, it is a small fortune.”

  Savory’s eyes lit up at the amount. The offer went some way to salvaging his pride in the face of the German general’s threats and stubbornness. Still, he thought, I can always have a word in the ear of the Americans about these people.

  Helmuth Wenck almost read his mind. “Oh, and one more thing, Colonel. I know you don’t know of our destination and South America is a big place but, if anybody starts checking on our whereabouts, and we get to hear of it, believe me, we have the means of finding out. Instructions will be sent to our agents and your family will suffer. Do I make myself clear?”

  The threat seemed to have a salutary effect on the Dominican colonel. He turned to the man in the car and spoke to him in rapid Spanish. The car drove away and returned almost immediately followed by two small tankers.

  “Will you instruct my men on how to fill your aircraft?” asked Savory.

  Helmuth Wenck shook his head. He did not want any of the Dominicans near the bomber, so he called for Swabisch to come outside and together they coupled the hoses to the fuel tanks while the Dominican Air Force personnel manned the valves on the trucks.

  Before loading the fuel into the Boeing, Peter Wenck vacated his position in the nose and carefully questioned Colonel Savory on the origins of the fuel and its potency. To his relief, the Dominican’s reply was as good as could be hoped. “Do not worry on that score, Senor. The fuel comes from the United States and in fact was used on the legation’s transport aircraft this afternoon. It is top grade, I assure you.”

  He hoped the man was not lying, so to placate his suspicions, he made some simple che
cks on the aviation fuel. Before starting to fill the Boeing’s tanks and, several times during the operation, he filled a glass jar with the petrol and held it to the light. In all four cases it was clear of condensation and contamination. However, there was no way to verify its octane rating.

  These checks, combined with the poor capacity of the pumps and the need to fill both tankers again, meant the operation took almost an hour-and-a-half. This amount of fuel clearly worried Savory. To placate him Helmuth Wenck said he would compensate him with some extra money, over and above the promise of $20,000. At this offer he visibly brightened, although he was curious at the amount of petrol being pumped into the bomber.

  “Senors, your aeroplane is a flying petrol tank. You must have a long way to go?”

  It was a question, not a statement, and to further confuse the man the elder Wenck reinforced his earlier lie. “Yes, we are carrying a lot of fuel, but then Argentina is a long way from here, is it not?”

  Savory nodded in agreement and nothing more was said.

  With the re-fuelling finished, Savory was asked to wait while Helmuth Wenck, his son and the diplomat held a short council.

  They had originally hoped to spend the night at Puerto Plata and leave in the morning. That way they would have arrived at their destination at nightfall when they could mask much of their features. As well, they reasoned, it was less likely any senior American officers would be on duty.

  Now they were not sure what to do. Savory’s attempts at blackmail worried them and the presence of the American legation so near at hand was also cause for concern. Reluctantly they decided to vacate the Dominican base straight away. Peter Wenck consulted his watch and did a quick calculation.

  It was almost half-past-five. If they left immediately they would reach their destination early the following morning. Although it was not as good as landing at dusk, it might just be the next best thing.

  The pilot was somewhat rested, but his father was still worried. Another flight of between fifteen and sixteen hours would almost finish him. “I agree. We should leave now, but only on one condition. Once we have taken off and are clear of landfall, Leo will take over. Is that understood?”