The Reichsbank Robbery

by Colin Roderick Fulton

  Wenck said it was not necessary and explained how his aircraft was carrying a great deal of secret equipment and he did not want anybody from the base present when it was unloaded. He then requested clearance to land.

  Peter Wenck motioned Swabisch to start on their landing drill.

  Despite knowing the drill almost by heart, Wenck was determined nothing should go wrong with the landing for he was aware how any mistake could bring unwelcome attention to their aircraft.

  Swabisch put the pilot’s check-list on his lap as Peter Wenck called the tower and introduced himself. The pilot then asked for the airfield’s altimeter setting and enquired whether there were any specific details he needed to know about landing at the base. The former was given crisply and efficiently and while Swabisch set about making sure all the switches controlling the automatic pilot were in the take-off position, the pilot listened as Corporal Kent informed him there was a stiff cross-wind cutting across the main runway.

  “Booster Pumps … on. Mixture controls … auto rich … and intercoolers, off,” said the co-pilot in English, half to himself as much as to Wenck.

  Although they had all found it hard, it had been agreed that from the moment they left the Dominican Republic all conversation should be in English, especially the aircrew conversation.

  “Peter, you know, I’m beginning to like being an American,” joked Swabisch with a mocking half smile.

  “Fine, fine. But let’s not get side-tracked. Please continue with the check-list.”

  With a wind blowing, he expected a fair degree of dust and sand from what was essentially a desert airfield, so Wenck asked his friend to activate the carburetor filters to the engines. “De-icer boots?”

  “Off, as well as the propeller anti-icers.”

  “Check landing gear warning light.”

  “Checked … and there, it’s working.”

  Wenck noted the airspeed, 155 miles per hour, so it was safe to put the undercarriage down. Swabisch turned his head from side-to-side and confirmed both legs were fully extended and then confirmed the brakes were off. It would be disastrous if they landed with the brakes on. Such a mistake would mean at best two blown tyres and, at worst, two collapsed undercarriages.

  “Tail wheel down.” He then returned the undercarriage switch back to neutral and told the pilot the warning light was safely on green.

  Together they checked the hydraulic pressure. All normal at 800 pounds, followed by the operation of the hydraulic pump.

  “It’s fine. Over 300 PSI.”

  “Cowl flap controls?”

  “Neutral, Peter. Ah she is a lovely plane. Everything always seems to work perfectly.”

  Wenck grinned and banked Miss Nonalee Two a little so she was properly aligned with the runway. His friend was right. The bomber was a jewel. She had never missed a beat or given them an ounce of trouble. He would miss her.

  He increased engine revs to 2,200 and decreased the manifold pressure to twenty-three inches. A moment’s hesitation and then he requested his co-pilot turn the turbo controls to full on and then re-adjust the manifold pressure.

  With the airspeed just above 140 miles an hour, the Boeing’s flaps were lowered halfway and he began his final approach.

  “Do you think the wind is too high to use full flaps?” he checked, his tiredness making him cautious.

  “No, but be careful,” answered Swabisch.

  The wind was coming from his left, so he lifted his starboard wing slightly to reduce the lift on his port wing. And then, just to make sure, he crabbed the plane slightly into the wind and eased her down. It was a copybook landing.

  “Ten out of ten. That dude knows how to handle a babe,” remarked Corporal Kent to his assistant in the control tower.

  As they rolled down the end of the runway, Wenck began gently applying the aircraft’s brakes. Swabisch made a quick check of the hydraulic pressure and opened the cowl flaps of the engines. The turbos were turned off as were the booster pumps.

  “Raise flaps?”

  “Yes, raise them and cut the inboard engines.”

  They spied the Jeep at the end of the runway and as the vehicle moved off he gunned the two outer engines and turned to follow. There was a fair amount of dust being blown up by the two airscrews, but the aircraft moved easily enough, even when the ground became rougher. There were rows and rows of aircraft stretched into the distance on either side, all silent and forlorn.

  To think all are destined for the wrecker’s torch, he thought and felt very sad. This was no way for his beloved aeroplane to end, it was something akin to murder. Yet, he knew there was no alternative and, in fact, was shortly to initiate something that would hasten Miss Nonalee Two’s demise.

  They taxied for almost five minutes until at last a figure in the back of the Jeep waved them to a spot at the end of a long line of dormant aircraft. Applying the brake to one wheel he swung the big bomber around and then gunned the engines for a second or so to bring her into line with the nearest aircraft. When he was in the right spot, he switched off the two remaining engines.

  For a moment he sat still, scarcely believing it was all over. They had arrived and never again would he sit in the cockpit of this plane. It was like the aftermath of lovemaking: sadness that the climax was over and yet relief that his part of their plans had come to a successful conclusion.

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed his co-pilot looking questioningly at him and in answer, gave an apologetic smile.

  “Sorry. I was just realising I won’t be flying her ever again and, ah, never mind. You’d better switch everything off.”

  Swabisch nodded in understanding and moved to complete his tasks. He first turned off all electrical switches followed by the master and battery switches.

  Wenck’s last acts were to move the control column fully forward, place the rudder pedals in neutral, raise the floor lock and place the aileron lock in the control wheel. The bomber was now safe from any wind or unauthorised use.

  He looked at a small, innocuous dun-coloured switch protected by a flip-top cover mounted on the instrument panel on his left next to the fluorescent light switches.

  No, he thought. I’ll leave it for a moment.

  He moved to the back of the aircraft followed by his father. It had been decided that at first, everybody except the two Wencks and Meunier should stay in the plane. The latter was dressed in an imposing grey-green suit and his role was to impersonate a scientist.

  A sergeant stepped out of the Jeep and saluted Helmuth Wenck.

  “General Hanson, Sir. Your truck is here, Sir,” he said unnecessarily as a huge M32 six-wheel drive-truck bearing US Air Force markings drove up and stopped near the tail gunner’s position.

  A man in the uniform of an air force first lieutenant climbed down from the cabin, walked over to the three Germans and saluted. “Sir, Lootenant Ray Kiefer – reporting as ordered!”

  Wenck returned the salute and looked over the man’s shoulders. There was another man in the cabin of the truck sitting behind the steering wheel.

  “Who’s in there, Lieutenant?” he said raising a hand in the direction of the vehicle.

  “Oh that, Sir, is Private Garcia, my driver.”

  Inwardly Helmuth Wenck frowned, yet he knew it would have appeared a little strange if Kiefer as a full lieutenant had arrived driving that monster by himself. He motioned to his son.

  “Lieutenant, this is Colonel Peter Wyatt.”

  Kiefer saluted and Peter Wenck returned the gesture, but did not speak.

  Wherever he comes from, he must at one time have been in one of the military services, reasoned Helmuth Wenck, and looked at the man closely.

  Lieutenant Kiefer was tall, well-built and carried himself with confidence. He moved easily and his gaze was steady. His demeanour exuded confidence and yet there was something about him that annoyed the elder Wenck. Without thinking the matter over deeply he finally decided it was the man’s moustache, a thin straight affair that
somewhat spoilt his manly bearing and looks.

  Helmuth Wenck turned away and spoke to the sergeant who was standing watching with obvious curiosity.

  “Sergeant, I want you to take your vehicle to the end of this row of aircraft and keep watch. We are going to unload some top secret equipment from our plane and I do not want anybody from this base to be nearby when we do so, understand?”

  The man acknowledged that he did, saluted and got back into his Jeep. The driver gunned the engine and moved to the end of the nearest row of aircraft about 300 metres away.

  “Now, Kiefer, get your man from the truck and help us unload our plane.” Then as an afterthought he added, “And I must congratulate you on your timing and planning.”

  Kiefer’s face showed little emotion. He inclined his head in acknowledgment and walked over to his truck. A few words were said to the man in the cabin and Private Garcia emerged.

  If Kiefer was an impressive figure, Garcia certainly was the antithesis of this. Short, swarthy, about thirty years of age with a countenance that probably even his mother had not liked. His uniform was clean enough, though it fitted him like an old potato sack. His teeth when he smiled (if that’s what it could be called) were the colour of the desert under his feet.

  Peter Wenck went to the crew hatch and in a quiet voice asked the others to disembark.

  In order to keep up with appearances, Helmuth Wenck stood back and took no part in unloading the aircraft or the loading of the truck. He just stood by, watched and directed proceedings. After five minutes or so he gave up on Kiefer. The man showed little emotion yet Garcia was another matter entirely. He was sly, that much was obvious, though even more worrying was the realisation that he knew the boxes and sacks contained valuables. The greed on his face was patently clear and once, when he thought nobody was looking, he even tried to open one of the sacks. He was seen by Meunier who curtly told him to desist.

  Once the truck was loaded, Helmuth Wenck instructed Meunier, Sophia and Schonewille to climb into the back of the truck while Kiefer and Garcia should get back into the cabin. He then took his son by the shoulder and they walked back to the crew entry hatch. Peter Wenck asked his father to hold the door.

  “Hold it carefully, don’t let it slam,” he warned as he grabbed both edges of the hatchway and hauled himself inside. Once back in the cockpit, he leant over his seat and lifted the protective cap on the dun coloured switch and flicked it on. A small light mounted next to the switch and connected to a separate battery came to life. Satisfied that the system was now active, he made his way back down the fuselage and climbed outside. Carefully taking the hatch cover from his father he gingerly pushed it shut and turned the handle.

  “There,” he said. “It’s now primed.”

  The switch on the instrument panel controlled two incendiary devices: one next to the huge overload tanks in the bomb bay and one situated next to the main starboard wing tank. Since the device was now primed, the incendiaries would be activated in ten days time. As an added precaution Peter Wenck had also had the device wired to the door handle on the crew hatch. Anybody attempting to enter the aircraft would set off the device.

  Miss Nonalee Two still carried a great deal of fuel and the incendiary devices were designed to set off a conflagration that would reduce the B17 to a twisted mass.

  Originally, it had been decided not to destroy the bomber, but after further discussion they had come to the conclusion it would be too risky just abandoning the aircraft. Apart from the German instruments, there were the extra fuel tanks and the absence of the ball turret. All these might conceivably cause questions. The last thing they wanted was for the Americans to begin an investigation into the origins of this bomber.

  Hopefully, by the time Miss Nonalee Two caught fire they would all be long gone and if any questions were asked, their whereabouts and identity would be a complete mystery.

  Peter Wenck got into the back of the truck while his father climbed into the cabin with Kiefer and Garcia. He told the latter to drive towards the sergeant in the Jeep. When they reached the smaller vehicle Helmuth Wenck alighted and motioned the sergeant over.

  “Sergeant, my aircraft is to remain untouched, do you understand? The other nodded his head.

  “Sir, is she being struck off?” Wenck hesitated and before he could speak the sergeant continued.

  “I mean, if she is being struck off, Sir, where is her status card? As you know, Sir, we must have it otherwise, we cannot get the paperwork in order.”

  Wenck cursed inwardly. They had presumed some sort of paperwork would be necessary but unfortunately they had no means of finding out the exact details. He guessed the status card was some sort of record of the aircraft, something quite separate from her log book. Even if he possessed this card, he felt it would have been too risky to hand it over.

  He put an extra measure of menace in his voice.

  “Sergeant, I want you to listen carefully. My aircraft is very, very special. It has been used for some top secret tests and although we have removed nearly all the special equipment nobody must go inside her. I will have a special team of people come here in about three weeks to completely strip her. Then you can have her status card, but not before. Now do you understand what I’ve said?”

  The man looked perplexed, yet said he understood. It was all too much for him, that was obvious. He now quite plainly wanted to get away from the general.

  Wenck dismissed him and then climbed back into the big truck and they drove between the rows of aircraft, past the administration buildings towards the main gate.

  They stopped at the boom and the private at the guardhouse took one look at the general’s two stars and quickly saluted. He opened the boom gate with alacrity and then they were through and driving with increasing speed up a fairly wide tarmac road.

  “Where do we go from here?” he asked Kiefer.

  The man answered with a degree of arrogance, which once again set off warning bells in Helmuth Wenck’s mind. “We have to get rid of this truck. I have a place fifty miles away where we have some other vehicles. Then we can decide what has to be done.”

  Wenck did not like the use of the term “we”, but said and did nothing except nod his head.

  Some thirty-five miles from the airfield they turned off onto a dirt road that gradually petered out until it was no more than a rough track, though several tyre marks were plainly evident. The track climbed up an escarpment and then meandered around some low, craggy hills. Garcia seemed to be a competent driver and although he crashed the gears a couple of times they made steady progress.

  Twenty minutes later, they turned right up another track and about a mile further on came upon an old derelict cabin set amidst some ancient and rusting mining equipment.

  The M32 came to a halt and Kiefer turned to Wenck. “Okay, General, here we are. Now get out!” The tone was harsh and Wenck did not bother to argue, for Kiefer was pointing an automatic at his left ear.

  As he climbed down from the cabin Garcia alighted from the driver’s side. He too carried an automatic in his right hand. At the same time a third man emerged from behind the shack carrying an M30 carbine.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  To the four sitting awkwardly in the back of the truck, the trip had not been at all comfortable. Although the back was covered by canvas, it still let in dust and exhaust fumes and since the flap was also fastened shut to avoid passers-by or following vehicles see what was inside, the interior was also fairly dark and very stuffy.

  While the other three attempted to make themselves comfortable, Schonewille examined his surroundings. As well as the boxes and sacks carrying the Reichsbank treasure there were a number of large crates plus a large tarpaulin lying half-folded near the front.

  The front of the tray where it butted up to the cabin was solid and, consequently, there was no window through which they could see into the cabin.

  As the truck continued on its journey, Schonewille kept peering through the ga
p in the canvas to see where they were going. When they stopped, he saw his father emerge and was just about to move to the rear of the truck when he spied Kiefer with a gun in his hand. At the same time he saw the man with the carbine emerge from the direction of the shack.

  He understood immediately what was happening. He turned to his companions. “It’s a trap,” he hissed. “Whatever you do, don’t let them know about me,” he whispered.

  With that he crawled under the tarpaulin and lay still as the third man pulled open the canvas.

  “All right you, get out, make it quick … and don’t try anything!” His voice was agitated and his manner nervous.

  While the three climbed out, blinking at the sunshine, he stepped back and then motioned them clear of the vehicle. At the same time, Garcia and Kiefer directed Helmuth Wenck towards them.

  “Okay, Manuel, search them. We’ll keep them covered. These Krauts will all be armed, not just those in uniform … Hey wait a minute. I thought there were six … Jesus where …”

  Kiefer swung round towards the truck just as Schonewille wrenched open a corner of the canvas hood and fired two shots from his Walther. Both bullets struck Kiefer in the body and he lurched backwards clutching his belly. Garcia, who had been lasciviously running his hands over Sophia’s breasts, moved backwards and tried to jerk his automatic from his trouser belt where he had stuck it in order to free his hands.

  As the Mexican turned to face the truck, Peter Wenck aimed a vicious kick that caught him from behind, the toe catching the inside of his thighs before striking his testicles. The man gave a hoarse, agonised grunt, fell to his knees and then, ignoring the pain, attempted to turn and raise his weapon towards the pilot.

  By this time Peter Wenck had freed his Colt automatic from its holster and he pulled the trigger three times without taking proper aim. The first two shots missed, while the third bullet struck Garcia in the face next to his nose, its exit taking away half the back of his head.

  In the meantime, Swabisch and Helmuth Wenck had succeeded in disarming the third man who had been knocked to the ground in the struggle. Kiefer was lying on the ground moaning, the front of his uniform soaked in blood.