by Read, Simon
An aerial reconnaisance photograph of Stalag Luft III. The white arrow is pointing to the railway station the escapees headed for once clearing the tunnel. BRITISH NATIONAL ARCHIVES: AIR 40/229
At the time of the shootings, Breithaupt was Spann’s personal driver and lived in a small room above the maintenance garage behind the offices of the Saarbrücken Gestapo. Shortly after four in the morning on March 29, Spann woke Breithaupt and told him to prepare the car for a journey to Mannheim. Breithaupt forced himself out of bed and checked the tires and engine oil. Satisfied, he pulled the car round to the front of the office and saw Kriminalsekretär Emil Schulz standing in the predawn gloom. Getting in the car, Schulz explained that two escapees from Stalag Luft III were being held by the local criminal police and were “to be returned to a camp in the Reich.” They drove to Lerchesflur Prison, retrieved the fugitives, and brought them back to Gestapo headquarters, where Schulz shackled the prisoners’ wrists. Bushell protested and surprised Breithaupt and Schulz by addressing them in angry German.
“This is not compatible with the honor of an officer,” he said.
An apologetic Schulz said he was only following orders and disappeared inside the building. He returned several minutes later with Spann; both men wore their gray SS uniforms. Schulz climbed into the backseat between the prisoners. Spann got in the front and told Breithaupt to start driving. He informed the airmen they were being taken to a prison camp deep in the heart of Germany. From Saarbrücken, Breithaupt drove to Hamburg and picked up the Reichsstrasse. He followed it to Kaiserslautern and merged onto the autobahn in the direction of Mannheim. The road at this early hour was empty, prompting Breithaupt to ride hard on the accelerator.
“Don’t drive so fast,” Spann said. “We have plenty of time.”
Bushell and Scheidhauer remained silent during the journey. Spann eventually ordered Breithaupt to pull onto the grass verge. He told the driver to stay with the prisoners and got out of the car with Schulz. The two men each lit a cigarette, and they stamped their feet in the frigid air. They walked to the rear of the car and stood conversing in close quarters, their voices quiet. Breithaupt, watching them through the back window, saw Spann beckon to him.
“I have received an order by teleprint from Berlin to shoot the prisoners,” Spann said matter-of-factly. Seeing the look on Breithaupt’s face, he tried to offer words of reason. “Remember what happens to our wives and children during air raids on our cities.”
The matter closed to further discussion, Spann returned to the car and told the men to get out and relieve themselves. An indignant Bushell raised his shackled wrists and said he couldn’t do anything while handcuffed. Spann agreed and ordered Schulz to remove the manacles. The prisoners got out and stood on the snow-covered roadside, rubbing their wrists to get the blood flowing. Spann and Schulz covered them with pistols in hand.
“Shots will be fired immediately if you try to escape,” Spann said.
He gestured with his Walther and made the airmen walk several feet from the roadway, down a slight embankment. Schulz followed close behind, while Breithaupt—standing at the rear of the car—watched from his elevated vantage point. Satisfied passersby on the autobahn could not see them, Spann—standing to the left and slightly behind the airmen—told them to stop and attend to their business. Schulz covered the prisoners from behind and to the right. Bushell and Scheidhauer were unbuttoning their trousers when Spann looked at Schulz and nodded. The two Gestapo men raised their pistols. Spann took aim at the back of Scheidhauer’s head. Breithaupt looked away just as Schulz and Spann fired their guns at point-blank range. The two shots “sounded almost like one” to Breithaupt, who turned around to see the airmen lying in crimson-colored snow between some shrubbery. Neither prisoner, in that final moment, made a sound. His weapon still smoking, Spann ordered Schulz to guard the scene and returned to the car for the journey back to headquarters.
“You are not allowed to talk to anyone about what has actually taken place,” Spann told Breithaupt as they pulled away from the scene. “Should anyone ask you about the whereabouts of the prisoners, you are to say they’ve been shot whilst escaping—or while trying to escape.”
Breithaupt nodded and listened as his superior dictated further instructions. In the cellar of the Saarbrücken office, there was “a big, coffin-like wooden box” large enough to hold two bodies, Spann said. Breithaupt was to load the box into a truck and retrieve the corpses. Arrangements had been made for their disposal at the “working camp” in the small town of Neue Bremm. Back at the office, Breithaupt did as instructed. He slid the box, with the help of another driver, into the back of a canvas-top truck and returned to the scene of the shooting. He and Schulz loaded the bodies into the box and drove to Neue Bremm, less than two miles outside Saarbrücken, on the southwest fringes of the city.
“What’s going to happen to the bodies?” asked Breithaupt.
“They are to be cremated,” Schulz replied.
Although not a concentration camp, Neue Bremm was a place of barbaric treatment. The Nazis referred to it as an “expanded police prison,” a facility used to break prisoners. The conditions were squalid and the barracks fetid. Inmates were starved to the brink of death, tortured, and oftentimes murdered. For those fated for Auschwitz, Belsen, Buchenwald, and the other larger death camps, Neue Bremm often served as a waypoint before their final destination. Breithaupt and Schulz arrived at the compound late in the morning and were met outside by Schmoll, the police inspector contacted by Spann.
“He pointed out an empty space where we put the case with the bodies,” Breithaupt said. The bodies delivered, the Gestapo men returned to headquarters.
As for Schulz, Breithaupt said he knew the man had most recently lived in Saarbrücken, on the corner of Saargemünder and Julius Kiefer Strasse. He described the Kriminalsekretär, thirty-eight, as being slim in build and five feet, five inches tall, with medium fair hair. McKenna, Williams, and Van Giessen drove to the Saarbrücken address. It was a run-down apartment building with an exterior scarred by war. The men walked hallways of threadbare carpet and peeling walls, knocking on doors and questioning tenants. Yes, the Schulz family once lived in the building, but they had moved in recent months. Where? Frankenholz, a village just outside Saarbrücken. The investigators traced the family to a small house and were met at the door by Frau Angela Schulz. Through Van Giessen, McKenna stated the purpose of his visit and asked her if she had been in recent contact with her husband. Frau Schulz shook her head and said she had not heard from Emil in several months. A small girl clung to the woman’s side as she spoke.
McKenna entered the house and took a cursory glance around but saw nothing to suggest a recent male presence. On the walls, family snapshots showed a smiling middle-aged man, slender in a gray suit and fedora, flanked by two young girls—one of whom still held firm to her mother’s dress. Normality, the kind forever captured in the pictures, now seemed a distant thing of the past. With Frau Schulz’s permission, McKenna and his team searched the house. The men moved from room to room, opening drawers and emptying wardrobes. McKenna searched a bureau in the bedroom and found, buried beneath some clothes in the top drawer, a neatly folded letter written in German. He passed the paper to Van Giessen, who read the opening line aloud: “My dearest, brave darling, it is a wonderful comfort to me that you and the children are safe.” Frau Schulz stood watching in the doorway with tears in her eyes. McKenna took the letter from Van Giessen and quietly asked the woman who wrote it. There was no date or return address, and the signature was no more than a scribble. Her face trembling, the woman said the letter was from a close acquaintance. McKenna did not push the matter. The wife and children were suffering. He pocketed the letter and explained he would have to take it with him. The RAF men left the house and drove away in silence.
Closer examination of the letter’s paper stock revealed it to be the type of stationery used in French prisons. The French operated a number of internment camps ne
ar Saarbrücken, the closest one being less than ten miles outside of town. McKenna felt some apprehension as he and Flight Sergeant Williams drove through the camp’s main entrance. If they found their man here, there was no guarantee the camp’s commandant would hand him over to the British. Because of Scheidhauer’s nationality, the French might decide they had jurisdiction and refuse to release any suspects connected to the murders. In the commandant’s office, McKenna introduced himself and said he was looking for a man named Emil Schulz, wanted for the murder of an RAF officer. McKenna made a point of stressing Bushell’s nationality—“South African born, but of British nationality.” He showed the commandant the letter found in Frau Schulz’s bedroom. The Frenchman examined the document and focused his attention on the illegible signature. He told McKenna it looked as though Ernst Schmidt, a current inmate, had signed the letter. Armed guards brought Schmidt to the office and sat him in a chair.
“I am an RAF officer investigating the murders of British escapees from Stalag Luft III,” McKenna said by way of introduction. “I have reason to believe that your name is Emil Schulz and that you have information relevant to this investigation.”
The man’s face twitched slightly at the mention of Emil Schulz, but he played ignorant. McKenna thought back to the modest house in Frankenholz, the worried wife and upset children. He took the letter from the commandant’s desk and passed it to the man known as Schmidt. It took the prisoner only the briefest moment to realize the futility of his situation. He grasped the piece of paper as though it were some treasured artifact and pulled it close. He lowered his head and confessed to his true identity. “Ich bin Emil Schulz. Angela Schulz is meine Gattin.”
Schulz’s statement, for the most part, followed Breithaupt’s take on events. After the car pulled to the side of the road, Schulz unshackled the prisoners and let them out of the vehicle. Schulz left the handcuffs on the backseat, pulled a Walther PPK from his coat pocket, and followed the two airmen onto the grass. At that moment, Schulz said, Spann fired several shots.
“I also fired one of these shots in the direction of the bigger officer,” Schulz said, referring to Bushell. “I do not know whether I hit him; I saw both officers collapse. Scheidhauer fell on his face. I think Bushell crumpled up, fell somewhat on his right side and, in lying there, turned on his back. On approaching closer, I noticed the dying man was in convulsions.”
Schulz knelt beside the writhing airman and took careful aim. He steadied his right hand in the crook of his left elbow, brought the pistol to bear on Bushell’s left temple, and pulled the trigger.
“Death,” Schulz said quietly, “took place immediately.”
McKenna slapped two cartons of English cigarettes on the commandant’s desk and said he wanted to take Schulz into custody without delay. The Frenchman eyed the smokes and considered the offering. McKenna, hoping the Frenchman would not broach matters of jurisdiction, nudged the cartons closer. The commandant opened one of the boxes and inhaled the smell of tobacco. He smiled and nodded. An adjutant presented the necessary papers and had McKenna sign his name. Emil Schulz was now a prisoner of the Royal Air Force. McKenna and Williams hurried Schulz to their jeep, eager to leave the French Zone before higher authorities learned of the trade and took Schulz back into custody. Williams drove, his foot heavy on the accelerator; McKenna sat alongside Schulz in the backseat. The car sped through open country toward the British Zone. Their journey took them past the very spot where Bushell and Scheidhauer had been murdered. McKenna told Williams to stop the car and ask Schulz in German if he cared to relieve himself. The prisoner shot McKenna a terrified look and recoiled. “Nein!” he screamed. McKenna allowed himself a smile and told Williams to keep driving. The men spent the night in the American Zone and arrived at the Minden holding facility the following morning. Schulz gave another statement, this time in front of an RAF stenographer.
“I had never killed a man before, and haven’t killed anyone since,” he said. “I tried to get out of this killing. I told Dr. Spann that what he was asking me to do was wrong, but all he said was, ‘Just do as I tell you.’ He said, ‘Remember, this man was a terror-flier. Think of what our wives and children had to suffer in the German cities.’ What else could I do? If I’d not done it, someone else would have done it. If we had all refused, we could have been shot. But I have always expected to answer for this…this deed I never wished to do. And now, it is the end of the road.”
Arrangements were made to transfer Schulz to the London Cage, with McKenna serving as escort. En route, Schulz asked McKenna if he would deliver a letter to his wife. McKenna initially refused, but Schulz’s gentle pleading won him over. In truth, McKenna felt pity for the man. He was no Nazi—or at least not a true believer. He was simply another casualty of war caught on the wrong side and swept up in a situation far beyond his control. McKenna thought of the man’s wife and children back in Frankenholz. They would never see him again—a fact Schulz acknowledged. McKenna provided the pen and paper. Schulz wrote:
Dear Angela, dear Ingeborg, dear Helga, you dears of mine!
I am already in England now, and, alas, could not say Goodbye to you. I am here as a prisoner because of carrying out an official order in the spring of 1944.
I never on my own initiative acted against the laws of humanity. Had I not taken part, then I would have gone down at that time. I was on guard duty with Ludwig Weiss, who is in hospital in Hamburg. Ask him!
I’m waiting for justice. I only ask to be treated as I deserve and judged according to my position. In that case, I’ll be all right. Do what you can for me. You, dear Angela, have courage and live only for the children. I’ll do the same.
The snaps of Ingeborg and Helga are my faithful companions. From them I find a lot of consolation and new strength.
If I did not tell you anything it was only because I did not want to worry you unduly. It would have been much, much more difficult for me. How easier it would be to suffer death three times in order to prevent all this happening to you and especially the children. Ask Rudolf Specht to help you in everything you undertake for me. He can help you. I shall write again as soon as I can. Be brave with the children. My regards to my old father, brothers and sisters. They will stand by you. Greetings to you, dear Mother, your suffering goes to my heart, it hurts me very much. Give my regards to my two brothers-in-law who are now in England.
Ever your faithful husband, your daddy and your
Emil
McKenna, violating the RAF’s “strict rules governing fraternization,” delivered the letter to Schulz’s wife and gently explained her husband’s situation. Choking on her emotions, Frau Schulz blamed the Gestapo for her family’s circumstance. She and her husband had been childhood sweethearts. He started his career as a civilian police officer in 1928 but was posted to the Gestapo ten years later. Following his transfer, he wore plain clothes to work in lieu of a uniform—something she found distressing. Why was there a need for such secrecy? “That’s not good,” she would tell her husband. “I do not like it, Emil.” She now took the letter with unsteady hands and retreated to another room. She read it multiple times and committed the words to memory. She was not allowed to keep it. McKenna sat quietly in the small sitting room until she emerged, letter in hand, her face twisted in anguish. She slipped the letter with care back in its envelope and gave it to McKenna, thanking him for his kindness. Realizing there was nothing he could say or do to ease the woman’s torment, he simply wished her well and left her to grieve.
The weight of the woman’s misery proved a heavy burden as he drove back to Rinteln.
TEN
DANZIG
While the investigation moved forward on various fronts, it remained stagnant on others. McKenna thought of it as a complex machine comprised of multiple systems all working independent of one another, thrumming to their own mechanized rhythm. Some parts moved with greater efficiency than others. McKenna reviewed the case files, cigarette smoke hanging thick and heavy over h
is desk. The Munich case was all but solved. True, Munich Gestapo chief Oswald Schäfer remained at large, but the actual gunmen were now in British custody. Four of the nine men wanted for killing Squadron Leader Kirby-Green and Flying Officer Kidder in Zlín were in the British military prison at Minden, awaiting trial. Still being sought was Otto Kozlowsky, the Brno Gestapo lawyer who constructed a false account of the killings to present to the Red Cross. Sources in Czechoslovakia had recently told the RAF that Kozlowsky had been arrested in Prague, tied to a lamppost by outraged citizens, doused in gasoline, and set alight. The story had yet to be verified. Gunman Adolf Knuppelberg, it emerged, was freed from a Russian prison camp in 1945. His whereabouts remained a mystery and would continue to do so. Hugo Roemer, the major who passed the order to kill from local Gestapo chief Wilhelm Nöelle to Knuppelberg, also remained elusive.* Roemer’s personal driver, Fritz Schwarzer, had been found in Czech custody and was being left to the authorities in that country.
