“Colonel, I’m not entitled to wear those wings.”
“That may be true. On the other hand, as Colonel Mattingly and I discussed, there is very little chance of someone rushing up to you when you land someplace and demanding to see your certificate of graduation from flight school. No one has ever asked me for such proof. And even if the unexpected happened, you could dazzle him with your CIC credentials, couldn’t you, Special Agent Cronley?”
Cronley chuckled.
“Jim—may I call you ‘Jim’?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“And you may call me ‘sir’ or ‘Colonel,’ whichever comes easiest.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jim, Bob Mattingly and I go back a long ways. We share a mutual admiration for Major General I. D. White, who will shortly return to Germany and assume command of the U.S. Constabulary. When it is activated, I will become Aviation Officer of the U.S. Constabulary.
“The Air Force, always willing to share its superior knowledge with we lesser birdmen, volunteered to have a look at the proposed Table of Organization and Equipment, came to item Number So and So, two each Fieseler Fi 156 Storch aircraft, and promptly wet its panties. They could not in good conscience approve the use of captured enemy aircraft, as the reliability of such aircraft was unknown, and they didn’t want to be responsible for some Army Liaison pilot of limited skills injuring himself.
“Over the years, I’ve provided Bob Mattingly—that is, provided the late and lamented OSS—with all sorts of aircraft. So I mentioned this to him, wondering if he had use for the Storches. His response was he’d love to have them, but would have to look around for a pilot or pilots and that would be a problem.
“Yesterday, he called me. A benevolent Deity had just dropped a pilot in his lap. There was a small problem: Although this chap had a commercial ticket, with multi-engine and instrument ratings, he had not wanted to be an aerial taxi driver and had concealed these ratings from the Army. In spite of that, he had just returned from flying a Storch, a Cub, and a Lodestar around the mouth of the Magellan Strait in connection with some activity Mattingly didn’t wish to share with me but which had caused President Truman to jump him from Second John to Captain and pin the DSM on his manly chest.
“So here we are,” Wilson went on. “That was a nice recovery from the stall, by the way. Most people would have tried—and suffered a possible fatal mistake at that altitude—restarting the engine.”
“Thank you.”
“So, what you get is two Storches, a decent supply of parts, and, if you think they would fit into Kloster Grünau, a former Luftwaffe Storch pilot and three mechanics.”
Cronley’s first reaction was: Great! I barely know how to fly a Storch, and I know zilch about maintaining one.
That was immediately followed by: And what is Major Harold Wallace, not to mention Colonel Robert Mattingly, going to say when they hear I’ve moved four Germans into Kloster Grünau, thereby posing a threat to the secrets of Operation Ost?
And that was immediately followed by: Stop thinking like a second lieutenant, Captain Cronley. You command Kloster Grünau. If Mattingly told Tiny “to handle” the problem of the Russian he caught, and you ask him, “Colonel, what should I do?” he’s going to have one more confirmation of his suspicions that giving you responsibility for Kloster Grünau, considering your youth and inexperience, was one of the dumbest decisions he ever made.
“Colonel, what can you tell me about the Germans?”
“The former Luftwaffe captain—his name is Kurt Schröder—showed up a couple of days after I brought in the Storches. I found them, loaded them on trucks, and brought them here. Schröder said that he had just been released from a POW enclosure, and as he walked home—he lives near here—he saw the Storches being trucked here. He thought we might need someone to work on the planes. And he needed a job to feed his family. He also said he knew where to find the Storch mechanics. So I hired him. Them. They’ve worked out well. Schröder checked me out in the airplane, and his men do a fine job maintaining them. Even Sergeant McNair approves.”
“Sounds great, sir. I’ll take them. Thank you.”
“There are several problems, starting with paying them. The German currency is useless. What Schröder and his people had been working for is food. That isn’t a problem for me here. It’s not hard to find extra food for twenty-odd mouths when Sonthofen is drawing Quartermaster rations for about sixteen hundred people. But how would you handle that at Kloster Grünau?”
“Not a problem, sir.”
Wilson’s eyebrows went up questioningly.
“We draw standard GI rations for our prisoners, sir, as well as for our guard company.”
“Okay,” Wilson said, his tone making it clear that he didn’t believe that was the complete answer.
—
And it wasn’t.
First Sergeant Chauncey L. Dunwiddie had explained that what was almost certainly a fraud committed daily upon the U.S. Army had begun as a solution to a deadly serious problem concerning the secrecy of Operation Ost. The solution had been proposed by Sergeant Friedrich Hessinger and approved by Colonel Robert Mattingly.
As long as General Gehlen and the members of Abwehr Ost had been prisoners of war, they had been entitled under the Geneva Conventions to the same rations as their U.S. Army captors.
It was important that everybody in Abwehr Ost be run through a De-Nazification Court, declared to be Non-Nazis, and released to civilian life as quickly as possible.
And this was done. All members of Abwehr Ost, including a substantial number of Nazis, were run through De-Nazification Courts, adjudged to be Non-Nazis, and released from POW status.
This permitted Headquarters, European Command, when the Russians demanded to know if EUCOM had in its POW enclosures any former members of Abwehr Ost, whom they wished to interrogate, to truthfully state that they did not.
The problem then became how to draw rations for Gehlen and his men, now that they were not POWs and had been returned to their civilian pursuits.
Sergeant Hessinger’s suggestion, which after serious consideration Colonel Mattingly ordered put into execution, was to have the XXIIIrd CIC Detachment accept the surrender of a number of German officers and soldiers and place them into its POW enclosure at Kloster Grünau. The number of prisoners equaled that of the Abwehr Ost prisoners, plus ten percent as a cushion.
Names of the prisoners were compiled from a copy of the Munich telephone book, and their organizations from the USFET G-2 Order of Battle. Once this compilation had been made, it was checked against the roster of Operation Ost to make sure that no name on the latter appeared on the Roster of Prisoners.
The vetted list was classified Secret and then presented to the U.S. Army Quartermaster Depot in Munich, which accepted it without question—it was signed by the deputy chief, CIC, European Theatre of Operations—and began its daily issue of rations to feed the prisoners.
Sergeant Hessinger had also been tasked by Colonel Mattingly to acquire the “goodies” the XXIIIrd CIC was going to need. Goodies were loosely defined as those things CIC agents needed to bribe people in the acquisition of intelligence.
Money was one such goody. Mattingly—and only a few other senior officers—could acquire U.S. dollars from a U.S. Army Finance Office and then sign a sworn statement that those dollars had been expended in the service of the United States. But as the reichsmark was just about useless—there was nothing to buy—and U.S. Army Occupation Scrip not much better for intelligence purposes, other things—coffee, cigarettes, candy bars, and spirits (the latter being called “Class Six Supplies”) were necessary.
There were two ways to get such supplies out of Army warehouses and into the hands of the XXIIIrd CIC Detachment and thus into the hands of the men of Operation Ost. One was to go through proper channels and request they be issued. This would i
nevitably result in all sorts of questions that couldn’t be answered without bringing attention to the function of the XXIIIrd CIC Detachment and Operation Ost.
The second way—the one Sergeant Hessinger put into execution—was to prepare two Morning Reports every day. One was bona fide. It was sent upward through channels. It showed the strength of the XXIIIrd CIC Detachment as two officers—Major Wallace and Captain Cronley—and two enlisted men—First Sergeant Dunwiddie and Sergeant Hessinger.
The second Morning Report was shown only to Munich Military Post and the Munich Quartermaster Depot. It showed a personnel strength of eleven officers and forty-three enlisted men—typical CIC detachment strength—physically present at Kloster Grünau.
Hessinger had created a phantom force within the Twenty-third. And because only the deputy commander USFET CIC, Colonel Robert Mattingly, was authorized to visit Kloster Grünau or would be authorized to visit the Pullach facility when that was opened, detection of the deception was very unlikely.
Sergeant Hessinger had further refined his solution for obtaining the necessary goodies. Not only was each member of the phantom force issued a EUCOM PX ration card (which authorized the weekly purchase of, among other things, 1.5 cartons of cigarettes, a pound of coffee, and a box of Hershey bars) but because of its remote location, Kloster Grünau was authorized a “Mini-PX” under the Munich Military Post PX.
One Sergeant F. Hessinger was assigned as Mini-PX manager.
Further, to accommodate the officers and non-commissioned officers of the XXIIIrd CIC and the enlisted men of Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion, which guarded Kloster Grünau, both an officers’ open mess and an NCO club were authorized. At the time of the authorization, Second Lieutenant Cronley was appointed officers’ open mess officer and Technical Sergeant Tedworth NCO club manager. The Kloster Grünau officers’ open mess graciously agreed to give the NCO club access to the Class VI Store it would operate.
—
“There is another problem,” Colonel Wilson went on. “If I try to truck the second Storch, the parts, and Schröder’s mechanics to Kloster Grünau, that would cause the Air Force to wonder what’s going on.”
“But,” Captain Cronley offered, “the Air Force could be run off by my people?”
“Some of your people—Tiny and Sergeant Tedworth come to mind—can run people off by just baring their fangs. Couple that with those dazzling CIC credentials.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if the Air Force gets really curious, Bob Mattingly can cut them off at the Farben Building.”
“As soon as I get back, I’ll send our trucks here.”
“Good. Any questions?”
Cronley’s face showed both that he had one and that he was reluctant to ask it.
“Go ahead.”
“Colonel, can I ask how old you are?”
“Thirty-two,” Wilson said, paused, and then went on: “That’s what I usually tell people who ask. Actually, I’m almost twenty-five. Class of ’forty at the Academy. And you’re ’forty-five at A&M?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Tiny is—or would have been—’forty-five at Norwich. The next time we get together we’ll have to knock rings and sing ‘Army Blue’ and ‘The Aggie War Hymn’ and whatever the hell they sing at Norwich.”
“Tiny didn’t mention you knew each other.”
“Tiny, like you and General White, is Cavalry. I’ve always thought you Horse Soldiers had odd senses of humor.” He paused, and then said, “Your boss is a University of the South—Sewanee—graduate. I think their school song is ‘Jesus Loves Me.’”
Cronley laughed. And then he had a series of thoughts.
He’s now treating me as an equal.
Well, maybe not as an equal.
But as a fellow professional soldier.
What did he say about “knocking our rings”?
Maybe this is what this is all about.
Maybe I am destined to be a professional soldier.
God knows with the Squirt gone—Jesus Christ, she’s probably being buried today!—I can never go back to Midland.
“Well, put your new jacket on, and I’ll get Kurt Schröder in here,” Wilson said.
“My new jacket?” Cronley asked, and then understood. “The jacket with the wings.”
“Affirmative. I don’t want Kurt to think I’m turning the Storches over to someone who can’t fly.”
“Yes, sir.”
I’ll put the jacket on as ordered, but as soon as I get back to Kloster Grünau and can find a razor blade, the wings come off.
III
[ ONE ]
U.S. Army Airfield B-6
Sonthofen, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
1105 29 October 1945
A short, muscular blond man in his late twenties came into Wilson’s office. He looked very much, Cronley thought, like Willi Grüner. Even though this man was wearing baggy U.S. Army mechanic coveralls, which had been dyed black, it was easy for Cronley to imagine him in a Luftwaffe pilot’s uniform, with a brimmed cap jauntily cocked on his head.
“You sent for me, Colonel?” he asked, in heavily accented but what seemed like fluent English.
“This is the officer who’ll be taking over the Storches,” Wilson announced, and then added, “Kurt, I told you that was almost certainly going to happen.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cronley, this is Kurt Schröder, the man I’ve been telling you about.”
Schröder bobbed his head courteously at Cronley.
“Cronley may be able to use you and your men,” Wilson said. “Why don’t you tell him something about yourself and them?”
“Yes, sir. Sir, I was a pilot in the Luftwaffe, where I flew the Fieseler Storch. The men—”
“Das ist alles?” Cronley interrupted.
“Wie, bitte?”
“The Storch was the only aircraft you flew in the Luftwaffe?” Cronley continued in German.
Schröder’s surprise at Cronley’s fluent German showed on his face.
Good, Cronley thought. What I want to do is get you off-balance.
“No, sir. I was primarily a fighter pilot. I flew mostly the Messerschmitt BF-109, but also the Focke-Wulf Fw-190.”
“Does the name Major Hans-Peter Freiherr von Wachtstein ring a bell with you, Schröder?”
Schröder’s face showed he recognized the name, but was afraid of the ramifications of any answer he might give.
“The Focke-Wulf Fw-190 pilot who received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross from the hands of Der Führer himself?” Cronley pursued.
Schröder, now visibly off-balance, exhaled audibly and told the truth.
“Sir, I had the honor of serving in Baron von Wachtstein’s squadron in the defense of Berlin.”
Well, that should be recommendation enough, but as soon as I get back to Kloster Grünau, I’ll get on the radio and ask ole Hansel about him.
“Schröder, I may have use for you and your men,” Cronley said. “But before I can offer you the job, you’ll have to be vetted by another officer. What I propose to do now, with Colonel Wilson’s permission, is take you to see him.”
“Kurt,” Wilson said, “I’ve explained our pay arrangements. Cronley is willing to do the same.”
“Yes, sir. May I ask where we’ll be going?”
“No,” Cronley said simply.
“We’ll be going in the Storch?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me, but how can I fly you anywhere if I don’t know where we’re going?”
“I will be flying the Storch,” Cronley said. “Why don’t you top off the tanks while I have a final word with Colonel Wilson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And while you’re at it, put two or three jerry
cans of avgas in the backseat.”
“Yes, sir.”
—
“Jim, who was that Luftwaffe hero you brought up?” Wilson said when they were alone. “Or is that classified?”
“Yes, sir, probably. I met him in Argentina. Good guy. He’s now flying South American Airways Constellations between here and Germany. I’m going to check out Schröder with him and an officer back at Kloster Grünau.”
“And the name of this other officer? Or is that classified, too?”
“That’s probably classified, too, sir. Will you settle for ‘a former senior officer of Abwehr Ost’?”
“That’s likely Oberst Ludwig Mannberg. Or maybe General Gehlen himself.”
When Cronley didn’t reply, Wilson added, “Apropos of nothing, I was the aerial taxi driver who flew Major Wallace to accept General Gehlen’s surrender.”
Cronley nodded. “That being the case, sir, I’m going to run Schröder past Mannberg first, and then maybe past the general, too.”
“You’re good, Cronley. I now understand why Mattingly put you in charge of Kloster Grünau.”
“He put me in charge because he had no one else, sir, and because the guy who should be running it, Tiny, passed up a commission for the good of the service.”
“Modesty becomes you, but that’s not the way it was. What I said before, that you’re good, was a sincere compliment. Now comes the fatherly advice of a senior officer, welcome or not.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Prefacing this with the immodest announcement that I am, by thirteen months, the senior officer of the Class of 1940—in other words, I got my silver oak leaves thirteen months before the second guy in ’forty got his—and thus know what I’m talking about . . .”
He stopped, collected his thoughts, and then went on: “The disadvantages of getting rank and or authority and responsibility before your peers get it are that it (a) goes to your head, and (b) makes people jealous, which (c) causes them to try like hell to knock you back to their level by fair and—more often—foul means.
“The advantages of getting rank, et cetera, mean that you can do things for the good of the service that otherwise you could not do. And that’s what we professional soldiers are supposed to do, isn’t it? Make contributions to the good of the service? Lecture over.”
Top Secret Page 8
