The Reichsbank Robbery

by Colin Roderick Fulton

  Once he was out in the street, he paused. He half expected to find a car outside and would not have been surprised if he had been arrested. But, there was no car and no arrest. He strode away and as he hurried through the pitch black streets he wondered whether the appearance of Grauwitz had been premeditated or just chance. Whichever, he realised from now on he would have to be very careful, for as well as not trusting Grauwitz, Schonewille had his own ideas about how the Reichsbank’s money was to be transported out of Germany and he doubted whether the general would agree.

  Now that he had calmed down, he realised his decision to leave the restaurant was rather hasty. After all, Grauwitz obviously knew about his brother, he had virtually said as much when they had met at the Reichsbank. Yet, he still wondered why Grauwitz had turned up. If it had been pre-meditated, the question was why. There was no need to show how suspicious and devious he was. He had already shown this side of the character. So why the appearance? Maybe it was just a coincidence.

  Troubled, he hurried on.

  Chapter Seven

  The following afternoon Wenck boarded a FW200 transport at Tempelhof airport and flew back to Norway. It was raining and as the plane headed north through the clouds he ruminated on what had occurred over the past twenty-four hours. It had left him disturbed, worried but also very excited. Disturbed, since he was about to undertake something that was treasonable and worried because the outcome, if they were caught, was a firing squad. The excitement was simple. It gave him a way out of an increasingly hopeless situation: either death in the Barents Sea or a soldier of a defeated nation.

  He had taken more than the requested hour to reach Schonewille’s apartment. In fact it had taken more than twice that time and he could see how relieved his brother was to see him when he opened the door and hurriedly ushered him inside. There was no heating in the apartment and the room was quite cold. Nevertheless it was much warmer than outside and both men took off their jackets. Schonewille dragged out a bottle of schnapps and when they had both taken the prescribed mouthful they began to talk.

  Schonewille explained why he had aborted their dinner. He had decided to take his brother even more fully into his confidence and reveal several other aspects of the, as yet, unfinished plan. The only things he did not discuss were the camps and Sophia. He judged, quite rightly, that the flier, like the majority of the population, did not fully realise the extent or the scope of the camps and what they really were. That all Germans knew there were places such as concentration camps was obvious, but their true purpose was beyond the average person’s ability to comprehend. As far as his mistress was concerned, the reason was much more complex. He did not want to lose her, whether back to the camps or to the possible affections of another man.

  Sophia was lying in bed upstairs. He had told her not to come down because he had a male visitor. He had not explained who his visitor was, nor why he was visiting the apartment. With her aversion to anything in uniform he knew she would not interrupt them.

  Unbeknown to the SS man, however, was that the pilot had guessed there was a woman in the house, or at least that there had been a woman in the apartment recently. He could smell something feminine on the furnishings and could sense a woman’s hand in the way the furniture was laid out and the neatness of the kitchen. Most probably a cleaning woman he mused, but not thinking it important, he kept his thoughts to himself.

  At any rate, Wenck was a little unsure of himself and shocked at the turn of events. While he was not used to the Machiavellian ways of the SS like his brother, he was still aware of the deceit and cunning which, as always, was their stock in trade. Therefore, he was now beginning to be very cautious of what he said. At the same time, he already reasoned that his brother needed him not only because he was a pilot, but also because the SS officer had few friends. Therefore family, however distant, were perhaps the only people he could trust.

  They had talked for almost three hours, the conversation so intense that it had left him with a mild headache.

  At first his questions had mainly centred on what sort of money or valuables would be taken out of the Reichsbank. Schonewille said he favoured a mixture of American dollars, Swiss francs and, if possible, some gold bullion.

  In turn his brother questioned him about aircraft, their range and accessibility. The more they talked, the more both realised how they were faced with a number of very difficult problems, any one of which could spell the end of the operation. There was also the omnipresent spectre of Grauwitz, who obviously had his own plans, most of which had not been passed onto Schonewille.

  “Grauwitz told me he wanted to fly to Spain,” said Schonewille. “And although he gave no other details of where he wanted to go from there, I believe his ultimate destination will probably be South America. There are many Nazi Party sympathisers in Argentina and Paraguay, so they are the logical choice. The question is, what will happen when we get there? I want this money for myself … I mean us,” he corrected himself quickly and went on. “Quite bluntly, Peter, I do not trust him.”

  Out of curiosity Wenck asked who had actually ordered him from Norway. Schonewille told him how he had been owed a favour by a very senior Luftwaffe officer whose son, a junior SS officer, he had managed to get transferred from the Eastern Front to France. It had been a simple matter to have the order transmitted to Norway. Similarly, there was no problem as long as he returned to his squadron.

  However, there was now the problem of how Wenck could be utilised any further. It was no simple matter to arrange long-term leave of absence for such an important air force major. Finally, they made a list of the problems they would have to overcome: How was Wenck to gain the freedom to help plan the operation? How could they obtain a suitable aircraft? Where could it be based, especially now that the Allies virtually controlled most of the air space over Germany? Who would actually withdraw the money from the Reichsbank? How would it be transported to their aircraft? Where and how could they obtain sufficient fuel for an aircraft with the range they needed? How far would Grauwitz actually take them into his confidence? What should their own destination be?

  The more they discussed the issues the more they realised that they needed another ally. Someone who was senior enough to pull strings and open doors yet could be trusted to remain on their side. They both reached the same conclusion at the same time. Their father.

  When the Condor landed at Oslo, Peter Wenck immediately contacted the general and was duly picked up by his father’s staff car. They had lunch and discussed what had transpired over the past thirty-six hours. The older man frowned a lot and shook his head.

  “Verdammt, I do not like it … it smells so bad I can almost taste it, but …” he paused for a moment and rested his chin on his clasped hands. “It has promise and maybe, just maybe, if I can utilise my authority and contacts properly, we might just pull it off and do so without Herr Grauwitz.”

  They talked at some length until Helmuth Wenck suddenly interrupted the flow of conversation. “There’s one thing I cannot understand. Why has your brother been brought in on this mad scheme? Surely Grauwitz and that banker could look after the bank account by themselves without Friedrich’s help. It does not make sense.”

  He looked questioningly at his son who shook his head and remarked that he had no idea, had in fact never even thought of the angle.

  “I tell you what, Peter, I’ll start by asking a few questions. I used to have pretty good contacts with the Abwehr, all us diplomats did, although, I now have to be careful since they have been absorbed into the SS.”

  The Abwehr had been the German Army’s intelligence branch and had, until February 1944, operated completely separately and without any control by either the SS or the Gestapo. Its chief, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, was a mysterious and devious professional spy who had hedged his bets in his relationship with the German High Command, especially in regard to the Führer and the SS. At first he was a diligent supporter of the regime, although as its excesses increase
d his support waned. By the middle of 1943, he could see the writing on the wall and increased his contacts with the small German Resistance. This grew until he became if not a fully fledged member then at least a benevolent spectator for the attempt on Hitler’s life in July 1944.

  “I used to know Canaris and his deputy Hans Oster, but I know both of them have been arrested. So I cannot go there. Still, there are a few people I can go to who can give me some off-the-record knowledge of Grauwitz and what he is and does,” he said, rubbing his jaw reflectively. “I will also try and obtain some up-to-date information on your brother.”

  “You know, Father. For the first time, I felt some kinship with Friedrich. I even admired him for trying to put this … this …” he paused for loss of words.

  “This fraud, bank robbery, call it what you will,” Helmuth Wenck interrupted. Peter Wenck smiled wryly and nodded his head. “Be that as it may, Peter. Friedrich belongs to a nasty organisation and I want to know more. I’ll make some enquires first thing in the morning.”

  A short time later Peter Wenck left his father and reported to the station commander of the main Oslo aerodrome. The man was bad-tempered and furiously informed him that they had been trying to locate him for almost two hours.

  “I am sorry, Herr Oberst, but I had to see my father, General Wenck. I had to pass on some information from Luftwaffe High Command.” He lied easily, at the same time lightly fingering his shirt collar where the Knight’s Cross nestled at his throat.

  The gesture was not lost on the station commander who lowered his voice and said testily, “We have a replacement aircraft and some crew members for your squadron. You were supposed to leave this afternoon,” he accused.

  Wenck, eager to be away before any more questions were asked, assured him that if they left within half-an-hour he could make Trondheim by nightfall. Moments later he was hurrying over to one of the hangars with a sheaf of papers in one hand and his luggage in the other.

  The replacement crew were lounging in deckchairs trying to gain some warmth from the weak rays of the late autumn sun. Half asleep, bored and obviously far away with their thoughts, not one spied their new commanding officer’s arrival. By this stage Wenck’s usually benevolent demeanour was decidedly frayed around the edges. The happenings of the past forty-eight hours plus the just finished contretemps with the station commander had left him tired and irritable.

  He waited quietly for about fifteen seconds until finally he was spotted by one of the recumbent forms. Before the startled airman could react, Wenck bawled at the top of his voice. “Get up, get up you lazy lot. Schnell, schnell … I don’t have time to waste.”

  As the startled men scrambled to their feet, he ordered them to stand to attention and wait to be inspected. Reading from a list, he called out their names. At the same time he gave a perfunctory glance at their records. Only one, the navigator, had any combat experience. The remainder, of which the eldest was barely nineteen, were all joining their first operational squadron.

  The youngsters gazed at him in awe. Even the navigator, a tall, thin individual of twenty-one, stared nervously at the irate figure with the Knight’s Cross.

  “All right, stand easy. If you have not already guessed I am Major Wenck, your new commanding officer. We have a long flight ahead of us and our destination is as close to Santa Clause’s domain as you are ever likely to get. Your new home, if you don’t already know, is Bardufoss near Tromso and I want to get to Trondheim by nightfall. So look smart and get to your stations. You,” he pointed at the navigator, at the same time looking down at his sheaf of papers to find the youngster’s name … “Krampnitz, kommen Sie herein.”

  He moved away and the navigator followed. “Do you know our destination, Herr Leutnant?”

  Krampnitz shook his head and swallowed. He said half defiantly, “We have been told nothing, Herr Major. However, I managed to obtain the charts for most of western and northern Norway. I guessed by the paintwork on the Junkers that we would be on anti-shipping operations, so I took the liberty of asking for what I thought would be the relevant charts.”

  Wenck smiled and clapped the other on the shoulder, at the same time congratulating him on his foresight. Krampnitz coloured with pleasure and grinned.

  Wenck then walked over to the ground crew who were standing just within earshot and spoke to the sergeant in charge. The man assured him the Junkers was in good condition, fully armed, fuelled and ready to go.

  Five minutes later, they were airborne.

  The flight to Trondheim was without incident, as was the one to Tromso the following morning. Surveying the bleak landscape he felt no pleasure at having returned to his command. All he, could think about was the plan to liberate some of the Reichsbank’s money and escape.

  Chapter Eight

  14 November 1944

  The Reichsmarschall rose ponderously to greet him as the aide softly closed the door. Wenck saluted his commanding officer and then took the extended hand. Hermann Göring gripped it warmly, placing his left hand over Wenck’s right wrist.

  “Helmuth, my old friend, how good to see you. You look very well. Norway must agree with you.”

  It was a statement, not a question, so Wenck said nothing and just smiled in return.

  “I trust all is well with you and the family, Vigdis and your son, Peter. It is Peter who is in the Luftwaffe and to whom I awarded the Knight’s Cross?”

  “Ja, that is correct, Herr Reichsmarschall. They are all well, although if you remember Vigdis is back in Iceland and I have not seen her for over four years.”

  Göring nodded his head. “Ja, ja … I remember.” He motioned to a chair and, as Wenck sat down, lowered his bulk into a large ornate, high-backed affair behind a desk. He smiled again, and there was genuine warmth in the grin.

  Wenck and Göring went back a long way. Although Wenck was six years older than the legendary head of the Luftwaffe, their paths had crossed continually since before the start of the First World War. They had first met in April 1912, at a function held at the headquarters of the Prinz Wihelm Infantry Regiment in whose august company Göring had just been commissioned. As a diplomat of some eight years standing, Wenck would probably not have engaged the nineteen-year-old infantry leutnant in anything other than a few words of greeting had not his wife, Inger, taken a shine to the bluff and exuberant soldier. Consequently, they had spent nearly an hour in each other’s company.

  After a spell in the trenches, where he suffered badly from rheumatism, Göring transferred to the Imperial Air Force in 1915. His squadron, Jagdstaffel 5, was mainly involved in reconnaissance work on the Western Front and he quickly gained a reputation as a skilful and brave flier. By the time he was seriously wounded in a dogfight in 1916, he had already been awarded the Zaehring Lion with Swords, the Karl Friedrich Order, the Hohenzollern Medal with Swords, and the Iron Cross first class. Wenck, on the other hand, had only been awarded the last two.

  Eventually, Göring took over Jasta 11, the legendary squadron that had been commanded by von Richthofen. Up to this stage they both had the same number of victories, but from then Göring had surged ahead. By the war’s end, he had twenty-two kills to his name and had been awarded the coveted Pour La Merite, the Knight’s Cross. Wenck’s final tally was fourteen victories.

  They met again shortly after the war while Wenck had been working with Fokker in Holland, and again in 1921. By this stage Göring was virtually a vagrant, living hand-to-mouth as an aircraft agent and pilot.

  In 1923, Göring’s luck changed and he married Carin van Kantzow, a Swede whose mother was English. The gentle Carin and Wenck’s second wife Vigdis became quite good friends, possibly because of their common Viking background.

  The two men, while friendly enough, were really never close friends. There was too much rivalry between them and when Göring joined Hitler’s entourage their association lapsed. Not only did Wenck not become a member of the party, but as a diplomat he moved in different circles, at least unti
l Hitler came to power.

  Strangely, on reaching his exalted rank, and when they did meet, Göring never lorded his power over Wenck even though their relationship was now quite distant. From 1933, Göring and Wenck had only really mixed on official business. This was partly because Vigdis did not care for Göring’s second wife, the actress Emmy Sonnemann. Nevertheless, Göring made no move to stop Wenck from re-entering the Luftwaffe. In fact, quite the opposite.

  As he waited for the Reichsmarschall to start the conversation again, Wenck went over the previous day’s happenings and wondered whether the order to meet Göring was fortuitous or not.

  After Peter left Oslo, Colonel General Wenck had begun to search for a Junkers 390. He reasoned that if they were going to escape Germany by air, then only a plane with a range in excess of 6,000 kilometres would be suitable. His telexes quickly bore fruit. One of the giant six-engined bombers was still in existence, hidden in an airfield in northern Germany on the Baltic coast. The remaining 390s had been destroyed by Allied aircraft.

  The next problem was to try and gain control of the bomber, a difficult task since officially he had no need for such an aircraft. He knew that to gain control he would have to go through General Pelz, who was in charge of the Luftwaffe’s bomber arm, or ask Göring himself. There was a problem though. He could not think of any legitimate reason why he needed such an aircraft.

  His command was virtually a backwater in the war. He had only four operational squadrons and only one of these flew bombers. They consisted of two units flying coastal command flying boats, one bomber squadron flying elderly Heinkel 111s for mine laying duties and one fighter squadron equipped with outdated Messerschmitt ME 109Es. The remainder were training units.

  Then fate took a hand.

  On 11 November, orders came through that all area commanders and ranks above colonel in Denmark and Norway were to attend a special conference at the headquarters of the Reich Air Fleet at Wannsee on 13 November. On joining the assembled officers and hearing the reason for the conference he became both alarmed and exultant. Alarmed, because he realised that the cause of all the fuss, plans for a new offensive on the Western Front, could disrupt their own schemes, and exultant, because he had now thought up a legitimate excuse to ask for the all-important Junkers 390.