“Hals- und Beinbruch,” he said gravely, using the old German salutation to downhill skiers as they launched themselves down a slope. Break your neck and legs could be very apt, Wenck thought. Finow had one runway and it was not very long at that.
Swabisch’s left hand moved to the number one engine switch. He paused and looked at Wenck. The latter nodded.
“Energise number one,” he said, using the American term written on the start-up check-list.
With those words the direct crank inertia system was energised and a low whine began to emit from the number one Wright Cyclone. It rose in crescendo until Wenck said crisply, “Start one.”
The engine caught on the first try. Bluish-black smoke belched from the exhaust and then thinned as the engine settled down to a healthy resonant roar.
The same sequence continued successfully with the number two and three engines. Number four was a little hesitant. It belched. “Verdammtes Zeug,” he swore and, as if in answer, the engine belched again before catching and joining in harmony with its sisters.
With all four now turning at 1,000 revolutions and the cowl flaps fully open, Wenck paused for a second to gather his thoughts. Satisfied that everything was correct he ran the engines up to 1,600 revolutions and checked the magnetos. The drop was minimal, so he taxied out onto the runway. Once aligned on the concrete strip he locked the tail wheel and set the directional gyro on zero.
Another pause.
“Flaps twenty degrees and coming down,” intoned Swabisch.
The engine throttles were set in an H pattern, which enabled the pilot to easily control each engine separately, or all four at once through a central cross bar.
Wenck slowly advanced the throttles as both he and Swabisch kept pressure on the brake pedals. The B17 strained and trembled as the revolutions built up.
As Wenck’s gloved hand continued to manipulate the throttles, Swabisch called out the manifold pressure. When it reached thirty-four inches (courtesy of the turbo superchargers), Wenck said, “Release brakes,” and Miss Nonalee Two fairly leapt down the runway.
All B17s had a slight tendency to swing left on take-off so Wenck countered by opposite rudder. As the runway lights flashed under both wings, Swabisch counted out the plane’s speed. Because the instrument still read in the imperial the co-pilot read out the figures in miles per hour. When he had first flown the American bomber Wenck had found the take-off speed to be very slow, that was until he transposed the figures to kilometres per hour. Fully loaded, a B17 would take off when the speed reached 115 miles an hour. Lightly loaded as she was and with the manifold pressure at forty inches, Miss Nonalee Two left terra firma at barely a hundred miles an hour and quickly climbed into the black, wintry, early morning sky.
Once the wheels were retracted he reduced the manifold pressure to thirty-nine inches and set the climb to a steady 150 miles an hour. It was necessary to re-set the turbo superchargers every 2,000 feet so, when the altimeter needle reached the figure, Swabisch adjusted the levers.
At 25,000 feet Wenck levelled off, reduced power to cruising speed and checked the compass to make sure they were on course for Halden. At this height, flak was not a huge problem especially since it was still night.
Wenck had timed the take-off so they would arrive at the Norwegian base at dawn. Now all he had to do was hope his identification, friend or foe was working so no prowling German night fighter misread the signals and tried to shoot them down. Similarly, there was also the danger of a British Mosquito or Beaufighter finding them. With only two turrets in operation and with both operators not fully cognisant of their workings the thought of a British night fighter finding them did not bear thinking about.
He handed over the controls to Swabisch and settled back into his seat. God he felt tired, it had been a long and hectic seven days since he had first set eyes on the Boeing.
Once he knew the American bomber was available, they had started looking for a Junkers 390 to cover themselves in case either Schonewille or Göring (for different reasons) checked on how things were progressing. Schonewille did not yet know about the plan to use the B17 and both Wencks decided they would keep it secret until the last possible moment.
Unfortunately, obtaining the vital Junkers proved impossible. After three days of searching, they eventually found one at an airfield near the Czechoslovak border. When Peter Wenck flew down to see it he quickly realised it was highly unlikely that it would ever fly again.
It was a wet Sunday morning and in the distance a church bell clanged mournfully under a leaden sky. The young lieutenant who had accompanied him from the dispersals area where he had parked his Focke Wulf looked at him anxiously as they surveyed the once proud bomber. “Zum Teufel, zum Teufel,” he repeated in frustration.
He recognised the aircraft for he had flown her on two occasions. She was one of the prototypes and now she was a mess. Only two engines remained in situ, one undercarriage was minus half its retraction struts and wheels plus there were several very large holes in the wings and fuselage. One tail plane and the port aileron were missing. Skirting the gantry holding up one wing, he hoisted himself up through one of the crew hatches. At first the inside seemed intact until he surveyed the cockpit. Some key instruments had been removed as were the interior mechanisms of the two fuselage turrets.
With a sigh he sat down in the pilot’s seat, idly playing with the control column. He looked back at the lieutenant and asked him where the missing engines were.
“Ich weiss nicht,” the man answered with a shake of his head.
It would take a major operation to make the giant aircraft airworthy again. That and time. He did not have time and he could not afford to bring undue attention to their operation by trying to have the plane repaired and made airworthy.
Not that it mattered, but out of curiosity he asked why the aircraft had been reduced to such a state. The lieutenant again shook his head apologetically and said he’d heard the plane had been damaged in an air-raid and had subsequently been cannibalised for spare parts.
Since there was nothing left for him, he had his fighter re-fuelled and immediately set course back to Swinemunde where he re-fuelled once more before flying onto Norway. Most of the entire trip home was spent in thought as he tried to think of an alternative to the big Junkers. By the time he landed at his father’s base at Halden he had the answer.
Helmuth Wenck was leaning back in his chair, a pair of old carpet slippers adorning his feet, which were precariously propped up on the edge of his large writing desk among a pile of papers. The general did not get up, but waved his hand towards the schnapps bottle and told his son to help himself. “Well Peter, how did it go? Did you find what we are looking for?”
The young pilot poured himself a good measure and gulped down a mouthful before turning to answer. “Yes, Father, I found the old girl, or what’s left of her. She’s a bloody mess and will probably never fly again.” He took another swallow of the liquor as his father jerked upright, a move that sent several files crashing to the floor.
The general stared at him silently for a few moments trying to gauge whether his son was pulling his leg. “You’re not joking, are you?” he said at last with a sigh. The other shook his head and emptied the tumbler.
They both knew how imperative it was for them to have another aircraft with which to complete the deception. Too many people expected it. Göring wanted an aircraft capable of reaching and bombing New York while Schonewille and perhaps Grauwitz expected a German bomber with sufficient range to fly them far from the borders of the Third Reich.
The general enquired whether there were any more Junkers 390s available. Peter Wenck shook his head, reminding the older man that less than half-a-dozen had ever been built and the one they had found was the last to survive virtually intact.
“However, I think I have an alternative. But first, can you get me something to eat? I’m starved.” Helmuth Wenck called in one of his aides and when the man had left the room motione
d his son to explain.
“Well, Father, it is not as difficult as one would first imagine. As we have discussed so often, range is the key. We have several aircraft with a range as long as the 390. The thing that made the 390 so special was its ability to also carry a useful bomb load, or cargo for that matter. At first I thought the only alternative would be a Condor, but then I remembered another aircraft that will be almost as good as the big 390.”
He paused as there was a knock at the door and an orderly entered with a tray bearing sardines, cheese, butter, bread and a large mug of milk. The general thanked the man and then dismissed him with a curt wave of his hand. When he had gone, Peter Wenck continued.
He explained how the 390 had been a development of the four-engined Junkers 290 transport and long-range maritime patrol bomber. In order to make their New York bomber the Junkers design team had simply fitted an extra panel section in each wing to house the two extra BMW engines and had added a new fuselage centre section to increase the length. In almost every other aspect the two aircraft were identical.
“There’s still the question of range, Father. If my knowledge is correct, the 290 has an insufficient range. With a full defensive armament it has a range of only 6,000 kilometres, although this can be increased substantially. The question is, by how much?”
The young pilot explained how he knew the whereabouts of at least two such aircraft. They were based at Narvik and as such would be relatively easy to gain control of.
They discussed the matter at length and by the time they went to bed had managed to tie up any loose ends the change in aircraft might bring to their plans. This included partially stripping the 290, fitting extra tanks, but leaving sufficient space in the bomb bay for an offensive load of 500 kilograms. That way any questions from the Reichsmarschall about the plan to bomb New York could be answered.
They had also agreed on the necessity of another pilot joining the team and Peter Wenck unhesitatingly suggested his old comrade Leo Swabisch. The following day arrangements were made through the commander of Bomber Fleet Norway and, duly, thirty-six hours later Swabisch presented himself at Kragero.
Peter Wenck was shocked at his former adjutant’s appearance.
The pilot was clearly very sick. He had lost a considerable amount of weight and his skin was an unhealthy pallor. Pushing a lock of greasy black hair off his forehead, Swabisch gave Wenck a mocking salute and attempted what would normally have been his flashing, slightly sardonic smile. Now it gave the impression of a grimace from a scarecrow.
“Hell, Leo you look like death warmed up. In fact that’s being kind. What the fuck’s wrong with you? You got the clap or something?”
“Jesus, Peter, I don’t know. I’ve been at Banak for the past two weeks and there’s no proper doctor at the base. I’ve had this bloody cold for all of this time and it’s been interspaced with bad bouts of diarrhoea on and off, for the past few days.”
Wenck shook his head and led him to the infirmary. There was no doubt Swabisch needed medical treatment. He just hoped his friend’s malaise was not serious. Whatever he was suffering from, Swabisch’s sense of humour was intact.
“Speaking of the clap, boss, there any women around here? It’s been a long time now. I’ve got my standards and you know how the Laplanders smell.”
The doctor gave him a thorough examination, which lasted half-an-hour. His diagnosis was brutally frank. “Captain Swabisch is well on the way to getting influenza. He has also caught some sort of stomach bug and I believe he could be in the early stages of gaining a stomach ulcer. He needs a complete rest and under no circumstances should he fly again for at least two weeks. If he does so, I cannot be held responsible for his health.”
Wenck sighed and pursed his lips before speaking. “Well doc, you’ve got five days, maybe even a week to get him right. Certainly, no more. There’s a lot dependent on his health. So you get him right or I’ll see you’re transferred to a place where the air is cold and the natives very unfriendly.”
The doctor sighed inwardly. He was wary of the Oberleutnant with the Knight’s Cross and the determined manner. He had come across the type before and like many others on the base he wondered what the officer was up to. The secrecy surrounding Wenck worried everybody, so they all kept out of his way. Now the doctor had been drawn in and at fifty-eight years of age and with the war nearly over, all he wanted was a quiet life.
He saluted and immediately had Swabisch admitted to a small nearby clinic where he could give him his undivided attention. He felt sure that with rest, good food and whatever medicines and drugs he could lay his hands on, the pilot would recuperate quickly.
In the meantime, both the Wencks had other things on their mind than Swabisch’s health.
While Peter flew north to pick up the Junkers, his father flew south to Hamburg to ostensibly meet with other high command personnel planning the forthcoming winter air offensive. In reality though, he was to make contact with the former diplomat Conrad Meunier.
Peter’s trip was by far the easiest. The Junkers turned out to be in perfect condition and with the paperwork having been prepared beforehand it was a simple matter to collect the big bomber. With a commandeered crew he flew back to Kragero.
Helmuth on the other hand had a much more fraught time. He arrived at dusk and subsequently had to endure two uncomfortable hours in an air-raid shelter comforting a terrified child who had been separated from its parents while British bombers pounded the wrecked city and its port facilities. When he emerged, Hamburg was in chaos and on reaching his destination found the scheduled meeting had been cancelled and was now to be held at seven o’clock the next morning. Finally, with the phone lines down, he had been unable to contact Meunier.
After an uncomfortable night in a rundown third rate hotel and without the benefit of breakfast, the major general headed for his meeting.
Although sceptical about the chances of the forthcoming offensive in the west being successful and with little knowledge about the ground offensive, he was nevertheless very impressed with the planning and possible execution of the air campaign.
What if it was a success? Would Grauwitz and Friedrich abandon their plans? His thoughts just added another dimension to the growing complexity of this whole episode. Yet, whatever the result, there was no option but for he and Peter to continue with their plans. Reichsbank loot or not, he was still determined to leave if it looked like Germany was going to be defeated and despite the coming battle he did not believe that, long-term, the Third Reich would survive. Too much was against them.
There was also the matter of the concentration camps. If what he had been told was true, he wanted nothing more to do with a country guilty of perpetrating such crimes. The world would not let the Germans forget and he knew a defeated Germany would not be a nice place in which to live, especially if the Russians were in control.
Finally, there was the question of his wife. He missed Vigdis and as time went on their enforced separation was increasing his longing for the fair-haired Icelander. He knew she still loved him. Though the war meant their letters were infrequent, he was still averaging one from her every two months, courtesy of the Red Cross. She wrote with love and longing and still continued to ask whether he would give his permission and arrange for her to return to Germany, or Norway, to be with him. Such loyalty was rare in a woman, he thought.
The conference lasted throughout the day and well into the night, although the inclusion of a hearty lunch and even better dinner helped the officers stand the mental rigours of such a meeting. During a short break in proceedings early that afternoon he had managed to get through to the former diplomat and, on completion of the conference, headed for Meunier’s house in the outer suburbs of Hamburg.
“Helmuth, my old friend. You are looking well.” He greeted Wenck at the doorstep.
Meunier was a study in opposites. Everything about him was not quite what it seemed. Although of medium height, he seemed much shorter, courtesy of a r
ather corpulent figure. Yet, he was not fat. He carried his extra kilos well and was extremely fit. He resembled Oliver Hardy and like the famous comedian had spent a lifetime in pursuit of sporting activities, particularly golf. In his youth he had been a champion boxer and had even learned to play cricket while stationed in the Bahamas.
At sixty-two he was still in the prime of life. He looked his age, though his movements and purposeful stride belied his years. The death of his wife had both saddened and relieved him. They had been married thirty-three years and to watch her suffer the ravages of cancer had left him feeling helpless and distraught. Now, alone and free, he began to look at his own future.
Like his Luftwaffe friend, he did not intend to stay on in a defeated Germany, especially now that he had a good deal of information about what was occurring in the concentration camps. His feelings about Hitler had never been of the approving kind, but he was now beginning to have a strong aversion to the German people as well.
Over a strong brew of Ersatzkaffee, the imitation drink made from acorns, they discussed the future of the war. Although they were sitting outside, both men kept their voices low. Meunier was another strong believer in the axiom about walls having ears and he made sure that as far as possible, very little of what was discussed with Wenck was done so under the roof of his house.
As they talked, they could both smell and see the smoke of the fires still blanketing the city and the surrounding suburbs. It was a potent example of what was happening to the once great Third Reich.
Meunier spoke bluntly. He explained that since the death of his wife two months before he had begun to plan his own future and if there was a chance, he wanted to join Wenck on whatever escapade the Luftwaffe general was involved in.
Helmuth Wenck was only too happy to oblige and over an hour’s conversation explained in the minutest detail what was being planned. He had no fear in telling his old friend, since in their previous conversations he had already revealed to him some of what they were planning and so far there had been no repercussions.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 14