There was also another reason. While Helmuth and Peter were well advanced in their plan to escape Germany, their ultimate destination and how they actually got there was causing them some headaches. Quite simply, they needed Meunier. His contacts and intimate knowledge of what was happening politically in some of the likely countries of destination would be invaluable in helping formulate their escape plans. Although it had been two years since Meunier had served in either the Foreign Office or the Abwehr, he had kept up his contacts and through them a steady source of reliable information. On top of this he had a surprise for his friend.
“Three days ago I applied to re-join the Foreign Office,” he said with a smug smile, clicking his tongue and raising his eyebrows. “I explained how with Helene now dead I could once more devote my energies towards the future of my country. It was quite simple.” He clicked his tongue again and nodded his head at his own cleverness.
He recounted how he had even spoken to the head of the German Foreign Office, von Ribbentrop. “As usual the old fool fell for my flattery and welcomed me back with open arms. This means I can be of use to you my friend. My only fear is, they might transfer me somewhere outside Germany, although I told Ribbentrop that for the immediate and foreseeable future I would like to remain in Germany. Since most diplomats are trying to get out of this hell-hole, it was a smart move and as from tomorrow I am back on the payroll of the old firm.”
He then explained how it was possible he could even obtain information from the RSHA, the main security department of the Reich which, as a branch of the SS, controlled the Gestapo and the other security services, including the old Abwehr organisation.
“As you probably know, after the Abwehr was disbanded nearly all the staff were transferred as a whole to the RSHA. But, and this is very important, offices two and three of Canaris’s old organisation even remained under their old chiefs. You remember Freytag-Loringhoven and old Georg Hansen?” Wenck nodded. “They’re still there and in charge of their men. The only difference is, they’re now part of the military office of the RSHA’s section six. Apart from a little more vetting by the SS, things apparently remain as when we were there. In other words, the group Canaris set up and that we worked with at one time or another is largely intact.”
“What happened to the old boy?” asked the general.
Meunier shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “Don’t know,” he said shaking his head to reinforce the words. “Rumours say he’s dead, been executed like the rest. But, and it’s a big but, there are conflicting rumours suggesting he is still alive in some prison or camp somewhere. Probably the latter. I didn’t ask. It would not have helped me, or for that matter us.”
Wenck was silent for a moment, then gave a small smile and clapped his portly friend on the knee. “At any rate now you can start to obtain the information we need, nicht war?”
Meunier nodded enthusiastically, explaining how it would only be a matter of days before he found out whether the old system of foreign agents remained and who there was in the Caribbean who could be of use to them in their attempt to flee Germany.
“Helmuth my old friend, I am positive I can be of help. I can certainly identify our agents in some of the countries we’ve discussed. I know it has been two-and-a-half years since I’ve been in the organisation and things could have changed, but if the ones we need are still in position we have a bloody good chance.”
He passed a hand over his face and rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger, ruminating. “There are some big problems. For example, how can I talk to them in secret? I almost certainly will be able to contact them. Yet, how can I trust them and what can I tell them in safety?”
“Is the Himmler letter of any use?” asked Wenck.
The other shook his head and said maybe. But it would be a risk. At any rate the first thing to be done was to ascertain which agents were left in that part of the world and if they could use them.
They discussed their options for another hour and then the air force officer took his leave. It was agreed. Meunier would only contact him in an emergency. All other contact was to be initiated by Wenck and at a pre-arranged time. Most messages would be re-routed through friends in the Luftwaffe.
Chapter Thirteen
15 December 1944
Peter Wenck sat staring at the computations spread on the table in front of him. Here was a new problem to solve. Two days previously his father had contacted him to say he’d had a very short message from Meunier telling him to consider the Dominican Republic and this needed a new set of fuel and range figures. He was not bad at figures, but there were too many vagaries. It was becoming very difficult to work out just how much extra fuel they would need in order to fly the B17 to this new destination.
Opposite him Leo Swabisch shook his head. He was irritated and it showed.
“Himmel, Peter. How can I be of help when you won’t let me know what’s happening. All I know is we have two planes, both completely different and you are planning another one of your crazy, harebrained schemes. And what for? We’re done for, and you know it. Or is this something that is going to win us the war?”
Swabisch had made a good recovery. He had put back some of his lost weight, his colour was almost back to normal and his black hair was sleek and shiny again. He was an invaluable member of the team, yet Peter Wenck purposefully kept him in the dark. It was not because he did not trust the pilot, but rather he believed there was too much at stake for more than two or three people to actually know what was going on.
His problem was accentuated since within the various groups nobody quite knew what the other was doing. With their own plans there were just he, his father and Meunier. Schonewille knew some of their plans while they knew almost nothing of his. Grauwitz, on the other hand, worried them the most for undoubtedly the SS general had his own nefarious ideas of what should be done and for that reason they were careful of what they told Schonewille.
They had no idea as to when Grauwitz and Schonewille planned to withdraw the money from the Reichsbank and what would be the procedure to transfer it to Norway. While Schonewille had said he expected their escape route to be through Spain, both Peter and his father were desperately searching for another route. Spain worried them.
Meunier had warned them that though Spain was nominally a neutral country, it was full of Allied agents and every German flight to and from General Franco’s country was being logged by Germany’s enemies. Therefore, if they were to simply disappear it was vital that nobody was able to trace any part of their escape route.
Meunier had already come up trumps and had put in place the rudiments of a plan that would ensure at least one place where they could land, the Dominican Republic.
Though they now had at least part of their destination, their ultimate home port was still in the planning stages. Meunier had picked the Dominican Republic for many reasons, but there were too many problems for them to make this Caribbean country their final destination.
Just thinking about the problems still to be surmounted increased his blood pressure and depressed him, so he left those to his father and the diplomat and concentrated on those aspects of the plan over which he could find a solution.
Still soliciting information, Swabisch tried another tack. “Well, Peter. At least let me know what sort of distance we’ll be travelling, that way I can try to help.”
“At least 10,000 kilometres,” he said for he had worked out the distance from southern Norway to the Dominican Republic.
“Shit. It’s not New York again is it? I mean does this mean the total range needed is 10,000 kilometres or is this only the radius?” Without waiting for an answer he went on. “At any rate, then it cannot be New York,” he said answering his own question. “The distance from here must be oh, something like 12,000 kilometres at least,” he said, shaking his head in bewilderment.
“Can’t say yet, Leo. I’m sorry,” answered Wenck lamely.
They both stared back at the m
ass of figures on the table. The B17 had a normal operating range with a 2,500-kilo bomb load of about 3,000 kilometres. Their aircraft already had some extra tankage and consequently its range was now just over 4,000 kilometres, which was less than half what they needed.
“What we have to work out is whether we can utilise the bomb bay for extra fuel tanks,” Wenck suggested. “We should …”
“You’re right, it’s the ideal place,” broke in Swabisch and then quickly added, “So we’re not carrying any bombs eh”?
Wenck shook his head with a rueful grin.
“Okay then, you’re right. The bomb bay is perfect. It will not upset the centre of gravity, it is certainly large enough and the tanks will be easy to get inside.”
Wenck nodded his head and asked Swabisch to see about getting the necessary tanks fabricated. Once they were constructed, they would run some tests and see how much additional fuel the Flying Fortress would now be able to carry and how this translated itself into the extra range they so desperately needed.
There was another problem worrying the life out of him. Earlier in the morning his father had received a radio message from Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring demanding to see him immediately. It could only mean one thing. The head of the Luftwaffe wanted to know what the status was with their supposed plans to bomb New York. His father had given him details of Hitler’s planned winter offensive on the Western Front and it was due to start the next day, 16 December.
They had both hoped Göring would have been too busy to remember Helmuth Wenck’s plan. Obviously, they had been wrong. The question now was what could be done? Even if they had wanted to bomb New York, they certainly did not now possess an aircraft with the range to get there and back.
Despite their best efforts, they had not been able to cram sufficient fuel into the Junkers for a two-way mission with a bomb load. They could certainly reach America on a one-way trip, but this was not how they wanted to reach the promised land. A parachute ride followed by the inevitable prison camp would be an inglorious end to all their conniving.
Chapter Fourteen
18 December 1944
The radar operator picked up the blips on the FuG 216 Neptun tail warning radar some five minutes previously. At first Peter Wenck hoped the blips represented aircraft that just happened to be in the area and nothing to do with their presence in this strategically important part of the North Atlantic.
Fat hope, he thought, as the radar operator informed him the spots on the screen were closing rapidly. He knew automatically what they represented. Allied fighters were being vectored onto them by ground-controlled radar. I wonder what they will be, he thought. It was not idle inquisitiveness but rather professional curiosity born of logic.
What the aircraft actually were could determine their survival in the next few minutes. He was not afraid, for he had flown operationally for too long to worry about the likelihood of death in any potential confrontation. As well, his aircraft was heavily armed and, properly handled, could give a very good account of itself.
His thoughts were cut off by a garbled exclamation from the crewman in the forward mid-upper turret. His compatriot in the aft mid-upper turret was much clearer in his comments.
“Der Gabelschwantz Teufel,” he shouted excitedly, giving the sobriquet of the Lockheed Lightning, the fork-tailed devil.
Wenck’s blood pressure rose several degrees. The American fighters would be tough opponents. They had a long range, which meant any fight could be protracted for he knew they would have sufficient fuel to stay in the air for a considerable time. They were also heavily armed.
There was now no chance of reaching their target even if he had really wanted to.
“Jettison the bomb load,” he told the bomb aimer.
They had been right to worry about Göring’s reason for waiting to see Helmuth Wenck.
The Reichsmarschall had been in a testy frame of mind. The pressures of helping plan the massive and complex air campaign for the Ardennes offensive had obviously played havoc with his nerves. Gulping pills at an even greater rate than when they had first met, Göring had waved his hands in the air, before bringing one pudgy palm down on the oak table with a crash that dislodged a heavy glass ornament onto the floor.
Helmuth Wenck had flown to the Air Fleet headquarters near Warmsee within hours of receiving his superior’s orders. There had been no formalities. On his arrival he had been immediately ushered into the presence of the Luftwaffe chief.
“Well, Herr General,” he said immediately and Wenck knew he was in trouble. The use of his rank, rather than his Christian name was a always a portent of official displeasure from Göring. “What is the status of this grand plan of yours to hit Eisenhower where it hurts, eh? Well, why have you not kept me informed?” Before Wenck could answer he continued imperiously. “I am assembling the largest fighter force ever seen by the Reich, 3,700 aircraft and pilots and the officer-in-charge of one aircraft, for one raid, has not the decency to inform his commanding officer what is happening. Well, don’t just stand there. Tell me!”
Wenck kept his temper. He was on dangerous ground and he knew it. Calmly and succinctly he explained what had happened. How the only Junkers 390 was so badly damaged they had not been able to repair it. How they had managed to commandeer a Junkers 290 and how they had tried every means possible to increase its range in order to reach New York. Finally, he said, “Herr Reichsmarschall, we just cannot do it. I love my son and I just cannot send him on a one-way suicide trip to bomb New York. Think what the Allied press would say. They would claim Germany is reduced to sending its best pilots on suicide missions while they can bomb Germany every day with a reasonable chance of getting back.” He paused, saw his words were having an effect and hurried on. “However, Sir, I have come up with another idea that might prove to be a possible substitute. Not as good, mind you, but still worthy of consideration.”
Göring grimaced and nodded his head. He motioned Wenck to be seated. “Go on, Helmuth, tell me what you have in mind.” He suddenly looked weary.
“As you know, for the last four years the Allies have been using Iceland as a staging area for their convoys and to fly long-range patrols to harass our U-Boats and long-range maritime reconnaissance aircraft. What I have in mind is this.” He paused and saw he had Göring’s attention. “We use the 290 to bomb Reykjavik. I don’t just want to bomb ships in the harbour, I want bombs to actually land on Icelandic territory and with luck kill Americans. The outcry will be so great the Allies will have to divert aircraft to the island.”
Göring nodded his head.
“Then, if the raid is successful we do it again, but this time at night and force them to also divert night fighters to protect Iceland. We could also follow these raids with a propaganda campaign saying that we now have the capability to bomb New York.”
Göring bought the idea.
As he flew home, Helmuth Wenck breathed a sigh of relief. They had garnered some more time, but at what a cost. His son would still have to undertake the raid and do so properly, because Göring was to send an observer for the proposed mission. Whether this was because he was suspicious or just wanted first-hand information, Wenck did not dare ask.
The next day Göring’s emissary arrived at Kragero. Both Wencks took an instant dislike to the man. Captain Wilhelm Getman was the archetype German Aryan. In fact, he had even featured in Signal magazine. Peter Wenck was tall with fair hair and blue eyes. Yet Getman was taller, with hair the hue of pale corn and eyes the colour of a tropical sky.
If the Wencks had their reservations, the dark haired Swabisch positively disliked the man. The feeling was mutual.
Before Getman arrived, Peter Wenck had taken Swabisch aside and told him not to mention the B17 or their activity at Halden. Swabisch had laughed and jokingly enquired as to what would happen if he did.
A worried and harassed Wenck did not see the joke. He rounded on his friend and in an irritated voice said, “Then, my friend, I will have you
and that fucking snooper shot.”
The vehemence in his voice and the expression on his face shocked Swabisch to the core. He felt utterly out of his depth and seeing the pressure his long time comrade was under only heightened the feeling. The arrival of Getman compounded his own anger, so he turned his frustration on the interloper.
Getman was a party member and proud of it. A fighter pilot with twenty-two victories, he had been badly wounded in the Crimea and had been sent home to recuperate. Appointed as an aide to the Reichsmarschall, he was now being sent to Norway to check up on the Wenck’s Icelandic sortie.
Getman arrived a few hours after the 5th and 6th Panzer Armies of General Sepp Dietrich and General Hasso von Manteuffel, plus the 7th Army under General Erich Brandenberger, broke through the American lines on a seventy-kilometre front in an attempt to reach Antwerp and split the Allied armies.
Luckily for the pilots the 290 was almost ready. All that was needed was to fuel and arm the big Junkers and obtain the latest weather reports from the target area.
On the seventeenth they flew to Trondheim and waited for the decision to go ahead.
On the morning of the eighteenth, with the German offensive in full swing and the German Sixth Panzer Army having just crossed the River Ambleve, Wenck lifted the heavily-laden bomber off the runway and headed west out over the Norwegian sea and towards the North Atlantic.
Although not a bomber pilot and with almost nil experience flying multi-engined aircraft, Getman had insisted on sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. His arrogance had enraged Peter Wenck. He glared at the staff officer trying to contain his temper, but he lost the attempt.
“Now you listen carefully, Captain. Very, very carefully.” He lowered his voice until the words were a hiss forced through pursed lips. “I don’t care where you come from, what your party number is and who you report to. If you come with me, and I’ll be the one to decide that, you will do what I say. Verstanden?”
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 15