The Reichsbank Robbery

by Colin Roderick Fulton

  Getman nodded his head. He was not sure what the relationship was between the Wencks and Göring, but he quickly realised that the man glaring at him was not afraid of anybody. Peter Wenck’s record, together with the Knight’s Cross at his throat meant he was used to getting his own way. At the same time he realised that although he was an ace with twenty-two victories, he was only twenty-one years of age and simply a humble captain to boot. Though the man opposite was only a few years older, he was already a lieutenant-colonel and a famous one at that.

  Wenck went on, his voice now clipped and imperious. “Right, now that we understand one another, here’s what you will do. You will help Captain Swabisch with the preparations. You’ll sit in the co-pilot’s seat during the flight, but not during landing and take-off and not for the attack, understand? Good, you’re dismissed.”

  Now, with the Lightnings boring in at 400 miles an hour Wenck forgot these words and Getman remained in the co-pilot’s seat. The fighter pilot noted Wenck’s calm expression and the measured way in which he informed the crew of his planned moves and urged them to be careful. He was much impressed.

  They had nearly made their target. The Junkers had just passed the island of Vestmannaevyjar and they were on course to cross the Icelandic coast between Stockseyri and Hella before turning westward to approach Reykjavik from inland. Of course what Getman did not know was that Peter Wenck had never planned to bomb his mother’s homeland. If he had really wanted to do so he would have crossed the coast further to the east and north to reduce the risk of interception and then flown overland to the target.

  Peter Wenck did not have a death wish, but he nevertheless welcomed the appearance of the two American fighters. It was what he had been hoping for.

  The tail gunner warned him how the approaching fighters were closing in. This explained their intended method of attack: line astern, one after the other.

  “Good,” muttered Wenck half to himself. He now knew his chances of survival had increased measurably. The American pilots were amateurs. Instead of splitting up and dividing the German bomber’s defensive armament by attacking from different quarters, they were playing a follow-the-leader routine.

  The Junkers was no easy meat. Its defensive armament was made up of half-a-dozen twenty-millimetre cannons and several heavy calibre machine-guns while the pilot was one of the most experienced, wily and cunning men in the Luftwaffe.

  Wenck hoped the two fighters would continue with their classic up-wind approach and attack from the rear. He planned to lower his flap and throttle back, so the attacking fighters would overshoot the rapidly slowing bomber and would therefore be forced to break away. If they turned and climbed he would let them go and then break for some nearby clouds, but if they dived below him, he planned to follow their dive and attack them. It was a risky manoeuvre, for he was depending on his gunners with their heavy cannons forcing the Lightnings to break away early.

  His plan almost failed. As the big Junkers suddenly slowed down and filled their windscreens and with the two upper turrets and tail gunner beginning some accurate and unnerving defensive fire, the second American pilot bravely hung onto his dive for a second longer and tried a quick deflection shot. He was right on target.

  Four cannon shells and some two dozen fifty-calibre machine-gun bullets struck the German aircraft. Luckily, none of the former hit the cockpit area, but unfortunately seven of the latter did. One machine-gun bullet hit the edge of the armour-plated co-pilot’s seat and split in two. One half buried itself into the instrument panel while the other angled upwards and took off most of Getman’s head. A horrified Wenck was suddenly splattered with blood, bone and brain matter as the near-headless corpse slumped in its harness.

  Worse was to follow. The radar operator yelled into the intercom, saying cannon shell had entered the rear compartment killing the wireless operator and smashing the radio.

  Momentarily distracted, he lost sight of the Lightnings and when he caught sight of them again his chance for an attack was lost.

  Cursing, he swung the Junkers away and headed for the nearest cloud. He knew he would reach it before the attacking fighters were able to latch onto him again, but there was a problem, the cloud was too small. In order to reach the safety of a larger snowy blanket five kilometres away he would first have to emerge from the smaller one into clear sky.

  This would be much too risky. He had to act boldly.

  As soon as the small cloud enveloped the fleeing bomber, he threw it into the sharpest skidding turn he could manage and emerged from his cover to face the Lightnings.

  The move caught the Americans by surprise. At a closing speed of better than 600 miles an hour there was no time to think. Having prepared for the manoeuvre, the crew of the Junkers were at a distinct advantage and they utilised it to the fullest. Both Lightnings pulled up and over the German bomber and in that split second one of the gunners swung his turret around and sent a deadly stream of armour-piercing shells into the belly of the leading fork-tailed fighter. The end was swift. With one engine on fire and its pilot dead, it turned on its back and dived into the sea.

  Taking advantage of the mayhem he had caused, Wenck swung the Junkers around once more and before the second American pilot could gather his wits the Junkers was safely in the confines of the large cloud bank.

  When they emerged thirty minutes later, they were almost 200 kilometres away and there was no sign of the remaining American fighter.

  The sunshine, though, was transient to say the least. They had barely time to catch their breath when the weather closed right in and enveloped the Junkers. Minutes later they were struggling through a massive rain storm that reduced visibility to almost nil and made Wenck call on every bit of his prodigious skill to keep the big aircraft from being inverted, or worse still, from being torn apart by the elements.

  The task was not made any easier by conditions in the cockpit. There was a hole in one of the side windows through which an icy sleet raged and much of the instrument panel was inoperative and smoking.

  Then there was Getman, or what was left of him. Most of the man’s brains were liberally spread on the roof and cockpit surrounds. A horrified Swabisch, on entering the cockpit, took one look at the remains and promptly vomited, adding to the mess and the smell.

  With his nerves on edge, Wenck swore at his friend. “For fuck’s sake Leo, can’t you control your stomach? No, no leave that mess,” he yelled above the noise of the storm as Swabisch took off his scarf and attempted to wipe away some of the bile and foodstuffs dripping down the back of the co-pilot’s seat. “Just get Getman out of here and help me pilot this fucking heap of shit.”

  The grizzly task was completed and then Swabisch used his scarf to plug the hole in the window. One of the crewmen unscrewed the cap from a thermos and with an unsteady hand poured the two pilots some Ersatzkaffee. Refreshed, Wenck’s heart rate slowed somewhat and he relaxed slightly.

  Gradually the storm petered out and by the time they were within sight of the Norwegian coast the rain had stopped and the cloud was beginning to thin out. They landed at Trondheim without fuss and taxied to one of the dispersals areas. As he switched off the engines Wenck looked at his wristwatch. They had been in the air for just over nine hours. God, no wonder I feel weary, he thought.

  The ground crew arrived, their faces pinched and blotchy in the cold air. Grimly they helped the crew take out the bodies of the two dead airmen and laid them on stretchers. As they picked one up, the bloodied hand of the wireless operator fell onto the snow leaving a small red smear on the white crystals. One of the gunners placed it back on the stretcher and swore under his breath. There was no particular feeling for Getman among the crew. They hardly knew him and, anyway, his demeanour had not endeared him to them. The wireless operator was different. They had flown with him, shared their rations and laughed at his jokes and now, like so many countless numbers of their comrades, he was dead. At nineteen years of age, his face still covered with acne, he was
just another casualty of the war.

  For a moment Peter Wenck felt guilty. The youth’s death was unnecessary, as he had died for a sham. The pilot tried to ease his conscience. It was Göring’s fault, he reasoned. If he had not insisted on the raid then the youth would have been alive. Despite the logic he knew he was also to blame but, since there was nothing he could do about it he mentally shrugged his shoulders and cleared his mind of the fact.

  It took the engineers and ground crew thirty-six hours to repair the cockpit and wireless cabin and as soon as the last screw was in place, Leo Swabisch took off and headed for Kragero. Wenck had preceded him by the length of a twelve hour sleep.

  On arriving at Halden, Wenck reported to his father, who in turn had contacted the Reichsmarschall. Göring, distracted by the Ardennes offensive and still planning the Luftwaffe’s role in it, hardly bothered to reply. A curt “bad luck” was all he telegraphed, although a member of his staff asked for a full report. Getman’s death hardly raised an eyebrow.

  On the Western Front, things were not going to plan for the German army. Von Manteuffel had failed to capture Bastogne as planned and was forced to surround the town in an attempt to bludgeon the stubborn American defenders into submission. This failure was to have a far-reaching effect on the German offensive for it forced them to waste much needed armour and artillery on the town and caused them to waste the one commodity they had little of: time. Some of their armoured spearheads still continued westwards and almost reached the Meuse river on the twenty-fourth. However, Christmas Day saw the Allies begin their counter-attack. Montgomery in the north and Patton in the south began to squeeze the pimple that was the bulge of the German offensive. Boxing Day saw Bastogne relieved. By New Year’s Eve the Wehrmacht and SS troops were being pushed back everywhere.

  Despite this, the Germans tried two last attacks.

  As the last remaining hours of 1944 ticked away, General Hermann Balck’s Army Group G launched Operation Nordwind, an attack designed to destroy the allied forces in Alsace. It failed in its objective. A few hours later the Luftwaffe mounted what was to be its last major offensive of the war: Operation Bodenplatte. This was the massive offensive that Göring hoped would smash the Allied aircraft on the ground and, in doing so, enable him to be, once again, pre-eminent in Hitler’s court.

  Though Göring had hoped to muster 3,000 fighter aircraft for the attack, the Luftwaffe had only managed to garner together just over one third that amount. Nevertheless, 1,000 fighters were a large force in anybody’s language.

  Grouped into ten major Jagdgeschwader, the heavily-armed fighters mounted a simultaneous attack on some sixteen Allied tactical airfields in north-eastern France and the low countries. Shortly before half-past-nine in the morning on New Year’s Day, the Focke Wulfs and Messerschmitts, all armed with bombs and/or rockets, struck the snow covered Allied airfields.

  Though not as successful as they had hoped, the German pilots still managed to destroy some 300 British and American fighters and bombers, mostly on the ground. Unfortunately, in turn, they lost almost the same number. While the Allies could afford such a loss, the Luftwaffe could not. The loss of planes was magnified because the Germans lost almost 250 trained pilots and these were irreplaceable. The Allies on the other hand lost few fliers.

  Like the whole Ardennes offensive, Operation Bodenplatte was a tactical victory that became a strategic failure. Thus weakened, the German forces, through those two failed offensives, hastened the demise of the Third Reich.

  With the new year just dawning, the Allies were now readying themselves for the final push. In the west, Eisenhower was carefully and methodically preparing to continue with his offensive, while in the east, the Russian steamroller was almost ready to move once again.

  All three Allies were now ready to exert the maximum pressure on what was left of the Third Reich. Germany was now like a nut in a nutcracker just waiting for its enemies to exert pressure on either end to split the whole rotten edifice wide open for the world to see.

  For Grauwitz, Schonewille and the Wencks, time was running out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  15 January 1945

  The night was the colour of Indian ink. Thick clouds hid the moon and the stars to such an extent that even the horizon and sea were invisible.

  A film of perspiration formed under his flying cap as he spoke to his father seated behind him.

  “Can you see the bloody lights?”

  His father answered in the negative. Another few seconds elapsed and Peter Wenck had just decided to use his radio again and call up the airfield when a string of lights appeared just off their port wing tip. He quickly turned, aligned the Messerschmitt 410 with the lights, lowered his undercarriage and flaps and eased the fighter onto the tarmac.

  The moment he reached the end of the runway the lights were turned off and, except for the dull glow from his instrument panel, he was left in total darkness. Suddenly, a torch light was waved in front of them and began moving slowly away. Easing off the brakes, he followed the dim light, his eyes straining to make sure the twin-engined night fighter did not stray off the edge of the taxi strip. A structure loomed out of the blackness so he braked to a stop. The torch was switched off and again he was left in darkness. When the lights did not re-appear he cut his engines and swung back the hinged cockpit canopy.

  Awkwardly he hoisted himself out onto the wing root and helped his father clamber from the rear seat. Moving down the wing Peter Wenck jumped to the ground and then reached back to help the older man reach terra firma.

  Two figures approached, a Wehrmacht sergeant carrying a torch and a leutnant in the uniform of the Kriegsmarine. The sergeant stopped two or three metres away, while the naval officer walked right up to them and saluted. “Welcome to England,” he said.

  After the abortive mission to Iceland, Göring had left the Wencks alone. Helmuth Wenck still had a legitimate job to do and was forced to spend a great deal of time re-organising his depleted command. Although Hitler was refusing to evacuate Norway, thereby strengthening the Reich, there were still considerable reinforcements that could be leached away from that country. In order to make sure his son was not transferred back to some operational squadron, the general made sure he was busily engaged in flying transport missions to and from Norway.

  In Germany, on one such transport flight, Peter was contacted by Schonewille who engaged him to fly some of Grauwitz’s Jews to Stockholm.

  Although somewhat dishevelled and gaunt, the thirty-odd Jewish men and women did not seem too worse for wear and their appearance did much to allay his fears about what he had been told by his father on the happenings within the concentration camps.

  While all this was going on, work continued on the B17. The Junkers 290 was a different matter entirely. Now repaired, it was still a valuable commodity to both the Wencks and the Luftwaffe. The former wanted to retain it in case something happened to the Boeing while the latter badly needed aircraft with the size and range of the Junkers.

  To make any requisition difficult, Helmuth Wenck had the German bomber disabled by removing one engine (ostensibly for a complete overhaul) and partially dismantling the instrument panel.

  In between their legitimate jobs, both men continued to plan and plot. Their biggest hurdle was still the question of range, though since it was a one-way flight it was not an insurmountable problem. The Junkers had almost sufficient range, but the B17 in its standard configuration did not. Straight as the crow flies, the distance from Oslo to the Dominican Republic was just over 10,000 kilometres. The Junkers-standard range was a shade over 6,000 kilometres and with the extra tankage it now carried it could fly the distance. Unfortunately, they realised that to fly a German aircraft into the Caribbean and then land in a country that was at least nominally on the Allied side would be highly risky, if not impossible, even if they disguised it with spurious markings.

  Therefore, the Boeing was their only logical choice for slipping undetected into the Domi
nican Republic.

  It was Peter Wenck who stumbled onto a possible solution to the problem. Just returned from a transport flight to Lubeck, he was idly thumbing through a back issue of Signal when an article caught his attention. Half asleep and with his tired brain not fully comprehending what he was reading, the implication of the article at first made no direct impact on his conscious thought. Yet, even as his fingers turned the page something slipped through and registered.

  Turning back the page he stared at a large photograph of a huge gun hidden in a cliff face, its barrel pointing menacingly out towards the sea. Now, fully alert, he turned back another page and began to read further.

  The article was about the Channel Islands, the only part of the United Kingdom to have been captured by Germany. What’s more, even though France had been liberated and the front-line was 500 kilometres away, the Channel Islands were still very much in German hands.

  Peter Wenck had actually visited the islands. Back in 1940 and with the Battle of Britain at its height, his squadron had been sent to Jersey for forty-eight hours. The island and its neighbour, Guernsey, were being used as bases from which the Heinkels could bomb southern England.

  The Signal article was several months old and gave a highly colourful and slanted picture of conditions on the Islands. Although he knew they had not been re-captured by the British, he did not know just what their true state was and whether they could be of any use to him and his fellow plotters. He immediately contacted his father and requested a meeting, first thing the next morning. Over breakfast they discussed this important breakthrough.

  The elder Wenck knew no more about the Channel Islands than his son, but he also realised their political status and their strategic worth to their plans.

  “Christ, Father,” said his son excitedly. “Do you realise that if we can utilise them as a re-fuelling point we can cut about 1,900 kilometres from the maximum needed range of the Boeing?” Placing a ruler on a map that showed southern Scandinavia, part of Britain and all of France, he drew a line across the map and turned it so it faced his parent. “See, if we can follow this route we have a 1,600-kilometre flight to either Jersey or Guernsey. By my calculations it’s just over 8,000 kilometres from there to the Dominican Republic.” He stabbed a finger at southern England.