“Now, because in any flight from the Channel Islands we will not have to skirt the northern part of England, we will actually save another 280 kilometres or so. Therefore, as I’ve just said, the total saving is about 1,900 kilometres.” His father nodded his head enthusiastically. “All we have to do now is find out what the political situation is on the islands and whether there is still an airfield capable of being used as a staging post. I mean, we don’t know whether the Allies have bombed them to rubble.”
After further discussion it was decided to utilise Meunier once more in order to gain sufficient intelligence about the situation on the Channel Islands.
On 5 January, Peter Wenck again flew to Lübeck. Complaining about an engine overheating on the FW200 Condor transport he was piloting, he left the aircraft in the hands of some mechanics while he took a train to Hamburg. He had arranged to meet the diplomat at a barber shop on the outskirts of the city. Contact made, they headed for a small café where they sat in the corner, alone and undisturbed except for the discreet hovering of a waiter. In a low voice Wenck told Meunier about the Channel Islands and what they wanted him to find out. The diplomat was as enthusiastic as the young pilot.
“My boy, I think you have hit upon another solution to our problem. My information is a little more up-to-date than yours, but before we decide on any strategy I will determine what the latest status is with these islands so we can decide how to utilise them.” He paused and then added mysteriously, “Also, I believe I have found another piece of the jigsaw: the whereabouts of our ultimate destination. Tell your father that with a little bit of luck I will also have this piece of information by the eighth, or at least by the tenth,” he said winking and tapping the side of his nose theatrically.
Whatever the information was, it was not to be forthcoming by the tenth or even by the twelfth when both Wencks had their next meeting with Meunier. This time they met in an empty apartment belonging to a friend of Meunier who was on duty manning a flak battery on the outskirts of the city. Meunier opened the conversation with an apology, saying that he was still no closer to being able to tell them about their ultimate destination.
“I’m sorry, my friends,” he said with a wry smile, “I have not yet been able to lock this vital piece of our plan into place. But, do not fret, I am fairly certain I can do so and quite soon. It’s just …” he paused for a moment searching for the right words and then gave up. “Let us just say it is much harder to lock in than I had at first expected,” he said enigmatically. “Nevertheless, I have all the relevant information about our islands and the news is good. I am quite certain we can use them as a re-fuelling stop.”
The diplomat opened a small leather briefcase and extracted a quarter folded map and three postcard-sized photographs. Opening the map he began to recount the recent history of the Channel Islands.
He explained that to Hitler and Goebbels the islands were a vital part of their propaganda machine as they were important psychologically. The Führer and his information minister felt it was important for Germany to be seen by the rest of the world as still having the strength to hold onto part of Great Britain, especially when the territory was so far behind the front-line.
In the three years preceding D-Day the Channel Islands had been turned into a veritable fortress with one of the smaller islands, Alderney, which was situated little more than a dozen kilometres from Cape de la Hague on the French coast, being particularly well-endowed with six huge batteries of heavy guns.
Although construction of any fortifications had finished shortly after the Allies had landed at Normandy the previous June (because of the impossibility of bringing in any major supplies), all the islands were still heavily protected. In fact, it could be argued that had these substantial fortifications, which equalled Hitler’s much vaunted west wall on the French coast, been sited at Normandy instead, then the Allies would never have got ashore.
The islands’ defence systems were mostly encased in thick ferro concrete and included fire control systems to direct huge 30.5-centimetre guns. These had originally been fitted to some old pre-World War One Russian battleships and had subsequently been sold to the Danes for their own coastal fortifications. These guns were installed on Guernsey and concealed in dummy cottages. With a range of sixty kilometres they were able to hit targets well within the coastal areas of France.
As well, these fortifications were backed up by a large concentration of troops. The principal towns on Guernsey and Jersey, St Peter Port and St Heller, were also home to several large minesweepers belonging to the Kriegsmarine. These ships were effectively permanently moored as any attempt to try and return to Germany via the North Sea and Baltic would end in their destruction.
Despite this concentration of power, the islands had been governed differently than that of any other territory captured by the Third Reich. The Gestapo were never represented on the islands and SS troops were few and far between, except on Alderney where there were almost 2,000 slaves under the control of the Todt labour organisation.
Most of the islands’ control was vested in the Geheime Feldpolizei and the Feld Polizei. The former was the Secret Military Police and the latter the ordinary Military Police.
The fliers listened in silence as Meunier carefully detailed conditions on the islands. Finally, he judiciously re-folded the map and picked up the three black-and-white photographs. He placed them in his right hand and fanned them apart like a poker player would.
“Now, for the important cards in this little game.” He placed them one by one on the table facing the two airmen. “There you are, king, queen and jack … and I hope we hold the ace. Right … now this is the king of the islands, Count von Schmettow,” he said pointing to one photograph.
The man portrayed had the face of a classic aristocrat: high forehead, pointed nose with a teardrop end, short, clipped, thinning grey hair and a military bearing. Yet the visage was not stern and overbearing.
“Schmettow has been commander-in-chief since September 1940, a long time to hold such a post, although if my informants are correct this will change very soon. But, I’ll get onto that in a minute,” said Meunier. “As his name suggests he’s an aristocrat of the old school, he’s …”
Helmuth Wenck broke in. “Yes, I know him. Not well mind you, but I met him in the first war and I’ve run across him at a couple of functions back in the thirties. He’s a relation of von Runstedt is he not?”
“Yes, a nephew,” answered the diplomat nodding his head. “It is good you’ve had some dealings with him. Now, as I was saying. He was a colonel in the last lot. He served on both the eastern front and in the trenches in France where he was wounded, losing a lung.”
Meunier went on to explain how the count had not introduced any repressive measures on the islands he controlled. He had been able to be a benign ruler only because the islands had not been under the auspices of the German administrative forces that controlled occupied France. His civil administration came under Feldkommandatur 515, which had its headquarters at Victoria College in Jersey.
The diplomat then pointed to a second photograph.
“Baron von und zu Aufess, chief of administration. He’s not important, except that he has the ear of Schmettow,” he said pointing to another photograph. “Now, here’s the jack of the trio. What’s more I believe he is shortly going to be elevated to the position of king,” he said pointing at the last photograph.
The face under the battered Kriegsmarine peaked hat was beefy and jovial. He resembled Göring although the build was less severe. The shadow of the hat’s peak hid the expression of the man’s eyes, so it was not possible to gauge the true nature of the person’s smile.
“Vice Admiral Hüffmeier. By all accounts he is now virtually in control there. I do not know him personally. Do you, Helmuth?” The general pursed his lips and shook his head. “Well, he is the person we have to liaise with and he’s the one we have to court. He’s a fanatical National Socialist and, would you believe, h
e has even been using the islands as a base from which to run raids on the French Coast.”
Meunier explained how Hüffmeier’s position on the islands was crucial to their using them as a staging post.
The vice admiral had previously been in command of one of the prides of the German navy, the battle cruiser Scharnhorst. Known throughout the Kriegsmarine as the lucky ship, her career was finally ended by the fourteen-inch guns of the British battleship Duke of York on 26 December 1943. Although not in command at the time of her final voyage, Hüffmeier was reported to have been enraged by her sinking. He had subsequently been transferred to the Channel Islands in June 1944 as naval commander. His authority on the islands was considerably enhanced when in October 1944 they were put under the control of the navy. The man in charge of the region was Admiral Krancke, Flag Officer Commanding Naval Group West and, as such, Hüffmeier’s immediate superior. Because of this he did not have to report to von Schmettow on operational matters, only on decisions affecting the islands’ administration.
“Helmuth, you will of course understand why the navy was put in charge. Since the July attempt on his life, the Führer has not been very trustful of the army and has put most of his faith in the navy, plus of course the SS. Also, the Kriegsmarine has plenty of personnel and except for the U-Boats, not many ships left. Therefore, the Channel Islands with their strategic position out at the southern entrance to the English Channel are a logical choice for naval administration.”
He paused for a moment and the two air force officers nodded their heads. Peter Wenck spoke up.
“Can we use the bugger? I mean will he help?”
“We only have to use Himmler’s and Göring’s letters and explain that we need him and the islands to stage a daring and important raid and he will be bound to help. The man’s whole history suggests he will jump at the chance.”
Meunier explained it was common knowledge that Hüffmeier was busily undermining von Schmettow and actively pressing for his recall to Germany so he could replace him as commander-in-chief.
After further discussion it was decided the Wencks would fly to Guernsey as soon as possible to speak to von Schmettow and the vice admiral and enlist their aid.
As they left, Helmuth Wenck informed Meunier that they would be meeting with Schonewille early the next morning.
Meanwhile, Obersturmbannführer Friedrich Schonewille was not looking forward to meeting his father and half brother. Although he had reached an accommodation with Peter, he was still wary of his father. This was compounded by the sense of injustice caused by his parents’ divorce and the feeling of inferiority still lurking just beneath the surface of his psyche.
Allied to this was his mental state and general health. Existing in the SS was always difficult, but now leading almost a double life and feeling that he was being used by Heger and Grauwitz, who absolutely refused to tell him when they planned to activate their escape, his nerves were beginning to fray. There were also the constant visits to the concentration camps. The appalling misery of the inmates was beginning to wear him down.
He had always been able to keep his conscience subordinated to his ambition and prejudices. His cold blooded execution of the more liberal minded of his class had always been fed by this hatred and prejudice. Unfortunately, though he was now a military man this group was still personified by his father. Similarly, Schonewille had been able to suborn his better nature to undertake whatever job was expected of him in the course of his duty. Now, the constant misery that confronted him every time he entered the confines of the camps was beginning to sicken him.
On his recent trip he had visited Sachsenhausen and Ravensbrook. The latter was a camp primarily for women. Having finished his perusal of the figures Schonewille had been led to an office by the camp’s deputy commandant and offered one of the camp’s inmates for the night. The Jewess smiled winningly at him but, although she did not look at all like Sophia, her expression was similar to that often shown by his mistress when he came home.The shock of this realisation was enough to make him very angry with the deputy commandant. He refused, shouting his disgust and anger that anyone would dare think he would besmirch his name by having relations with a Jew.
At his words, the woman’s smile had been replaced by a look of helpless fear and this further enraged him. He had seen the same haunted look when Sophia became frightened.
As usual after leaving the camps he had gone to the nearest hotel to have a bath while his suit was sponged and pressed. Since Ravensbrook was in northern Germany it had not been too hard to gain permission to travel onto Hamburg. His mother’s sister still lived there and he often went to visit the elderly woman. Family duty was very close to the heart of the SS hierarchy and it was not difficult for him to ask for twenty-four hours leave to see a close member of his family. Therefore, the trip to the two concentration camps, his visit to his aunt and his meeting with the remainder of his family all fitted in very neatly.
His brother had contacted him a few days previously and they had arranged to meet at one of the few good hotels still standing. Peter was waiting in the foyer as he stepped out of the lift at the appointed time. Ill at ease at the prospect of seeing his father, Friedrich nevertheless greeted his half brother warmly. The room was crowded and in the jostling throng nobody took any notice of them.
Peter indicated with his head that he wanted Schonewille to follow and together they stepped out into the street. The two walked for ten minutes until they reached a small café in the older section of the city near the docks. They sat in the corner with the flier facing the door. They ordered some sandwiches and to Schonewille’s surprise the proprietor also placed two large mugs of real cocoa in front of them. At his raised eyebrows the other said matter-of-factly, “Good, eh? I deliver the odd delicacy or two here when I fly over from Norway and my old friend over there,” he waved a hand in the direction of a man wiping a table, “gets hold of some rare treats from the Swedish ships that dock here. It’s black market, of course, and costs the earth, but well worth it don’t you think?”
Schonewille nodded his head and put his cold hands around the mug, taking a small sip and smacking his lips appreciatively.
“Friedrich, my boy. How are you?”
With his back to the door and deep in the appreciation of his drink he had not heard his father enter, even though the café was almost deserted and relatively quiet. He rose and, before he realised what he was doing, saluted the older man. Unselfconsciously Helmuth Wenck returned the salute and then extended his hand. His first-born took it and then they both sat down.
A few minutes were spent ordering some food for the air force general and another round of cocoa. Then there was a moment’s silence. The conversation was nondescript at first: state of health, difficulty in getting to Hamburg and the problem of the air-raids. Then, it was down to business.
Sensing Schonewille’s wariness Helmuth Wenck took the lead, explaining in low tones how they had managed to obtain an aircraft with sufficient range to fly them well away from the borders of the Reich and how plans for their ultimate destination were progressing smoothly.
Schonewille asked where that destination was and his father answered by saying that he was not yet sure. Schonewille’s eyes narrowed and Helmuth Wenck, seeing the look, said with assurance, “That’s right, Friedrich. We are not yet sure. We are working on something and in fact I hoped to have had the answer today. Unfortunately, this has proved not to be the case. We are also working on a vital re-fuelling stop and this detail too still has to be tied together.”
Peter Wenck nodded in agreement and added, “Yes, and you had better believe me. We have this crazy scheme almost completed and as soon as we have locked it in we’ll tell you. Now, how is your end going and when are your friends planning to break open the till?”
Schonewille shook his head ruefully, saying he did not know. He added that he was being kept in the dark and it annoyed him. His father and brother exchanged glances and in an effort t
o re-gain the initiative he re-assured them. “At any rate, you do not have to worry about it. They need my signature on any withdrawal. When I return to Berlin tomorrow I will seek out Herr Grauwitz and see what I can glean. It is no use my asking Heger, he just does as he’s told and despite what he says, I don’t believe he knows too much. That shit Grauwitz would not tell his mother what day it was.”
Both Wencks had decided not to press Schonewille too hard on either the money or on what his duties were in the SS. However, Helmuth broke the agreement and said to the SS officer, “And what are you up to these days, Friedrich – that is, what have the good old SS got you doing other than looking after their books and booking flights for Jews on their way to Sweden?”
Schonewille’s eyes narrowed once again and he said slowly and cautiously, “Why nothing, Father, what do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing important, Friedrich. I just thought that an officer with your record would be doing more than just doing the books or acting as a glorified travel clerk.”
Schonewille just nodded his head and said lamely, “I just follow orders, Father. Like all of us.”
There was no reason to pursue the conversation any further so Helmuth Wenck let the matter drop. After ten minutes of desultory conversation they paid their bill and left. Silently, they walked through the snow to the hotel where they parted company – the Wencks to the airport and Schonewille to a warm bed.
The next day they began to plan their trip to the Channel Islands.
Chapter Sixteen
16 January 1945
The small Austin Ten backfired, the sound magnified by the still blackness around them. Wedged in the back seat with his father, Peter Wenck turned and smiled at his parent’s face scarcely twenty centimetres from his own. There was no returning smile.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 17