“All I wanted to know was when you thought our plan could be activated. After all, we do need each other.”
Grauwitz gave another thin smile. “Don’t be too sure, mein Herr. I don’t need you. Oh yes, officially I do need your signature to get the money out of the account, but do not believe for one moment there are no other means available to me.” He paused and waited for Schonewille to speak. When he did not Grauwitz went on. This time, his message having struck home, he was once more conciliatory. “Herr Obersturmbannführer, let me just say this, any move will come in weeks rather than months. The time is not yet right, but it is close.”
Schonewille nodded his head in acquiescence. He felt drained and a little at a loss on what to say next. He need not have bothered. With an impatient nod of his head, Grauwitz dismissed him.
With the office door closed behind him and an empty corridor in front, he paused for a moment to catch his breath.
The man’s warning worried him. Did Grauwitz know something about what he and his family were planning? He fingered his holster and the silencer in its pouch. One day I will kill you, he thought.
The cold hit him like a knife as he let himself out into the street. A flurry of snow hit his face as he hurried to his office. The white leant some colour to the grey of the buildings and hid some of the bomb damage. Everywhere there was devastation. The situation was rapidly becoming parlous. What he still needed to know was Grauwitz’s timetable and, despite this morning’s meeting, all he had learned was that it was weeks away. But, did it mean two weeks, three weeks, or six weeks?
In Norway, Schonewille’s brother and father were slowly overcoming what was a major hindrance to the success of their plans. The problem was aviation fuel, or rather the lack of it.
Germany was now chronically short of petroleum products, whether it was just straight petrol or high octane aviation fuel. With extra tanks fitted in the bomb bay the Boeing B17 could now carry nearly 5,000 US gallons of fuel. As well as this huge amount Helmuth and Peter Wenck wanted another 2,000 gallons stored on Guernsey. The problem was how to obtain it.
As commanding officer Helmuth Wenck could legally obtain some stocks, but as well as the load for the B17 there needed to be sufficient for the Junkers 290 so it could be used to transfer some of the stocks to the Channel Islands.
By nefarious means, the Wencks began on 17 January to have some of the Kragero stocks transferred to Halden. Every plane landing at either airport was, if possible, relieved of a few precious litres.
“Father, this is taking us forever. What we need is a short cut. Do you have any ideas?”
His parent shook his head. He could use the Göring and Himmler letters to obtain extra stocks, but this was fraught with risks. The problem was not that there were stocks available and all they had to do was obtain it, but rather that there were just no large caches of the precious liquid to be had. Most of the stocks were earmarked for the fighter forces, particularly those who were defending the Reich.
It eventually took eleven days before they had sufficient quantities available to transfer the necessary amount to the Channel Islands.
Consequently, on the night of 28 January, the Junkers 290 lifted off from Kragero with Peter Wenck at the controls and Captain Leo Swabisch in the co-pilot’s seat. The other personnel were made up of a scratch crew of four, enough to man the key turrets and the radio. Swabisch also acted as navigator. This ensured none of the others knew their destination.
The trip south was made without incident as was the landing. From there on, however, everything went wrong.
Peter Wenck had planned to have the aircraft unloaded of its precious cargo immediately and be on his way as quickly as possible. At worst he wanted to be at least as far as the Skagerrak when dawn came. What he did not want was to have his precious Junkers parked on the island in daylight. Unfortunately, that is just what transpired.
Thinking it expedient, Helmuth Wenck had kept in radio contact with Hüffmeier and had not contacted von Schmettow. However, when Peter Wenck landed he found to his disappointment that no arrangements had been made to have the extra fuel drained from the bomber’s tanks and stored at the airfield. Somewhere along the way there had been a major breakdown in communication.
Realising good manners and appeal would get him nowhere, Peter Wenck used the full range of his rank, voice and imperious manner, as well as the prestige of his Knight’s Cross, to put the fear of God in the hapless officer who had been sent out to greet him at the aerodrome.
The naval lieutenant who had just informed Peter Wenck how Vice Admiral Hüffmeier had been unavoidably detained and could not see him just yet cringed as Wenck raised his voice a dozen decibels.
“Leutnant, if you want to survive the war in this cushy backwater you will do two things. Firstly, I want you to round up as many men as you can to unload the fuel and have it stored out of harm’s way, and you will do it quickly. Secondly, you will inform the vice admiral of my arrival. Now get your arse into gear and for your own sake, don’t spill a drop of gasoline.”
Shaken, the lieutenant went away to do as he was bid. Seething, Wenck waited. Behind him there came the tinkling sound of hot metal contracting as the engines cooled in the chilly night air.
Swabisch came over and silently handed him a thermos. He waved it away impatiently and his friend, recognising the signs, kept silent.
It took half-an-hour for some trained personnel to be rounded up, but it then transpired that the necessary hoses with the correct couplings had been locked away in a shed on the other side of the airfield. To compound this, nobody knew where the key was kept.
Enraged, Wenck was driven to the building and ordered one of the guards to shoot the lock out. It took four rounds before the mangled lock gave way and they could get inside. Then, on arriving back to the underground fuel tanks there was another hold up. The cap to the inlet and outlet pipes was also locked to deter pilfering. The problem was nobody knew the whereabouts of the key for the padlock either. Obviously shooting was out of the question.
The lieutenant kept a discreet distance while they waited for the Austin with a driver to travel to St Peter Port and fetch the necessary spare key.
This took almost an hour and by the time the fuel had been transferred dawn was at best two hours away. The airmen were left with an unpalatable realisation. If they took off now, first light would find them in the English Channel somewhere between Harwich and Rotterdam. The consequence of this would be simple. A horde of Spitfires or Tempests would be directed to them by the British radar and they would certainly be shot down.
Reluctantly, Wenck had the Junkers moved to the far end of the airfield and covered with camouflage netting. It was a poor attempt to hide an aircraft of the Junkers’ size.
At seven in the morning he was called to the telephone where an apologetic Hüffmeier requested his presence at the island’s headquarters.
Leaving Swabisch in charge he was driven to St Peter Port. Realising he had been amiss in his handling of Peter Wenck’s needs, Hüffmeier was all charm. Peter Wenck let the matter lie and when the vice admiral suggested a visit to one of the huge gun batteries he accepted. Although he was curious, he could have done without the experience though, with nothing better to do, there was in reality no reason for him to refuse.
He was taken to the coast where he was given a guided tour of one of the guns of the Mirus Battery. The weapon was camouflaged by having the turret and cupola covered by a dummy cottage. Wenck thought it expedient not to tell Hüffmeier that while this would help it avoid detection from the sea, the long barrel of the 30.5 cm gun would be easily visible from the air.
To Wenck’s horror Hüffmeier suggested the gun fire one round, “To wake up those decadent American soldiers sleeping with their French whores.”
Wanting nothing to happen that might endanger the Junkers, he respectfully cautioned the naval commander not to do anything to compromise the special mission.
Back at Hüffmeier’
s St Peter Port headquarters, Wenck was visiting the toilet when he heard the sound of an aero engine. Recognising it as a Merlin he rushed outside, but was unable to see any aircraft. Whatever it had been, it had travelled fast and low and was now not only out of earshot but also out of sight.
Worried, and with a growing nervousness, he hurried back to the airfield where Swabisch explained how a photo reconnaissance Spitfire had made one low-level pass across the aerodrome. Its speed had been so rapid that none of the anti-aircraft crews even made it to their weapons, let alone fired off a shell.
He knew that even if the British pilot had not spied the Junkers there were no doubt trained intelligence experts who, on examining the photographs, would quickly recognise what was under the camouflage netting on the edge of the airfield.
“Himmel, Leo, if the British are quick in examining those prints we will have some fighter bombers paying us a visit before nightfall and it won’t be a friendly call.”
In order to confuse any British attack, Wenck requested and received permission to transfer the Junkers to the aerodrome on Jersey, a flight of a few minutes conducted at a height of less than seventy-five metres. This they completed without a problem.
The remainder of the afternoon was spent in nail-biting anxiety, waiting for an attack. None came. Fifteen minutes after the sky had lost its last shade of colour, the camouflage netting was pulled back and the crew clambered back into the bowels of the giant bomber. In the muted light of the instruments, Swabisch’s grin appeared to fill his entire face. “Stupid Engländer,” he crowed. “Probably too busy drinking tea to examine those photographs.”
Wenck paused for a moment and then cautioned, “Don’t be too sure Leo. They’re not lazy or stupid. Why should they risk pilots and planes to raid a heavily-armed airfield when there are other ways to bag a nice, fat, juicy target?”
Swabisch stopped grinning. He turned to his friend. “Oh shit,” he swore then looked up at the night sky.
“Ja, meine Kameraden. If they have examined those prints I’d bet an English pound to a million reichsmarks there’s a nice hungry Mosquito or two lurking out there.”
“Well, what do we do, Peter?”
Wenck gave a snort of derision. “What can we do? We cannot sit here. We have to take a risk. If they haven’t yet seen those prints, they will certainly do so tomorrow and then we will be in the same boat, only worse. So let’s leave immediately.”
Instrument check completed, Wenck taxied the short distance to the runway and carefully aligned the big bomber with a lone light out in the distance. The sky was clear and the natural light sufficient to see the edges of the runway. Therefore, he did not need any further lights to illuminate the strip.
Standing on the brakes, he ran up the four BMW engines until the Junkers trembled under the pulling strain of their combined 6,400 horsepower. It was a short airstrip and he needed every metre of ground. Less than a minute later, they were airborne. Wenck did not attempt to gain height but kept the Junkers low as he swung around and headed due north. Two minutes later with Sark and Guernsey already on his port wing tip, he called up the radio operator and told him to transmit a pre-arranged call-sign.
The man did as he was bid and immediately a ribbon of lights appeared on the southern portion of Guernsey lighting up its airfield for all to see.
“Donner!” exclaimed Leo, and then realising what Wenck had pre-arranged, turned to the pilot. “You cunning cunt, you bloody marvellous shit. Oh, Peter, once more I realise how shifty and cunning you are!”
Wenck grinned. He had arranged the subterfuge with Hüffmeier. He had reasoned that if there were any British fighters lurking in the vicinity they would be attracted to the light like moths, thereby leaving the Junkers to make its escape unmolested. However, such was not the case. As well as its FuG 200 Hohentwiel search radar on the nose, Wenck’s Junkers, like all A5 variants of the bomber, was also equipped with the Fug 216 Neptun tail warning radar.
With Alderney only fourteen kilometres away, the radar operator informed Wenck in a high pitched voice that a bogey had appeared on his unit and it was closing fast.
“Shit,” he cursed.
He edged the big bomber a little lower and ordered the gunners to keep a watch for the aircraft, at the same time asking the radar operator for more precise details of its likely direction of attack.
Although he thought his decoy had failed, such was not quite the case. There had been two British fighters patrolling in the general area. Only one had swung towards the Guernsey airfield leaving the second further out to sea as a guard in case any German aircraft managed to escape detection by the first fighter.
The British fighter was closing rapidly. The radar operator was not good at his job and was unable to give sufficient warning as to its proximity to the bomber. Luckily, the two gunners in the mid upper turrets spotted him before he opened fire, but the advantage was slight.
Hardly had the front turret gunner informed Wenck on the enemy fighter’s position when there was a flash of tracer and a line of flaming elongated balls erupted from the black sky to Wenck’s left. He cursed again, his pulse racing in a mixture of adrenalin and fear. He knew they were in mortal danger. The British had developed night fighting to a deadly art. Their aircraft were prodigiously armed, fast and crewed by highly-trained and aggressive pilots. As well, they were equipped with very accurate radar.
As he swung the Junkers round so it was heading almost directly towards the origin of the flame, Wenck saw the silhouette of the enemy aircraft momentarily etched against the horizon where the black of the sea met the dark grey of the moonlit sky.
Although he had never actually seen one, he recognised it immediately. A short rounded nose with long curving wings and thick engine nacelles thrusting well forward, so the large airscrews could clear the fuselage. It was a Beaufighter, a deadly two-man night and strike fighter equipped with a battery of four twenty-millimetre cannon and six Browning machine-guns.
The British fighter half-rolled and before the Junkers could turn and slip away under its wings it sent fifty cannon shells and 200 machine-gun bullets in its direction. Five of the shells and some two-dozen bullets struck the Junkers, one shell entering the rear of the cockpit and exploding. Most of the shell splinters were deflected by the armoured seats, but one fragment tore a five-centimetre gash high up on Wenck’s left shoulder before burying itself in the cabin roof only inches from his head.
The shock and pain forced a deep groan from Wenck’s lips, but he never lost control. He swung the Junkers around once more and headed directly for the coast of France at a height of only fifty metres. It was almost suicidal, but he had no choice. At that height it was hard to distinguish where the sea ended and the night sky began and one wrong manoeuvre would see them strike the sea.
The radar operator informed him he had picked up a second contact, but said he thought both fighters were not so purposeful in their course.
“Pray we might have lost them, Leo,” the pilot said.
The gunners had been fighting back and their cannon had been accurate. Wenck ordered them to cease firing unless it was apparent the Beaufighters had found them again and were well within range. Now, any defensive fire from the bomber would only show the British where their enemy was. The Junkers crossed the coast and Wenck headed inland hoping the bomber’s radar signature would be lost because of its proximity to the ground. With tall buildings, telephone poles, high tension electricity pylons and hills criss-crossing the area there was a good chance the clutter caused by these distortions would confuse or blind the Beaufighter’s radar operators.
A few minutes later he turned a few degrees to starboard passing a few kilometres to the south of Valognes. Of their antagonists, there was no sign. Swabisch was leaning forward staring out through the Perspex, as if those few extra centimetres would give them extra warning of anything nasty up ahead.
They were low, dangerously low for such a large aircraft, but so far they had been luck
y. They skirted a valley and swung around to avoid some lights. To their right, an anti-aircraft gun opened up on them, but the sleepy gunners were way off target.
Then they were back out over the sea, having crossed the Cherbourg Peninsula. Keeping as low as possible, he headed back up the English Channel. Swabisch suggested he take over so Wenck could have his wound attended. At first the pilot seemed not to hear the suggestion, but then he shook his head with an irritated gesture and continued at the controls.
They passed through the Straits of Dover without incident and for a moment Wenck allowed himself to relax. Then, the oil pressure on the starboard inner engine started to drop and the cylinder head temperature began to rise ominously. He throttled the engine back and set the trim to compensate for the extra pull of the two engines on the port wing and started praying for the engine not to catch fire. Although it never did, the temperature rose much too high and to be on the safe side, he switched it off. Almost six hours after leaving Jersey, they reached Norwegian air space. Only then did he allow Swabisch to take over the controls.
By now his shoulder was numb and to move his left arm caused a high degree of pain that enveloped his shoulder, neck and upper back. The entire left side of his flying jacket was stained with blood and the moment he relaxed he felt a trifle light-headed. All he wanted to do was have a hot bath and go to sleep. As always he was grateful that Swabisch was in the co-pilot’s seat, and he handed over to his number two.
Swabisch piloted the 290 the rest of the way home and landed without incident.
Chapter Eighteen
30 January 1945
There were three men in the room. Two were wearing the blue uniform of the Royal Air Force, the third was in an ill-fitting and threadbare dark grey suit.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 19