The Reichsbank Robbery

by Colin Roderick Fulton

  “Well, Flying Officer, what do the photographs show?” said the civilian in the suit.

  He was in his late forties, with a thin, clipped moustache under a prominent nose over which a pair of grey-green eyes peered. The object of his question was one of the two RAF personnel sitting opposite, an officer in the photographics section. The man took out six photographs from an old manila envelope, all blown up to eighteen inches by twelve.

  “Here they are, Sir. The airfields on Guernsey and Jersey,” he said placing them on the table so they faced the other two men. “As you can see,” he went on, waving his hand, palm upwards over the photographs, “these show both airfields free of any aircraft. They were taken one week ago. Now this one on the other hand shows quite clearly a large multi-engined plane parked under some camouflage netting on Guernsey airfield,” he said, extracting another large photograph and placing it on top of the others. “It was taken by a PR Spitfire late yesterday morning.”

  The civilian picked up the photograph and then with his left hand idly spread the others apart. “So, we know a large German aircraft was on Guernsey yesterday.”

  “What was it doing there and was it the one that took off from Jersey?” The question was addressed to the second RAF officer, although the civilian did not look at the man.

  Squadron Leader Roger Parker-Davis was in his mid-twenties. Under the wings over his left breast pocket was the purple and white striped ribbon of the DFC. A metal bar on the ribbon indicated he had been awarded this coveted medal twice. He was an ace fighter pilot and had flown one of the two Beaufighters that had unsuccessfully attempted to shoot down Peter Wenck only a few hours previously.

  He spoke in an unhurried way. His accent was that of a native of Birmingham, although the intonation and accent was not strong. He knew the civilian was with one of the intelligence services and since he did not like spooks, he spoke more carefully than he would normally. “I cannot answer your first question, Sir, but I believe I know the answer to the second.” The other man said nothing, so he went on. “I believe the pilot of the German aircraft moved his kite to Jersey when he realised it may have been photographed by the Spitty. He then took off the moment it was sufficiently dark and, as a decoy, had the landing lights on the Guernsey field turned on to fool us into thinking he was taking off from there. If I had not stationed my wingman as a second line of attack we would have missed the bugger entirely,” he explained without rancour.

  The intelligence officer nodded his head. There was silence for a moment and then he asked another question. “In what direction was he heading when your man intercepted him?”

  “North, or as good as,” the pilot answered. “He then turned almost due east and dropped even lower before crossing the coast of the Cherbourg peninsular at almost tree-top height. That’s when we lost him.”

  The other nodded his head and sucked his lower lip, deep in thought.

  “One final question, Squadron Leader. Do you think the aircraft was heading back to Germany?”

  Parker-Davis shook his head. “No, I don’t. When we lost him we headed into France and then turned back in an effort to locate him. There was nothing. However, my radar operator caught a small blip crossing the coast, but by the time we turned to check he had slipped away.” He paused for a moment and then went on. “The aircraft was definitely a Junkers 290 and whoever was at the controls certainly knew his stuff. We should have got him, but he was too clever. A very experienced pilot, I would venture to say.”

  The intelligence officer nodded his head and dismissed them.

  When the room was empty, he picked up the receiver of one of two phones on the desk and asked to be connected to a number in Whitehall. He drummed his fingers on the table and then idly picked up the photo that showed the shadow of Wenck’s plane under the netting. Finally, the receiver on the other end of the line was picked up.

  “George? Good. Well here is the gen. There is something definitely happening on the islands. Our pilot Parker-Davis said he doubted whether the Junkers was flying back to Germany. Therefore, it certainly was not a supply flight. At any rate, there is another bit of information. I’ve also received word that one of our radar units picked up an aircraft an hour-or-so later flying low up the Channel. Could have been our bird. If it was, then the Junkers was either making for Denmark or maybe even Norway … What? No, I don’t believe the Beaufighters shot him down.”

  The voice on the other end of the receiver continued on for a few minutes. The intelligence officer listened silently. Then he said with conviction, “No, George, I don’t believe we should bomb the airfields. What for? Let’s just keep a watch, a close watch. We both know Hüffmeier is a rabid Nazi and will try something funny. Therefore, let us just wait and see … What? Yes, I do think it’s the best course, all right? Fine, then I’ll see you at two – cheerio.”

  “Well, Obersturmbannführer, what have you been up to, eh?”

  Schonewille stared at the speaker for a moment before answering in a measured tone to hide his alarm. “What are you talking about, Hauptsturmführer Wünsche?”

  The other grinned. He was a tall, good-looking captain with close cropped brown hair and good-natured brown eyes. A former officer with the 8th SS-Kavallerie-Division Florian Geyer, he had been badly wounded two months ago and had been transferred on temporary assignment to Schonewille’s office while he fully recovered. “Oh, nothing really, Sir,” I was just joking,” he said, his smile vanishing as he read the expression in the other’s eyes.

  “The joke must have had some basis, Hauptsturmführer, so what was it?”

  The other man shifted uncomfortably and explained how he had been instructed by another senior officer to make an inventory of any radio messages or wire messages made or received by Schonewille in the preceding three to four months.

  “Whatever for?” he said, making his voice sound incredulous and faintly amused. At the same time, his mind was racing. Who would ask and why? The former was easy, Grauwitz had indicated he would keep a close watch on him. And the latter? He was not sure.

  Lieber Gott, he thought. I’m glad all my radio messages have only been to Peter. Grauwitz knew of his brother. After all, he had been the pilot of the Jewish flights. Yet, he was not sure whether the legal officer actually knew Peter was his half brother. Even if he did, this in itself was no problem, but it could lead to their father, which would be disastrous for General Wenck since the bases in Norway had to be kept secret.

  As an added precaution, Schonewille had always made certain any message that could have been interpreted as being even faintly suspicious had either been conveyed to Peter by letter or telephone, rather than by radio.

  Wünsche identified who had instructed him to make the check: a major with the audit office of Schonewille’s section. This on its own told him nothing and he knew that to question the officer would serve no useful purpose, so he let the matter lie, telling himself he would have to be doubly careful in the future.

  Later, in the privacy of his own office, he stewed over what had happened. Obviously Grauwitz was checking up on him, but why? Did he know something or was he just being paranoid? The mere fact Grauwitz was making a random check meant he had no real information. If Grauwitz really knew what he was up to he would have had him arrested and shot by now.

  The logic of this did much to comfort Schonewille. Still, it was unnerving and made his already frayed nerves even worse.

  Unfortunately, when he got home Sophia’s news made him feel physically ill. She greeted him affectionately, something she always did when she was frightened. Her agitation set Schonewille’s nerves off.

  On asking what was the matter, he received a strange reply.

  “Oh, Friedrich, I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just being silly, but this woman came round and she behaved so strangely.”

  “Woman, what woman?” snapped Schonewille.

  He took her by the arm and sat her on the sofa. She sat hunched over, nervously clasping her hands and ru
bbing her knuckles. She explained how the doorbell had rung shortly after five. On answering, she had been confronted by a woman who asked whether Schonewille was at home.

  Sophia explained that he was probably still at his office, whereupon the woman had invited herself in. Flustered and unsure, Sophia did not know how to refuse politely. So she just said no.

  “She became a little rude, Friedrich, and started to question me. Her manner annoyed me. I managed to calm down and told her to mind her manners. I explained I was your cousin and that I worked in the office of the Wirtschafts-und-Verwaltungshauptamt, like you. Then I explained that I was busy and if she had anything to say to you she could leave a message. She just shook her head and turned her back on me. Then she walked away.”

  Sophia paused and went on. “Did I handle it right, Friedrich?”

  Schonewille shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Liebling. But, I need to know who she was. Please describe her.”

  She did so, accurately and without hesitation. He recognised the woman immediately, Frau Alice Heger. “What the hell does that shrewish bitch want?” he muttered. Ignoring his mistress’s questioning look he went to the phone and dialled Heger’s number. The banker answered.

  “Klaus, Friedrich. I understand Alice came around to see me this afternoon. Why?”

  Heger explained that he had wanted to send a message to him. He said that Grauwitz informed him how Schonewille had been trying to find out what was happening and he had therefore used his wife in an attempt to tell him things were moving ahead very rapidly.

  “I do not know any more than you, Friedrich. However, Grauwitz let slip a few details. Apparently he is planning to move on or about the tenth or eleventh of February. More than this I do not know.”

  Schonewille asked a few more questions, which elicited no further useful information, so he said goodbye and hung up. He stood uncertainly by the phone. To put it mildly, he was completely nonplussed. It did not make sense. If Heger had wanted to speak to him why had he not rung or come over himself? Why send his wife?

  Sophia was looking at him uncertainly. No need to worry her unnecessarily, he thought.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go to bed. I know the woman. She’s the wife of a friend who works at the Reichsbank.”

  Some 700 kilometres away a doctor was replacing the bandages on Peter Wenck’s shoulder. It had been two hours since he had first attended to the pilot who had then looked worse than he actually was.

  Apart from loss of blood and a degree of exhaustion, Peter Wenck was not badly wounded. True, the wound was long and deep, needing ten stitches, but some rest and plenty of sleep would go a long way to return him to his normal robust self. He prescribed a mild sedative so the pilot could sleep, despite the dull pain enveloping the upper half of his body, and ordered him to take at least one week’s complete rest.

  On learning the news of his son’s predicament, General Wenck’s first instinct was to fly over, but a short telephone conversation with Peter eased his worries. It was better he stay away from Kragero.

  From then on there was nothing left to do but wait. Now, of course, there was no need to immobilise the Junkers, the cannon shells from the Beaufighter had seen to that. While he did not want the aircraft made serviceable, he could neither afford to have it completely unserviceable, so he compromised. The damaged engine was completely overhauled in situ, although several key electrical components were left off. Similarly, the cockpit was not completely repaired, nor were all the bullet and shell holes erased. To a casual observer, the Junkers looked like it would take some time to fix, yet, in reality, it would take less than two hours to make the Junkers operational.

  Grounded and with nothing left to do, Peter Wenck was left to his own devices. Also, with no squadron of his own to look after, he did not need to catch up on the mountains of paperwork that were the lot of any commanding officer. In the past he had hated the toilet paper, as he had always referred to it, but now with time on his hands even the paperwork would have been a helpful diversion.

  Similarly, there was nothing for Swabisch to do either, so he allowed his friend some leave, although he ordered him to report twice a day. On the first day of February his friend gratefully headed for the fleshpots of Oslo.

  A few hours later Wenck was glad his friend was away. The reason was a junior lieutenant who was transferred to the base from Germany and assigned to the station commander. If Swabisch had seen her, no doubt he would have stayed.

  Lieutenant Erna Hennell was something to behold. Even with her blonde hair pulled back in a regulation bun and her face devoid of make-up she was very attractive. The figure, under the severe uniform also held promise.

  Peter had not been with a woman for over a year. A little fussy in what he wanted, either from or with the opposite sex he had, unlike most soldiers, not just taken what came along. With Erna, even his high standards seemed likely to be met and it was obvious right from the start that she was attracted to him.

  She made inquiries to the station commander about him, but the man, warned by both Wencks to say nothing and thoroughly intimidated by the Knight’s Cross at the pilot’s throat, plus the authority implicit in Himmler’s letter, gave away no information.

  The man was also clearly ill-at-ease in her company. He had been lucky in that his wife and three children were with him in Norway. The proximity of his spouse meant any pretty woman working with him would clearly arouse his wife’s ever-ready jealousy and trouble of this kind he did not want. His main aim was to finish the war in Norway, rather than do anything that might see him transferred back to Germany. Therefore, he also wanted nothing to do with the Wencks and whatever they were planning. The mere thought of Himmler’s letter and what this implied made him deaf, dumb and blind.

  Consequently, he gave Lieutenant Erna Hennell very little to do and virtually had her assigned to Peter Wenck. This suited the woman perfectly. She was very attracted to the tall handsome pilot with his imperious manner and sexy, slightly sardonic smile.

  Since his left arm was in a sling to stop it dragging on his injured shoulder, writing had been an effort, so Peter had her help with what few bits of correspondence he needed to complete without allowing her to see anything linked to their escape plans.

  Watching Erna work he felt a tightening at his groin and as he shifted in his seat to ease the strain on his crotch she looked up and caught his eyes. An experienced woman she recognised the look, and quickly dropped her eyes demurely. Inside, however, she smiled to herself. You are ripe for whatever I offer you, she thought.

  That night he took her out to a local café for dinner. Back at the base he walked her to her quarters and then as she turned to say goodnight he took her chin with his free hand and lightly lifted her head. When she did not resist, he kissed her, at first gently and then with passion. She returned the kiss eagerly, but after a few seconds moved her head away. She caught her breath and said coquettishly, “Is this an order, Herr Colonel, or do I have a chance to volunteer?”

  “The latter, Liebling. I always work best with volunteers,” he answered with a grin.

  “Then, Peter, let me give it some thought. Being a volunteer can get one into trouble and I would like to spend the night thinking about the risks,” she said with a throaty giggle.

  She leant forward and raised her head to be kissed again and then quickly slipped though the door and shut it behind her. She snibbed the lock and stood silently for a moment waiting. Only when his footsteps crunched away in the snow did she move. Trembling slightly, she went to her bed, removed her coat and lay down fully clothed. Her panties felt damp and she moved her left hand down to her groin. She rubbed herself two or three times and then, forcing herself to stand, she undressed and climbed naked back into bed. The bed was cold and with her ardour now thoroughly dampened she curled up and tried to go to sleep.

  “I hope you are as good in bed as you are a hero,” she muttered to herself.

  Chapter Nineteen

>   3 February 1945

  The morning was cold and overcast. It was a Saturday, although much like any other day for anyone in the services. The war took no holidays and in fact 3 February would be a fateful day for all those associated with the Reichsbank.

  Peter Wenck awoke shortly after eight in the morning. His room had a boiler-fed column heater along one wall so it was quite warm. He had had a restless night. The combination of Erna’s kisses and the pain from his shoulder had conspired to leave him sleepless for much of the night. Therefore, with nothing official to do, he stayed in bed.

  Half-an-hour later there came a knock on the door. At his grunted “kommen Sie herein”, the door opened and Erna Hennell stepped inside and bolted the door. Before Peter Wenck could say anything, she turned with a seductive smile and threw her overcoat onto the floor. Underneath, she was wearing a heavy polo neck ski sweater and a grey pleated skirt. She came over to the bed and stood looking down at him. The pilot looked up at her and smiled. Throwing the bedclothes back he said, “Come on, Erna, get into bed. It is cold out there.”

  She leant forward and kissed him lightly on the lips and then stood back. Lifting her hands she pulled the sweater over her head and tossed it next to the coat. She kicked her shoes off and then unbuttoned her skirt and let it fall. Her cotton panties followed.

  Wenck drew in his breath. She was magnificent. Her skin was pale and shone with health. Her breasts were on the smallish side, but beautifully formed with large, pink and very pointed nipples. At her groin there was a bush of untrimmed reddish blonde hair.

  She got into bed and Wenck caught his breath again as he attempted to move over, his shoulder giving him a warning not to be too energetic.

  She raised herself on her left elbow and looked down at him, her face inches from his own. She smelt faintly of Lily of the Valley. God knows where she had got that from, he thought.