As soon as he saw the crew enter the aircraft, he climbed into the cockpit and settled into his seat, giving himself a moment’s calm and respite before Swabisch and the navigator joined him on the flight deck for any last minute instructions and to go through the pre-flight check.
He spread out his map and looked at the flight plan he had chosen. Ideally he would have liked to take the most direct route, almost due south through German-held territory. But this would be impractical. Even at night Germany was a huge shooting gallery with hordes of British night fighters roaming the skies, either protecting their bombers or engaged on free-range search-and-destroy missions. Schonewille was aware that the Junkers 290 would provide a huge blip for any British radar operator or pilot and, well-armed though it was, the bomber would find it hard to protect itself against an aircraft as deadly as a Mosquito.
To counter this, he and his co-pilot had decided on a circuitous route to reach Traunstein. He knew the Russians possessed few night fighters and those were equipped to fly in the dark were not nearly as efficient as those of their British allies.
Their intended route was south-east through the Kattegat, to the east of Copenhagen and out over the Baltic Sea. They would cross the coast near Sassnitz, fly over the disputed territory of Pomerania and pass well east of Stettin. He then planned to bear almost due south passing east of Dresden and to continue almost until Budapest, before making another course change and heading south-west to Traunstein.
The distance was almost 1,400 kilometres and the trip would take just under six hours. They would arrive at dawn. He hoped the aerodrome’s commander had taken his orders to heart and provided a parking area that would keep the Junkers hidden from any roving Allied fighter.
The cockpit check completed and with all four BMW radial engines warm and running sweetly, he released the brakes and swung the bomber away from the dispersals area.
0645 Hours
The sound of the train whistle in the early spring morning air was almost a relief. The last week had seen a number of false starts and mixed emotions, of which frustration was the most common as the plotters attempted to find out the whereabouts of the various trains carrying the reserves of the Reichsbank.
Late on the evening of the eighteenth, Schonewille’s bank contact rang to inform him that the first train would leave at precisely 0700 hours the next morning. It would take the southern-most route via Peiss, Bruckmühl, Bad Aibling, Kolbermoor, Rosenheim and Übersee to reach Traunstein. The time of arrival was uncertain.
Grauwitz and Schonewille assembled the troops while Schonewille contacted his brother. But just as they were ready to move out they received a call from the bank to say there had been a heavy raid on the Munich marshalling yards and the train would now not leave before 1800 hours. The route was uncertain and, therefore, they were to wait for another call.
This call finally arrived at 2200 hours. This time he was told the train had indeed steamed out of the Munich yards, but had been re-routed along the most northerly track heading east to the town of Muhldorf.
“I am sorry, Herr Obersturmbannführer,’ the voice on the other end apologised. “What route south it ultimately takes to reach Traunstein and the likely timetable it will adhere to, is very much in the lap of the gods. Unfortunately I have no real way of finding out until it actually happens. The Central Railway Office in Mühldorf is your best chance. Contact Reinhardt Lipechitz at the Mühldorf yards in a few hours, he will be the person most likely to know what the situation is.”
Grauwitz greeted the news with a towering rage that showed how much on edge he was. Surprisingly Bremer, on the other hand, was quite calm and showed no emotion. For a moment Schonewille guessed the SS captain might have been relieved.
Maybe he is not too keen on this plan, he thought to himself. Whatever the man felt would be of no ultimate use to him so he went to Grauwitz’s office where the radio was located and made contact with Peter Wenck.
When he returned Grauwitz had calmed down somewhat, although his anger was still clearly in evidence. Schonewille, on the other hand, tried not to let what was happening upset him. He knew he had to remain alert, not only to find out where the train was, but also to watch for any treachery on Grauwitz or Bremer’s part.
“Well, Herr Schonewille,” said the general, omitting to use his title. “What in hell’s sake do we do now? It looks like your plan is falling apart.”
Schonewille resisted losing his temper with difficulty and spoke calmly, his voice low and precise. “My plan? My plan, Grauwitz?” The loss of title was deliberate. “We are in this together … Sir! It is early days yet. All we have to do is bide out time and be ready to move at a moment’s notice. We will get what we want, you mark my words.”
He could hear Grauwitz grind his teeth. The SS brigadier general was clearly not used to being addressed in this way by a junior officer. Yet he knew he was not in a position to do anything but take Schonewille’s impertinence, and the realisation rankled.
Perversely Schonewille was quite enjoying the other’s discomfort and the feeling surprised him. Over the past few years, the cautious accountant with the deferential nature had become a resourceful and ruthless individual. Membership of the SS and the rank that went with it had transformed the way in which he faced the world. To a degree he felt almost omnipotent, yet he was wise enough to know reality was not far away and the slightest slip would herald his demise. He tried for several hours to trace the train’s whereabouts, but either nobody knew or they were not telling. Finally, just after three in the morning of the twentieth, he fell asleep fully-dressed on a sofa.
He was awakened by Chuikov who thrust a steaming hot mug of real coffee under his nose. He drank it greedily, burning his tongue. Cursing, he enquired as to its origins and was told Bremer had visited a local Allied prisoner-of-war camp. “Red Cross parcels,” he muttered to himself.
For the next two hours he alternately worked the phone and the radio trying to find the whereabouts of the train, or any other of the Reichsbank specials, but to no avail. At first he was told all the trains from Mühldorf travelling south to Traunstein and Salzburg had been re-routed south-west to Rosenheim. Yet when he contacted the controller at Rosenheim he was told such a move was impossible for Allied aircraft had severed the rail line in two places both north and south of the town of Rott.
By now Schonewille was also becoming angry and dispirited.
All through the day there was no news. Exhausted he went to sleep early, leaving Bremer in charge of the phone and radio. Grauwitz had disappeared during the afternoon and his aide said he had no idea where he had gone. Although suspicious, Schonewille could do nothing, so he let the matter alone.
The morning of the twenty-first was quiet, there was no news. Just after noon Schonewille again tried to ring his Munich bank contact. The man had not been contactable for more than thirty-six hours and Schonewille was becoming suspicious. However, the man answered the phone and explained that the railway system in south-eastern Germany had been in turmoil after a series of heavy raids and was only now beginning to function properly again. He explained that all but the first Reichsbank special had been halted until the tracks were cleared and the various troop and ammunition trains, which had priority, were safely despatched and well on their way to their respective destinations. The banker then revealed how a second special had just this minute steamed out of the Munich rail yards and was now heading for Rosenheim via Haar and Zorneding.
Schonewille had barely digested this piece of news when Grauwitz strode into the room and threw down his attaché case. “Well, Herr Obersturmbannführer, where is our train, eh?” For a moment Schonewille was nonplussed. He stood uncertainly. “You don’t know, is that it? Well I’ll tell you, my clever friend. It fucking well passed through Traunstein two-and-a-half hours ago and I bet my left testicle it’s being unloaded at Ruhpolding right now.”
Schonewille was shocked and it showed. He had to regain the initiative so he told Grauwit
z about the second train.
To his immense relief the SS general calmed down and they decided to contact the signal box at Rosenheim and ask the signalman to inform them when the train was passing through on its way to Traunstein.
They waited. Six hours passed before they heard from the signalman. The train had just steamed through. Except for an ammunition train five kilometres ahead, the line was clear.
Schonewille radioed Peter Wenck and asked him to get ready for the flight south.
They then contacted the signal box at Prien thirty kilometres down the line only to be told that the ammunition train had been de-railed and the special had been shunted onto a siding.
Schonewille went back to the radio to talk to his brother.
The hours passed and still no news. The morning of the twenty-second dawned. It rained. They contacted the signal box several times during the day asking for the status of the line. The answers were always the same. Crews were working non stop to clear the wreck and restore the line.
By this time Grauwitz’s temper had returned with a vengeance. He had eaten something that obviously had not agreed with him, for he was suffering from a bad case of diarrhoea. Maliciously, Schonewille took great delight at his discomfiture.
Finally, late on the evening on the twenty-third, they were told the line was clear and the special was on the move again. It was time to set the trap. If there were no further major delays, the train would quickly reach Traunstein.
Schonewille had earlier radioed Peter Wenck and told him yet again to stand by. Now he was able to tell him to fly south.
As Peter Wenck eased back the control column and lifted the Junkers into the Norwegian sky, a convoy of twelve trucks, two Volkswagens, the Mader self-propelled gun and the Puma armoured car left the Traunstein barracks and headed south on the Ruhpolding road.
In order to give themselves as much leeway as possible, they left the Mader to make its own way to the rendezvous. With a top speed of forty kilometres per hour, it was a little slow and they wanted to travel at a steady sixty kilometres per hour. In the event, they need not have bothered. The train did not arrive for several hours after they had reached the ambush site and deployed the Russians.
Although Grauwitz did not interfere in the preparations for the ambush, leaving the task primarily to Schonewille with some help from Bremer, he did take a great deal of interest in what was being planned.
The general’s bowel problems had still not abated and he was obviously in some discomfort, alternately clutching at his lower stomach or awkwardly scratching his backside. For the first time he was accompanied by someone other than Bremer, a thick-set corporal who had obviously been severely injured in the face quite recently since his lower jaw was twisted and there was a livid scar stretching from his right ear to the edge of his nose. Grauwitz introduced him as SS Sturmmann Kurt Kube, his praetorian guard.
The corporal saluted, but there was no change to his twisted features and he said nothing. He carried an MP40 machine pistol that hung low across his belly by a strap. There were two magazines attached, the second strapped to the first by tape. Numerous combat badges and an Iron Cross second class were pinned to his tunic. He was obviously a tough and seasoned soldier and his presence gave Schonewille a sense of disquiet.
Masking his feelings, he turned away and attended to the positioning of the Russian troops. A dozen or so men were hidden on the furthest side of the cutting where it continued almost to the railway crossing.
On the southern side where the cutting ended about a hundred metres short of the road, they positioned the Mader and the Puma twenty-five metres apart. Slightly back and to their right was a Pak 37 4.5cm anti-tank gun that had been requisitioned by Grauwitz the day before. The remaining soldiers were stationed in a semi-circle from the edge of the southern cutting or dispersed among bushes. The trucks were a hundred metres back hidden in some trees.
They waited, Schonewille with increasing nervousness, for as well as waiting for the train he had to keep a watchful eye on Grauwitz and his thug. Ilya Chuikov hovered near and even gave him a crooked smile when he looked in his direction, but he was still unsure of the man’s loyalty.
The train’s whistle caused a stir among the waiting troops.
Minutes passed. They could clearly hear the locomotive and see the distant puffs of grey-black smoke through the tree tops.
Then the train was in the cutting, the sound magnified in the enclosed space until it suddenly emerged, travelling at fifty kilometres per hour.
At its head was a quadruple two-centimetre anti-aircraft gun mounted on a flat car with lightly armoured sides about a metre high. Then there was a large wagon covered with sloping armour topped by a large slab-sided turret mounting a light field Howitzer. Next was the locomotive and tender, both protected by armour plate although not to the degree of the wagon. Attached to the tender was another flat car, again with a quadruple anti-aircraft gun, followed by three carriages, their sides and roof also covered by armour plate. Bringing up the rear was a third anti-aircraft gun on a flat car.
The troops’ first priority was to stop the locomotive. Originally, they had planned to de-rail the train, but Schonewille had reasoned that if this happened there was a risk the carriages carrying the money might roll over, thereby hindering the quick and easy transfer of their contents.
Both the Mader and the Puma fired, the deep sound of the Russian cannon coming a second after the crisp crack of the Puma’s fifty-millimetre weapon. The locomotive was an easy target and both shells struck. The 76.2-millimetre gun was the most effective, its armour-piercing shell penetrating the armour plate and the locomotive’s steel hide with relative ease. There came a massive explosion as the boiler erupted, sending steam and chunks of metal flying in all directions. The train immediately rolled to a stop with the first flat car coming to rest across the roadway.
The soldiers manning the Pak 37 were also quick off the mark, their shell carving through the thin armour of the flat car and striking the base of the anti-aircraft gun, totally destroying it and killing its crew. Its brother on the second flat car behind the tender was equally quick to respond and exacted a horrible revenge. A hail of cannon shells wiped out the Pak’s gunners and immobilised the weapon.
The turret on the armoured wagon traversed and the barrel of the Howitzer depressed as its crew looked for a target. It managed to fire one round but missed the now moving Mader before the self-propelled gun and the Puma fired, almost in unison, both hitting the wagon. There was no answer from the Howitzer, but both fired twice more into the armoured hull to make certain.
Above the din of the heavy guns came the rattle of automatic weapons and the sharp steady crack of the two pairs of multiple anti-aircraft cannons as they fired a steady stream of cannon shells at the armoured car. Although they did not penetrate the Puma’s armour they completely shredded the tyres on one side, immobilising it. Wounded, the Puma’s turret swung round and fired twice, its shells striking the second flak car putting its multi-barrelled weapon out of action. At the same time a soldier on the furthest cutting leant over the edge with a Panzerfaust anti-tank weapon and pulled the trigger. The hollow charge shell hit the floor of the third flat car a metre from the base of its anti aircraft gun and exploded, lifting the whole weapon from its mounting and pitching it on its side. All but one of the crew were killed outright.
Automatic weapons continued their staccato beat for a few more seconds before gradually fading to a stop.
For a moment there was an eerie quiet. The steam from the wrecked locomotive escaped silently into the sky and not even the wounded uttered a sound.
The silence was broken by a loud clang as a door on one of the carriages was swung open and a broom handle with a white towel tied to the end was thrust out and waved vigorously.
“No shooting, no shooting,” yelled Schonewille.
He ordered the Russian lieutenant and Bremer to check the carriages, for he had no intention of placing himself in a
ny danger unless it was necessary.
The two officers walked forward, Bremer carrying a white handkerchief. He stood at the doorway and spoke to someone half-hidden inside. Eventually, the man carrying the broom appeared and stepped down onto the ground. A short conversation transpired before he turned around and yelled something to those inside.
Another man appeared in the doorway, followed by three more.
Doors on the other two carriages were flung open and another dozen or so figures emerged.
Schonewille strode forward, stopping when he reached the group.
The man with the broom handle turned his head and, on recognising the rank, said in an irate voice with no trace of fear, “Obersturmbannführer, what in God’s name is going on? I demand to know who has authorised this outrage.”
He was a tall man, wearing civilian clothes and obviously used to dispensing orders and having them carried out. Schonewille ignored the question. “Are there any soldiers in these compartments?” he barked. “Well, come on, answer me,” he said, his voice rising in irritation as the man stared at him.
“No, no soldiers. All who were in these carriages are standing here,” he said his voice now a little uncertain.
Schonewille turned his back on the man and climbed into the first carriage. It had obviously once been an elegant sleeping car, although half the compartments had been cleared away and there was now a large open space filled with sofas and a large card table. At one end was a small cubicle that he took to be the toilet and on the opposite side was a large and very neat wash basin.
He climbed down from the carriage and walked to the next. Pulling himself up the short, steep ladder he climbed inside and found what he was looking for.
The Reichsbank’s reserves were stacked haphazardly at one end and along both walls. Long wooden crates and square wooden boxes were surrounded by canvas sacks with the words ‘Reichsbank Hauptkasse’ stencilled on their sides.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 28