The Reichsbank Robbery

by Colin Roderick Fulton

  As soon as the pole struck the ground, Schonewille leapt to his feet. Lifting his Schmeisser, he loosed off its entire magazine at the upturned Volkswagen spraying the bullets in a short arc. Satisfied its occupants were either dead or dying, he yelled to Chuikov to get into the back of the truck while he clambered into the driving seat. As the big Opel moved off down the road, the remaining Russians cautiously peered around the bend. A stream of bullets from Chuikov’s machine-gun cured their curiosity and sent them scuttling for cover.

  In a few seconds the Opel was safely around the next bend and out of sight. Scarcely a kilometre ahead was Seigsdorf, followed by the second telephone pole.

  Back at the roadside the survivors were attempting to push the Volkswagen back onto its wheels. It was a useless exercise and would gain them nothing for the vehicle was a write-off, yet they did manage to drag Bremer from underneath the wreck. Miraculously, he had survived with nothing more than cuts and bruises, although the hole in his shoulder had started to bleed profusely again.

  They helped him up to the roadway and attended to his various wounds. By this time Bremer was not thinking too clearly. His own safety now scarcely mattered. All he wanted was Schonewille’s demise. The fallen telephone wires gave him an idea. The following convoy contained some field telephone equipment. When it arrived, he would tap into the line and contact the airfield.

  Unfortunately for Bremer, by the time the other lorries arrived Schonewille had already blown the second telephone pole across the road, severing the telephone wires.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  0900 Hours

  The airfield at Traunstein was a hive of activity with fighter bombers and various types of transports landing and taking off since first light. That they were risking interception by Allied fighters in daylight showed how urgent the Wehrmacht High Command regarded the situation here in the south. On the airfield’s eastern perimeter, the big Junkers was hidden in a grove of pine trees stretching back from one perimeter for several kilometres.

  On his brief visit to the station commander’s office soon after he landed, Peter Wenck had been informed that two nights previously, on the evening of the twenty-second and the twenty-third, the American General Patton had crossed the Rhine at Oppenheim and was now heading east with a strong mechanised force. On the previous evening and further to the north, the man in charge of the Allied 21st Army Group, Field Marshall Montgomery, had also successfully crossed the Rhine.

  Consequently what few aircraft were available in northern Italy and western Czechoslovakia were being transferred to southern Germany to try and aid the ground troops and destroy the pontoon bridges that had been thrown across Germany’s last defensive barrier in the west. At the same time and much closer to home, there was something else to worry about. Just after seven o’clock an FW 200 Condor transport bearing SS markings landed and taxied to a similar hiding place a few hundred metres away. Although several figures emerged, no one from the aerodrome’s administration buildings ventured forth to meet them and nobody left the aircraft’s immediate vicinity.

  To a suspicious Peter Wenck standing beneath his bomber’s nose, it seemed as though Grauwitz was hedging his bets and had another option in place to escape the Third Reich, in case there was a problem with the Junkers. Or the SS lawyer had no intention of using Peter Wenck and his aircraft.

  He called to Leo Swabisch and told him to keep an eye on the Condor. “If anything, and I mean anything, remotely suspicious happens with that aircraft let me know immediately.”

  He went to the forward hatch and climbed back inside. Negotiating his way along the inside of the fuselage, he came to the mid-upper turret. The gunner was checking the ammunition feed at the foot of the turret.

  “Hans, are you fond of the SS?”

  The gunner looked closely at the pilot and then said with a faint smile, “Not particularly, Sir. They are always too arrogant for my liking. Why?”

  “I’ll let you into a little secret. A little way to your left is a Condor belonging to the SS. I want you to get back into your turret. If I start the engines and give you the order, I want you to use your cannon on that plane, understand?”

  The gunner stared at the pilot to see if he was joking, then he nodded his head. Strange things were happening, but orders were orders.

  A shout from Swabisch had Wenck hurrying to the cockpit. When he got to the flight deck he immediately looked towards the Condor, but except for some animation from the figures standing next to the plane, nothing seemed amiss.

  The cause of Swabisch’s excitement quickly became apparent. A large Opel lorry was cutting across the airfield, ignoring the perimeter access road. Wenck immediately knew it was Schonewille for there was nothing remotely suspicious about the approaching vehicle’s speed.

  By the time he had clambered down to the hatch and lowered himself onto the ground, Schonewille had swung the lorry around and was backing it up to the Junkers. In the back was the grinning face of a soldier toting a MG42 and for a moment Wenck became alarmed. However, once the engine was turned off and Schonewille clambered down from the cabin, he gave a sigh of relief.

  A similar feeling engulfed Schonewille as he strode over to the pilot. For the past few kilometres his tired brain had been causing his nerves undue strain. What if he is not there? had been the constant thought. From Segesdorf, the lorry had behaved impeccably. They had only been stopped by one road-block and now his brother was here as planned. For the third time that morning Schonewille felt exultant.

  “Mein Gott, Peter, it is good to see you,” he said, patting the pilot on the shoulder.

  It was a peculiarly intimate gesture for the SS officer and it touched Wenck. He saw how exhausted his brother was. Schonewille had been on the go for thirty-six tense hours and it showed. He was unshaven and his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and nervous tension. His usually impeccable uniform was creased and dirty and the sub-machine-gun that hung off his shoulder gave him a raffish business-like air.

  “Have you got …?”

  “Yes, I’ve got it all, money, bullion, coins,” he interrupted, guessing the pilot’s question. “But we must hurry. There are some people following me and, believe me, it would not be healthy for us to be caught.”

  “Herr Grauwitz, eh?”

  Schonewille gave him a sidelong glance and said with an off-hand air, “Oh no, we don’t have to worry about him. I’ve killed him, but some of his command are after me and if it was not for Chuikov here I might not have made it.” He pointed to the Ukrainian who immediately straightened and saluted the flier.

  Wenck was intrigued, but he realised any questions would have to wait. Loading the Junkers was the primary consideration. At the same time he told Schonewille about the Condor. The SS officer just nodded and remarked that its appearance did not surprise him in the slightest.

  With the crew busily loading the crates and sacks, Schonewille went over to where Chuikov was standing impassively, smoking a particularly foul smelling cigarette. Originally he had meant to kill the Russian soldier, but now such a move would be difficult and anyway, he owed the corporal.

  “Well, Corporal Chuikov, this is where we part company. I cannot take you with us, though I have a plan that might see you safely in Switzerland. Are you interested?”

  The other nodded, so Schonewille took his briefcase over to the Opel. Extracting some paper, he leant on the vehicle’s bonnet and began to write. Minutes later he took out several official rubber stamps and an ink pad from the briefcase. Choosing one he stamped the bottom of the missive and signed his name across it. It already contained the signature of Schonewille’s commanding officer. The SS lieutenant-colonel had had the foresight to ask his general to sign several letters so he would not be disturbed every time Schonewille needed to obtain permission or clearance for some administrative matter.

  Handing it over to Chuikov, he explained how the letter purported to be an order for Corporal Ilya Chuikov of the KONR, under secondment to
Amtsgruppe A1V, to travel to the town of Bludenz in western Austria to fetch some important documents and return them to Munich.

  “Corporal, there is an Amtsgruppe fünf office in Bludenz. Therefore, with these papers you should not be hindered in any way. Unfortunately, my friend, from there you will be on your own, though the Swiss border is not far away. I suggest you drive east to Salzburg and stay clear of southern Germany. From there, drive south and then strike west. You will probably have enough gasoline to reach Worgl, or thereabouts, before you’ll need to re-fuel.”

  Chuikov thanked him and asked about money. Schonewille nodded and went to where the Reichsbank’s contents were being loaded onto the plane. He found the bag he needed and carried it behind the truck so its contents could not be seen. He extracted a thick wad of Swiss francs in large denomination notes and handed them to the Russian. Then, almost as an afterthought, he reached into the sack and extracted another wad. Together they amounted to 60,000 francs.

  The Ukrainian’s face broke into a broad smile and he gave a crisp military salute and clicked his heels together. “Danke, danke vielmals, Herr Obersturmbannführer, das ist sehr gut.”

  Without any further ado, Chuikov started the truck’s engine and drove away to the main gate. He passed through with ease and quickly disappeared. I bet he escapes thought Schonewille and, surprisingly, felt good about it.

  A few minutes later and the loading had been completed. They all climbed back into the Junkers and Wenck, backed by Swabisch, started their pre-flight check. This completed, they started the engines and immediately saw a flurry of activity from the crew of the Condor.

  Wenck ordered the gunners of both the upper fuselage turrets to watch the Condor and then contacted the control tower requesting permission to take off. They were told curtly to wait. They waited for two or three minutes and then Wenck repeated the request. Again take-off was denied.

  Schonewille, who was standing on the flight deck between the two pilots, saw some trucks enter the main gate and head in their direction.

  “Donner, Peter, those are the remaining trucks from our raiding party. We have to get away. Now!”

  At the same moment they heard one of the Junkers turrets start turning and before anybody could say a word its twenty-millimetre cannon began to yammer away in short sharp bursts.

  Wenck looked over to see that the turret behind the cockpit of the Condor had swung in their direction, but their own gunner Hans, forewarned by Wenck, had been quicker. The whole forward section of the Condor was lit up with the flash of striking cannon shells.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Wenck released the brakes and gunned the engines, swinging the Junkers 290 out onto the perimeter strip. They reached the main runway just as a Junkers 52 transport landed and, scarcely had the ancient tri-motor taxied past than Wenck aligned his bomber in the middle of the long strip of concrete.

  Over the radio came the angry voice of the air controller ordering them to get off the runway. Wenck ignored him.

  “Keep a sharp look out for other aircraft,” he yelled into the intercom as the plane picked up speed and the tail wheel lifted itself clear of the ground. Although he had not the slightest idea what was going on, Swabisch held his left hand over Wenck’s right as the pilot carefully hauled back on throttles. At the same time he read off the airspeed.

  “Now, now, Peter,” he said as the pilot, feeling the wheels begin to stretch on their oleos, pulled back on the control column to lift the Junkers into the sky.

  “Christ, I hope they don’t use any anti-aircraft guns on us,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Fuck me dead. That’s all I need. To be shot at by my own side when I don’t even know what the fuck I’m supposed to be doing,” said Swabisch looking accusingly at Wenck. The pilot ignored him.

  There was no anti-aircraft fire and at 5,000 metres he gratefully reached the safety of some clouds. He immediately turned north-east over the Alps and headed for western Czechoslovakia. His plan was to follow the same route to Norway as he had on the way down, only this time he would fly as high as the loaded Junkers was able.

  Whereas the initial flight had been cloaked in darkness and therefore relatively safe, they were now in broad daylight and the Allied air forces would be in the air. The Junkers had a service ceiling of only 7,000 metres, but Wenck managed to coax her up to just over 8,000 metres before he levelled out. Luckily, the Red Air Force seldom flew above 6,000 to 7,000 metres, so he hoped the Junkers would not be intercepted at this height. If the Americans, who always flew much higher, appeared, however, he knew their adventure was finished.

  Although they were now well away from Traunstein, the control tower at the airfield still tried to raise them on the radio, ordering them to turn around and come back. Schonewille did not bother acknowledging their blandishments or threats.

  There was a long flight ahead of them and both Wenck and Swabisch wondered whether any German fighters would be sent up to intercept them. Even though the air would be full of German aircraft, the Junkers 290 was sufficiently rare to be easily recognisable, especially since its main sphere of operations was maritime reconnaissance. It was seldom seen in the skies of central Europe and rarely appeared in daylight.

  At any rate, it was not the Luftwaffe that caused them any bother. Heavy cloud cover and intermittent rain squalls helped them hide throughout most of their journey and Wenck had almost believed they would reach Norway unmolested when the Red Air Force found them.

  They had just crossed the coast near Kolberg when a flight of three Yak 9s appeared on their port wing tip. As usual, Wenck did not give the enemy fighters a chance to choose their method of attack and immediately went on the offensive. He swung the Junkers around and headed in their direction, giving the gunners in the front upper turret and the belly gondola a chance to fire first. Although they did not hit the Russians, it broke up their formation and by the time they had turned away and then back on a course from which they could intercept the Junkers, Wenck had gained another fifty kilometres and was now well out over the Baltic.

  Now that they had been found, height was not worth much so he put the bomber’s nose down to give him extra speed and pushed the throttles though their gates. The interchange was short and sharp. The Russians made two passes and succeeded in setting the port inner engine on fire. They paid for it with one of their number who tumbled away minus one wing. In truth the Yaks did not really frighten the German pilot. They were lightly armed and had insufficient range to challenge the bomber for long periods. Such proved to be the case. Now down to two and faced with a well-armed Junkers whose pilot showed aggression and skill, the Russian pilots turned away, leaving the Junkers to fly on unmolested with one engine on fire and trailing a long plume of smoke.

  Swabisch activated the damaged engine’s extinguisher and with relief they saw the foam douse the flames. Then Wenck had a brainwave. For some time he and Schonewille had been discussing what to do if the authorities had managed to track them and knew where they were heading.

  Schonewille felt sure Bremer was dead, yet he did not know for certain. If by some chance the SS captain had survived there was no doubt he would try and interfere with them at Kragero since Grauwitz knew about the base and consequently his aide would also. Even if they flew straight to Halden as was their plan, it would not take the authorities, be they Luftwaffe or SS, very long to try to look for them at Halden if the Junkers could not be found at Kragero.

  Now there was a possibility of gaining time.

  Wenck began to utilise his radio. Giving his plane’s approximate position he appealed for help saying he was on fire and under attack from several Russian fighters. He was in no doubt that radar would have picked up both the Junkers and the Yaks.

  After thirty seconds of pleading, he informed all who wished to hear that they were going to crash into the sea. Halfway through his message he switched his radio off and dived the Junkers down to the grey waters of the Baltic.

  H
e levelled off, scarcely seventy-five metres from the grey, heaving sea and headed for Halden.

  Hopefully, their apparent demise at the hands of the Russians would give them enough time to transfer the treasure to the B17 and take off for the next leg of their flight.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  25 March 1945

  Peter Wenck braked the starboard wheel and gunned the two port engines. The plane basically stayed in the same position, although it swung around on its own axis by forty-five degrees. When he was sure the rear turret with its limited traverse could bring its guns to bear and the dorsal turret could also be brought into contention, he let the engines idle and looked at his father.

  “Well Father, do we do it? You know it’s close to murder.”

  The older man shrugged his shoulders and said softly, “For Christ’s sake let us not go into this again. What choice do we have? We need the petrol and they won’t let us have it.”

  Nodding wearily, Peter Wenck extracted himself from his seat and made his way through the cramped and crowded fuselage to the radio compartment. Sophia was sitting at the wireless operator’s station, her face impassive, although there was sweat on her forehead. He ignored her and looked out of the wireless operator’s dorsal window just in front of where the extension of the main fin started back along the rear fuselage. There was usually a single machine-gun mounted in this position, although like many others it had been removed to save weight.

  The line of sight was not perfect, but he could clearly see the half-dozen soldiers standing in front of the main building, watching. The seventh man was still standing next to the weapon pit.

  He plugged in his intercom and asked if the two gunners were ready. The answer was in the affirmative, so he gave the order to fire.

  Schonewille in the rear turret was the first to open fire, the two heavy-calibre Brownings sending several hundred rounds in the direction of the watching men.