His first burst was aimed at the man standing by the weapon pit. The unfortunate soldier was hit by half-a-dozen bullets and virtually cut in half. Even as his body hit the ground the two barrels traversed and swept the other men. They did not have a chance and it was over in seconds.
Swabisch in the dorsal turret never fired a round at the men. There was no need, the SS officer’s withering arc of fire had been so deadly. Therefore, he swung his turret around and fired two short bursts at the fighter standing in the shade of the hangar. The bullets tore at the engine and undercarriage, causing it to collapse. Then the guns fell silent.
The previous leg of the journey to Halden had passed without incident. Anxious to keep radio silence, Peter Wenck did not herald his arrival or ask for clearance to land. He simply checked the wind direction by flying low and observing the direction of the wind sock and put the damaged Junkers down on his first try.
He taxied to where the Boeing was hidden, covered in camouflage netting and protected by a large blast pen in the lee of some trees.
Barely had the plane’s engines been switched off than Helmuth Wenck’s staff car was seen approaching from the main administrative building. Thirty seconds later it came to a wheel-locking halt next to the Junkers. The general himself was driving. His appearance was agitated to say the least, probably because the Junkers looked a little the worse for wear and its port engine was still smoking. The relief on his face when his son slid back one of the Perspex panels next to his seat and waved was clearly visible, even from this distance.
The affection the general had for his famous son was even more apparent when Peter Wenck finally stood on the tarmac. The first words his father uttered were, “Gott sei Dank! Du bist unverletzt?”
It was half question, half statement and the pilot answered with a wan smile. He was fine and not injured.
The remainder of the crew were now climbing out of the aircraft’s various hatches and then Helmuth Wenck spied his other son. He had almost forgotten the possibility of Schonewille’s presence and for a moment the SS uniform spoilt his pleasure. Then he smiled. “You too, Friedrich. This is wonderful.” Almost as an afterthought he added, “The gold, the money. Did you get it?”
The pilot looked around before answering and noting the proximity of his crew simply answered with a movement of his head.
Peter Wenck was exhausted. In fact both brothers looked the worse for wear. Wenck, with a break of only three hours, had completed twelve hours in the air under very trying conditions. He also had only ten hours sleep in the preceding forty-eight hours. Schonewille had even less and had been living on his nerves. There were now dark rings under his eyes and his hand trembled when he removed his hat and ran his fingers through his cropped hair.
For Peter Wenck, this lack of rest was dangerous since he would have to take off again as soon as possible.
There were several hours left before darkness came and they could risk the dangerous flight down the slot of the English Channel to Guernsey. In the meantime, they could do nothing but wait and see if there were any pursuers and whether they would be traced to Halden.
The crew, with the exception of Leo Swabisch, were immediately told they could all have a forty-eight hour pass to Oslo. Subsequently, they should then report back for duty at Kragero. This would not only remove them from any further proximity to the Reichsbank’s reserves, it would also keep them clear of the Wencks who were soon to disappear. Their disbursement into the fleshpots of Oslo would also further remove them from any potential questions by the authorities in the immediate sense, for by the time any of the crew returned to Kragero, the B17 and its cargo would be long gone.
The ground crew were ordered to cover the Junkers with camouflage netting and then Helmuth Wenck and his two sons climbed into the bomber and began to make an examination of the money that had been stolen from the train.
They emerged half-an-hour later shocked and a little bemused at the level of their wealth. Schonewille clutched at a piece of paper on which he had made a list of the plane’s contents. Before leaving the plane the general left a three-man armed guard next to the two aircraft with strict instructions for nobody to go near them. They then retired to Helmuth Wenck’s office. Another guard was placed at the end of the corridor.
Schonewille asked whether he could see Sophia, but his father suggested they first sit and discuss their next moves.
Conrad Meunier joined them and from the moment they met it was clear the diplomat and the SS accountant would not get on. Meunier was part of Germany’s old school. Despite his jovial nature he carried himself like a member of the class he represented. All Schonewille’s latent inferiorities rose from the pit of his psyche and, although he managed to make sure they did not surface, it was clear to the two older men that he was not comfortable in the presence of the former Abwehr officer.
What’s more, Meunier had been able to conduct a thorough search into Schonewille’s background and what he discovered had filled him with distaste. He had not told his friends what he had learned, for on meeting the general’s eldest son he quickly realised that if their plan was to succeed he would have to be careful what he revealed. Put simply, he neither liked nor trusted Friedrich Schonewille.
For Peter Wenck, however, there was a more immediate problem. His friend Leo Swabisch. He wanted his aide with him, yet he was not certain the Luftwaffe captain would join the plotters. His big fear was the outcome if Swabisch refused. Could he leave him at Halden? If so, what would happen to him when the authorities arrived. He would be implicated whether he liked it or not. More importantly, he knew about the Channel Islands and their secret cache of fuel.
The key was whether he could frighten Swabisch into believing that the authorities would regard him as being implicated even if he remained behind. Peter Wenck spoke to his father before the meeting got underway. The general agreed it would be better to sound out the pilot straight away so his decision could be discussed immediately.
As it turned out, no threats were necessary.
Swabisch readily agreed to join them after his commanding officer had revealed all. There was not the slightest hesitation. He simply said, “Peter, I have no relatives left alive except two aunts and I’m not close to either of them. As you know, my grandmother was Dutch and I felt closer to her than everybody, except perhaps my dear mother. Therefore, I have no difficulty in abandoning my German ancestry.” Then he added with a sly smile, “There is also something I want you to understand. I am not entirely blind and I had begun to suspect something out of the ordinary, something like this, although to be truthful I did not remotely consider anything about the money.”
With this weight off his shoulders, Peter Wenck took his co-pilot to the office where the rest were gathered and Swabisch was fully enrolled into the select band of thieves.
It was a strange meeting. For the first time all the plotters were together and able to explain what had transpired and what they hoped was going to happen.
Schonewille was alternately annoyed and relieved at what was revealed. He had been extremely worried about the damage to the Junkers and it was with a certain amount of relief that he learned about Miss Nonalee Two. His protestations about having been kept in the dark was met with a sharp-edged rebuke from his father.
“Now, Friedrich, be reasonable. You have not told us everything about your life and from what I know of it there might be good reason. By the same token we were not sure what your relationship was with Grauwitz. Or, for that matter, if you fell out with Grauwitz and he put you through some rigorous questioning it was obviously better that you did not know what we were up to. So stop your bleating.”
He glared at his son who remained silent. His point made, he became more conciliatory.
“At any rate, we know now what you have achieved and I suspect we are all in some awe of how you did it.”
These words had the desired effect and a flush of pleasure crossed Schonewille’s cheeks.
As the
de-briefing and plotting continued, Helmuth Wenck looked at the group and realised what a disparate group they were. And, he noted, this was even without the Jewess being present.
There was Conrad Meunier, by far the oldest. Short and corpulent, with his brilliant brain, sardonic humour and love of the good life. His youngest son, Peter. Terrifyingly brave, a skilled pilot, a realist, though still with a touch of romanticism about him, a sound planner and able to instil loyalty in his men. Above all, he was a dutiful son. This was not something he could claim about his eldest offspring. There was a driven, harassed side to Friedrich and he knew a certain tension and reserve still existed between them. What could he say about the SS officer. Brave? Yes, he had demonstrated that. Cunning? Most certainly. Then there were his links with the camps. It worried him and he knew he would have to get to the bottom of it sooner or later. He had tried to question Sophia about what she knew, but the woman had remained resolute in her silence. There was Swabisch. Much like Peter, but a shade less in every category.
Finally, himself. What am I? he thought, as he gazed around the room. I’m an old soldier about to betray my oath. A man disgusted with the country of his birth. A man who longs to see his wife again and spend the remaining years of his life in peace and tranquillity.
“What are you dreaming about, Father?”
His youngest son’s voice broke into his thoughts. Helmuth simply shrugged his shoulders and ignored the question.
The next item on the agenda was the Reichsbank’s treasure. Schonewille took out his notes and they totted up the figures. If they had been shocked at the level of their haul when they had first seen it in the Junkers, they were now like gleeful children who had found a cache of sweets. The haul of valuables was extraordinary. As a senior accountant within the SS, Schonewille had a detailed knowledge of their value, but what was more important, he knew their value in the strongest currency in the world: the American dollar.
First the gold bullion. There had been fifty boxes bearing gold bullion on the armoured train and Schonewille had managed to transfer eight of them to his Opel truck. Each box measured just under a metre in length. It was 600 millimetres wide, 460 millimetres deep and weighed approximately fifty kilograms. Inside were four gold bars each weighing 12.5 kilograms and bearing the seal of the Reichsbank and a six-digit number. The official value of each gold bar was 15,000 in US dollars. Eight boxes equalled thirty-two bars, with a total value of $480,000. Since the price of gold was pegged Schonewille explained that on the black market each bar could be worth as much as $50,000, bringing the value of the thirty-two bars to $1.6 million.
There were also two large cases of gold coins of various nationalities and of various denominations. They were predominantly of Dutch, Hungarian and Romanian origin. Schonewille estimated the worth at approximately $200,000.
The rest of the money was in sacks. In German currency there was approximately four million in gold marks, with an estimated value of $l.5 million. Again, melted down, the intrinsic value of the gold on the black market amounted to very nearly $5 million.
There were 425,000 Swiss francs worth $100,000 and $250,000-worth of American dollars in large denomination notes. Finally, there were two small cases full of gemstones, mainly diamonds. Schonewille knew the latter largely consisted of diamonds prised out of rings belonging to the inmates of the concentration camps or those on their way to the gas chambers. Naturally he did not mention this fact.
In total, then, the official figure of their haul was $2.53 million with a black-market figure considerably higher. If one added the gold value of the German bullion and gold marks then the sum was well over $7 million and this did not include the value of the gems.
When the final figure was mentioned, a deep silence descended on the room. It was broken by Meunier who said with a chuckle, “Himmel, just think how many bottles of schnapps that will buy.”
The laughter echoed around the walls.
“Now, now, enough of this levity, we still have much to do before we can think of spending it,” broke in Helmuth Wenck. “Before we start transferring all our ill-gotten wealth into the Boeing there is still much that must be discussed, planned for and, above all, understood.
The next half-an-hour was spent in explanations from the relevant parties. Peter Wenck on technical details concerning the flight and the Boeing, Meunier on his arrangements with the Spanish major, the lieutenant-colonel in the Dominican Republic and the Mexican-based agent, while Helmuth Wenck explained how they would cover their tracks in Norway.
Peter Wenck’s explanation was fairly straightforward. Meunier’s on the other hand was a little more detailed since he also needed to put together the necessary paperwork and passports for all the escapees.
Helmuth Wenck gave another example of just how well their planning had progressed. In the preceding weeks he had twice visited a prisoner-of-war holding camp and requisitioned some US Army Air Force uniforms. These would be for himself, Peter and Leo Swabisch. Meunier and Schonewille would wear civilian clothes. These clothes were tried on to see how they fitted.
Among those wearing the American uniforms there was much jocularity until the general said soberly, “Just remember, Kameraden. If we are caught wearing these uniforms, under the Geneva Convention we can be shot as spies.”
Helmuth Wenck also noted something else. Although he did not mention it,. Schonewille looked much less imposing and important wearing civilian clothes instead of his SS uniform.
They changed back into their respective uniforms. The American uniforms, civilian clothes and identity papers were packed in various soft bags and taken out to the Boeing.
For the next hour the plotters busied themselves with transferring the money from the Junkers to the Boeing. The boxes were hurriedly sprayed green and given spurious US Air Force serial numbers and even though the paint was still wet they were immediately stored in the American bomber. The contents of those bags that bore the stencil of either the Reichsbank or the Magyar National Bank of Hungary were transferred to plain sacks. The originals were burned.
Since the Boeing was so heavily loaded with fuel there was little room left in the bomb bay, with only six of the boxes stored in the aircraft’s belly where the lethal cargoes usually hung. The remaining boxes, bags and sacks were stored in various parts of the aircraft, mainly in areas where ammunition or other heavy items were usually situated.
When all was completed, they assembled outside the bomber. One thing remained to be done: set out where each person would sit in the Boeing during the first two legs of the escape. The pilot was obvious and it was decided that for some of the trip Swabisch would be situated in the upper turret. Schonewille, who had some experience with machine-guns and was the shortest of the men, was the obvious choice for the rear turret. He was given a hurried verbal briefing on its operation with a promise of a more detailed tutoring once they were airborne. It would hardly make him an expert, but there was no other way. Swabisch, on the other hand had given himself plenty of time to learn how to extract the best out of the upper turret over the preceding weeks.
Once finished Helmuth Wenck took out a flask from his pocket and handed it to his youngest son. The pilot took a swig of the liquid and then passed it to Swabisch. One by one they took a mouthful and toasted the American bomber. Miss Nonalee Two was now wearing her rightful insignia with the white star on a blue circle adorning her wings and fuselage. To preserve her anonymity, however, the maiden on the nose had been painted over. In yet another attempt to change her identity and confuse any attempt at her being recognised, her serial number was now a fake.
The five men went back to the office for a final briefing. The general went from the room and came back with Sophia who greeted Schonewille with restrained warmth. The SS officer, on the other hand, looked at her with a beaming smile and Meunier, who had earlier met the Jewess, was quite taken aback. His obvious love for the woman was so apparent that the diplomat thought he might have to reassess some of his belief
s about the man. An SS officer he might be, but this certainly was no anti-Semite.
Although the light was fading it was decided they would not leave for another hour-and-a-half, so Peter Wenck went to another room to try and catch up on a little sleep.
His brother’s reaction to his girlfriend had made him think about Erna Hennell. How he wished he could take her along. In the days leading to his flight to Traunstein he had spent a lot of time in her company. At first he had pretended it was because she needed to be watched, but after a few days he knew it was because he could not keep away from her.
They had started making love again and the memory of her eager body caused a stirring at his groin. He remembered their last time together. He had made love to her, urgently, a quick, thrusting consummation followed by half-an-hour’s gentle contact in which he caressed her breasts and body, almost without pause. Then they had made love again, this time a long, slow journey to a lingering climax.
Yet, despite his feelings he knew it would be too risky to try and fetch her. He was still not certain whether she loved him enough to follow him into what was effectively a self-imposed banishment. Reluctantly he forced the thought from his mind. The result of this reverie was that he did not gain that precious sleep his body so desperately needed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
24 March 1945
1900 HOURS
All four engines of the American bomber sounded healthy and Peter Wenck knew they would give all that was needed when it was required. Although the runway at Kragero was long, the B17 was very heavily loaded. She was just over her maximum weight limit and it would take a mighty effort to get her into the air in the available distance.
For the take-off, Swabisch was seated next to him as the aide was fully conversant with the Boeing and he needed all the help he could get.
Not wanting to risk any damage to the inside starboard tyre as they turned to get onto the main perimeter strip that led to the runway, he used the brakes only slightly so the wheel kept turning as he gunned one of the two port engines. Once in a straight line he released the brake fully and the Boeing trundled down the concrete strip. It was pitch black with only the minimum of lights showing the edges of the perimeter strip.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 31