Once the bomber was aligned on the main strip of concrete he stopped and ran up each engine on its peak take-off power settings again; just to make certain.
Making sure she was on the precise compass heading, Swabisch set the directional gyro at zero.
“Flaps, coming down, twenty degrees … and the cowl flaps trailed.”
Both pilots kept a firm pressure on the brake pedals while the throttles were slowly advanced. Meunier, who had a strong curiosity and had asked to sit in the jump seat just behind the two airmen, watched in fascination as the rising manifold pressure was called out. Miss Nonalee Two was trembling like a bird of prey, testing the wind at its nest.
“Thirty-four inches, Skipper,” said Swabisch. Wenck called the tower and the runway lights were turned on.
“Now,” answered the pilot and they both released the brakes.
The Boeing started to move down the runway, gathering speed with every metre travelled. Manifold pressure was increased to just over forty inches and with all four engines bellowing the plane began to accelerate much more rapidly. Still, it was not until the plane’s speed hit ninety-five miles an hour that the oleo struts on the undercarriage started to extend, indicating her nearness to flying speed.
“One-hundred-and-ten … shit we’re running out of runway,” agonised Swabisch.
But it was fast enough. Peter Wenck eased back on the yoke and as he felt her rise called out, “Wheels up!”
Swabisch hit the undercarriage toggle switch. With speed building up and the drag from the wheels quickly dissipating the bomber lifted clear of the ground and began to climb into the night sky above southern Norway. The runway lights were switched off.
As the speed increased the flaps were moved back into the wing and the manifold pressure was reduced to thirty-five inches. Wenck lowered the engine revs and checked the engine temperatures. Despite the strain of the take-off, they read normal. Relieved, he gently swung the plane around and set his first course.
Behind him, Meunier gave a whistle of appreciation.
“Don’t relax yet Conrad, the difficult parts are still to come.”
The diplomat gave a chuckle. “That’s it…frighten an old man to death.”
2325 HOURS, 24 March 1945
Squadron Leader Roger Parker-Davis had just got into bed. It had been a quiet sort of day. The squadron had been placed on stand-down for forty-eight hours so his pilots could get some rest without actually going on leave and the mechanics could catch up with their servicing of the aircraft.
The squadron was due back on operations at 0700 hours the next morning, so he had spent much of the afternoon checking on the readiness of the aircraft before having a vigorous game of squash with one of his flight lieutenants, followed by a quiet dinner with his wife at an up-market restaurant in Weymouth.
Now, with his muscles pleasantly relaxed after their work-out and his nerves satiated by a glorious meal and half a bottle of Portuguese wine, he was just drifting off when the phone by his bed rang.
“Bugger.” He let it ring. Finally he reached out and lifted the handset.
“Squadron Leader?”
The voice sounded official, so he sat up and transferred the phone to his good ear. “This is Parker-Davis. Who’s speaking?”
The voice on the other end gave a name that the English pilot did not recognise. “Who?” he said a trifle irritably.
“Nankervis, Squadron Leader … Now wake up!”
“Bugger!” The epithet was said under his breath. It was the intelligence officer who had come to the airfield during that abortive operation against the Junkers 290. “Sir … I remember now. What can I do for you?”
The man ignored the question and asked one of his own. “How long will it take you to get some aircraft into the air?”
Parker-Davis became even more irritable. What’s more he did not attempt to disguise it. “Sir, at present we are officially off operations. So, before I answer the question, will you please be so good as to tell me how many aircraft you need, why and how quickly.”
A snort sounded down the line, followed by a pause. “Fine, fine. That seems reasonable. You remember our little affair with that strange German kite that landed at Guernsey? Yes? Good. Well, we believe he’s making another flight.”
“When?”
“Now, right this minute. He was picked up by radar at Great Yarmouth thirty minutes ago and tracked south. The Dover boys have also been tracking him for a while and up until now we were not sure what he was or where he’s going to. But now we are almost certain. There’s no IFF, so it must be one of theirs. The same as last time. He’s appeared from the North Sea, very low and hugging the Belgian and French coasts. A few minutes ago he was opposite Dieppe.”
“Well, Sir, I can get some aircraft into the air in about fifteen minutes, give or take a minute, though there is no way we could intercept him before he reaches the Channel Islands.”
Nankervis agreed this would be impossible at this late stage, but suggested they could try and intercept the German aircraft when it left Guernsey.
“If he leaves tonight, Sir.”
“Ha. Well then. If he decides to stay we’ll send over something in daylight to see he stays there permanently, eh.”
Parker-Davis made a non-committal noise and rang off, momentarily putting down the receiver before lifting it back to his ear and dialling his aide’s extension. He washed his face hurriedly and, feeling less than enthusiastic about the turn of events, put on part of his uniform and his flying kit. By the time he reached the briefing room some of the squadron’s flying personnel were already in attendance, though their appearance was dishevelled and their clothing a little awry. Outside, an aircraft engine burst into sound, shattering the stillness.
Exactly seventeen minutes later, Parker-Davis lifted his Beaufighter clear of the airfield and headed across the Dorset countryside south-west towards the Channel Islands. Following, were two more and back at the base a further three were being readied to follow the same route in approximately three hours.
By now, the English squadron commander was thoroughly bad-tempered and he blamed his unexpected flight entirely on the crew of the aircraft flying towards Guernsey. This time he was determined it would be successfully intercepted and shot down.
0040 HOURS, 25 March 1945
With St Peter Port disappearing under his port wing tip, Peter Wenck lined up the B17 with the runway on Guernsey. Their coded call-sign had been answered almost instantly by the main runway lights.
It had been an uneventful flight, though exhausting nevertheless. He had flown for all but the first hour and once entering the English Channel had hugged both the sea and the coast of Europe in order to reduce the chances of them being tracked by British radar.
How successful he had been he did not know, but they had not been intercepted by enemy aircraft and not so much as a solitary anti-aircraft shell had been launched in their direction. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth to the figure sitting next to him.
“Well, Father, if there are any Engländer lurking nearby, these lights will attract them like moths to a candle. I hope Friedrich and Leo are awake up there in their turrets.”
The airstrip on Guernsey was not very long and he knew it would be difficult to stop before he ran out of runway. It meant he had to judge the distance very carefully to make certain the wheels touched down as early as possible. In order to give himself a chance if he overshot, he asked his father to set up for full power in case he had to pull up and go around again. By necessity this would be a last resort, for the longer he spent over the airfield with its blazing runway lights, the easier it would be for any enemy fighter in the vicinity to intercept and possibly shoot them down.
In the co-pilot’s seat Helmuth Wenck made sure the booster pumps were on and that the manifold pressure, revs and fuel mixture were right. Although he had taken only one flight in the B17, he had spent many hours pouring over the flight manual and familiarising himself wi
th the plane’s controls.
“Twenty degrees of flaps. They’re coming down,” said the general.
“Gut, gut,” answered the pilot almost absent-mindedly as he banked a little. “Teufel, there must be a hell of a wind,” he said almost to himself. A bead of perspiration appeared at his forehead.
He’d had the Boeing lined-up nicely but she was beginning to drift away, although he still had time and distance to bring her down.
“Wheels down.”
“Wheels down,” repeated his father, and hit the toggle switch. “And locked.”
With the wheels down the speed started to drop significantly, so he called for full flaps.
“Coming down,” said his father. “There, full flaps.”
Peter looked at the altimeter. It was a German instrument, calibrated in metres. It read 150 metres. Nice, nice, he thought and continued to ease her down. The rest was easy, though the moment his main wheels touched the ground the lights were turned off, a risky move because the strong sea wind blowing across the airfield could force the bomber to drift off the darkened runway. As it turned out, there were no problems. The brakes pulled the big bomber up with plenty to spare and it was with considerable relief that he turned to his father.
“There you are, Papa,” he chortled in the voice of a little boy. “As easy as riding a rocking horse.”
He turned the aircraft and taxied back towards the buildings. Lightly locking the brakes on the port wheel he pivoted the Boeing so it faced away from the hangar and then switched off the engines. In the silence that followed, he took a deep breath and suddenly wished he could go to sleep. His eyes ached and his mouth was dry and tasted like rancid butter.
Even in the semi darkness his parent recognised the look. He had experienced it many times in the first war, but the young man beside him had flown many, many more hours without a real break. His weariness bordered on exhaustion.
Peter peered through the Perspex and saw several shadowy figures approaching. It was time to vacate the aircraft for he did not want anybody looking inside. They divested themselves of their harness belts and intercom wires and, with stiff legs, stumbled to the hatches. Once on the ground they stretched like bears after a long hibernation and took deep breaths of the cool, clean air.
A soldier holding a machine pistol moved cautiously towards them. Wenck senior smiled. He had warned the island’s radio operator of the aircraft’s origins when he had sent his last coded message just prior to their take-off, yet quite rightly the garrison’s defenders were still suspicious.
In order to set the right tone he barked, “I’m a Luftwaffe officer as you can see, so put that dammed gun away and get your finger off the trigger.” The last thing he wanted was to have some nervous soldier fire off a round in the proximity of the still heavily fuelled B17.
The soldier snapped to attention and immediately, as if on cue, several more figures came forward out of the gloom. With dismay, he recognised the burly figure of Vice Admiral Hüffmeier.
“Ach so, it is you, mein General,” said the sailor. “Das is unmöglich,” he said, looking up at the bomber and shaking his head.
Helmuth Wenck wanted to get the re-fuelling done straight away, so he asked the island’s commander-in-chief to have the work done immediately.
Hüffmeier frowned. He clearly was not used to being ordered about, especially by an aristocratic flier, but he immediately complied and ordered his men to start re-fuelling the bomber.
Helmuth Wenck would have preferred dealing with Count von Schmettow, but the Wehrmacht officer had been re-called to Germany the previous month. Now in full control of the islands, Hüffmeier had carte blanche to do as he wanted and was making sure his soldiers and sailors harassed the enemy on the nearby coast as often as possible. Though he did not like the man, the air force general had a sneaking admiration for his daring and verve.
Peter Wenck, who had been examining the undercarriage and tyres of the Boeing, ambled up and Schonewille, who had so far stayed inside the fuselage, dropped down from the forward hatch and strode towards them. He was wearing his SS uniform and it had an immediate effect on the vice-admiral.
There came a hissing sound as he sucked in his breath. Schonewille extended his right hand and clicked his heals together. “Heil Hitler,” he barked.
This was something Hüffmeier understood. He returned the salute with alacrity. Before they had left Norway, Schonewille had changed the insignias and some badging on his uniform so it no longer showed he was a member of the administrative wing of the SS. Instead of identifying him as an SS Fachführer, it identified him as a member of the SD, or Security Service and therefore a much more powerful individual.
“Obersturmbannführer Friedrich Dohndorf,” he said, introducing himself.
It was a cunning move. In keeping his Christian name he ensured that anybody in his party would always identify him correctly. Yet, the different surname ensured his anonymity. Helmuth Wenck could not help smiling. The rest of his party were using their rightful names while his eldest son was still being secretive and crafty.
Vice-Admiral Hüffmeier turned back to Helmuth Wenck. “Will you be so good as to tell me what you are planning”?
The flier shook his head. “Reluctantly, I must refuse. I have orders from the Reichsführer that I must not divulge anything to anybody.”
Hüffmeier looked disappointed. Then he tried a different tack. “I have kept everything secret so far and I must admit I am very curious. You know you can trust me.”
Helmuth Wenck began to shake his head, but Schonewille stepped in. Even though his father out-ranked him he knew by purporting to being a member of the SD he had a power out of all proportion to his rank. He put an imperious tone to his voice to heighten the effect of his importance.
“I’m sure we can let Vice Admiral Hüffmeier know something. The Reichsführer was only telling the Führer the other day what a loyal and brilliant soldier the commander-in-chief is.” Turning his face to the burly figure he said, “Let us go a little way from here and I will tell you a few details, but you must swear never to reveal the story to anyone, unless we win the war. There are many lives at stake.”
Hüffmeier nodded his head vigorously and the two walked a few paces away. Schonewille spoke softly for two or three minutes and at the end Hüffmeier was heard to say quite loudly. “Mein Gott!”
Schonewille left the man and came back to where the two pilots stood. He gave a little grin and winked. Hüffmeier followed the SS man and extended his hand.
“Please, let me shake each of you by the hand gentlemen. It is a privilege to have been of service. In the name of the Führer, I salute you.” He extended his arm and said very solemnly, “Heil Hitler.”
Peter Wenck badly wanted to laugh, though more from relief than genuine levity, but he kept a straight face. Helmuth Wenck was dumbfounded. Whatever his son had told the naval officer certainly had the desired effect. There was now no curiosity let alone suspicion in the mind of the former captain of the Scharnhorst.
He wondered how Meunier, Swabisch and Sophia were feeling, hidden in the bomber. On the flight down they had only used fuel from the wing tanks. Therefore, there was no reason for any of the ground crews to enter the fuselage to check the internal tanks. Still, the re-fuelling was taking an age, or so it seemed. Helmuth and Peter Wenck went over to where Schonewille was standing alone, a dozen or so metres out in the clear near the nose of the aircraft.
“Obersturmbannführer Dohndorf … a moment please,” said the SS officer’s father quite loudly, so anybody in earshot could hear. Then, when all three were standing close together, almost in a huddle, Helmuth Wenck enquired as to what he’d told the admiral. “Friedrich, I am quite curious. Whatever did you say to that Fascist fool over there?”
Schonewille looked around before giving a little laugh. “Oh, quite easy really. I gave him a little information about what would be the raid of the war.”
“What raid?”
“A
h ha, well that’s my secret,” he said mysteriously with a smile.
“Shit, Brother, what the hell did you say to Hüffmeier? Stop playing the fool.”
“Well I told him we were going to fly to Gibraltar.”
“What the hell for?” broke in the pilot.
“Let me finish. If he’s smart he will track us when we leave and he’ll see we are flying almost due west. Therefore, I told him we were going to Gibraltar. I said there was going to be a high level meeting there today between Churchill, Stalin and Roosevelt. I explained that the Boeing was packed with explosives and unless our agents who were inside the plane could get close enough to shoot all three, we would taxi the aircraft near the hangar where they were meeting and detonate the explosives, thereby committing suicide. So, as you can see, it’s shut him up.”
“Wunderbar Friedrich, wunderbar!” exclaimed Peter in a low voice, and clapped him on the shoulder, while their father gently shook his head in wonderment.
It took almost an hour for the re-fuelling to be completed. A sergeant came up to Peter Wenck and saluted. “The tanks are full to the brim, Sir, and all valves have been checked as you ordered. Sir!”
At this point Hüffmeier came over. He was holding a piece of paper and frowning. He explained that his radar had picked up the tell-tale blips of enemy aircraft. He addressed the two Wencks.
“There is no doubt they are waiting for you. My men tell me that they arrived twenty minutes ago and have been patrolling in a crescent to the north-east of us. The moment you take-off I believe they will pounce.”
“Thank you, Herr Vice-Admiral,” said Peter Wenck. “But I believe they will not be of worry to us. All I ask is that your men do not turn on the runway lights until we are about a third of the way along the runway. Then, the moment we lift off I will give you a call and tell you to turn them off.”
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 32