“Do you feel any better?” he asked.
She gave a small yes, and on an impulse he motioned her to follow. As they passed through the wireless compartment, Schonewille opened his eyes and saw them. He made an effort to raise his head, but he was too giddy and gave up the attempt. Sophia ignored him and followed the pilot, something that was to have dire consequences later on.
Once on the flight deck, he helped her to the co-pilot’s seat. By now she was breathless and lightheaded from the lack of oxygen and the exertion needed to travel the bomber’s length. He fastened an oxygen mask to her face, at the same time showing her how to remove the mask if she needed. He then resumed the pilot’s seat to her left.
After a quick check of the instruments, he dis-engaged the auto-pilot and took control, feeling the B17 alive under the palms of his hands. No matter how long he had been pilot and under what extreme conditions of fatigue and danger he had flown, the feeling of a plane in his hands still had the power to thrill him.
He turned and saw her staring at him and he returned the look with an infectious grin. In spite of herself, she returned the smile. He told her to put her hands on the co-pilot’s control column and to hook her thumbs around the spokes of the half wheel. When she had complied he gingerly lifted his hands away from the controls.
Like he, she felt the plane alive in her hands and, as if by instinct, gently turned the wheel to the left and then to the right, feeling the Boeing answer her command. It was like riding a horse for the first time. Although the aircraft was only a machine, it still felt alive to her and she suddenly understood what every pilot at one time or another always knew. Aeroplanes might not be flesh and blood and they might not breathe, but they are alive and they have souls.
For the first time in years she felt happy and free, the twin sentiments of anybody who has escaped prison and death. The smile that she gave to the pilot was covered by the oxygen mask, but he sensed it nevertheless. He gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder and then took over the controls again.
“She’s a lovely lady, with no vices. The Americans build wonderful aircraft,” he said.
As Miss Nonalee Two continued westwards, the two sat in absolute silence and contentment gazing at the night sky and the twinkling stars.
0130 Hours, 26 March 1945
They had flown 3,600 kilometres, a little over halfway to the Dominican Republic. His watch read a little after four o’clock, but knowing that dawn was still a long way off he wound the timepiece back so that it read one-thirty. He guessed this was an approximate of the real time.
The woman had long since gone and he had flown unaccompanied for the past five hours. The storm had petered out over an hour before and, even though there was still plenty of cloud, he had reduced height to ease the strain on both the plane’s occupants and the oxygen supply.
There came a scrabbling sound behind him and Swabisch’s face appeared, unshaven and covered in sleep. His face was pale and his breathing heavy since, even though they were now back down to 5,500 metres, the air was still thin and the temperature cold.
“Bloody hell, you look like a sick ghost, Leo. I hope you feel better than you look?”
The other rubbed his eyes with a fist like a three-year old urchin and gave a rueful grin. He then yawned, a wide gaping gasp for air, which revealed just how bad his breath smelled. Peter slapped a hand over his nose.
“Jesus, Leo, your breath smells like an Eskimo’s fanny,” he grinned. “Here take some of this chewing gum.”
“Thanks, Peter. Yes, it tastes pretty lousy as well. Feels like I’ve been drinking boar’s piss. How’s it going?”
“Not bad Leo, not bad. The Americans certainly know how to build good aircraft. The engines have not missed a beat and the gauges all read normal. You know, I am beginning to believe we might just make it after all.”
Swabisch settled himself in the co-pilot’s seat and took over the controls. Peter un-strapped himself and went forward under the flight deck floor to the navigator’s compartment. His father was asleep, lying wrapped up in a thick Arctic sleeping bag between the navigator’s chair and the starboard fuselage side. His legs hung forward near where the Norden bomb sight would have been. On either side there was a fifty-calibre ammunition box for the front machine-gun.
Peter leaned over his father and had just decided to let him sleep when the general opened his eyes and then his mouth. “What’s up, what’s the matter?” he said, his voice thick with phlegm. “Ugh, bloody awful taste in my mouth. Well what’s the matter?” he asked again, struggling to extract his arms and sit up.
“Been drinking boar’s piss like Leo, have you, Father?”
Helmuth Wenck stared uncomprehendingly at his son, who did not bother to explain. “Ah, don’t worry,” he said shaking his head.
“Don’t you worry about anything. Leo’s in charge and the old girl is behaving herself like the thoroughbred she is. Go back to sleep.”
His father lay back grumbling. “Why the fuck did you wake me then? Piss off and let me catch my beauty sleep. I want to look my best when I meet your mother again.” But he was smiling as he said it.
His son squeezed his shoulder and went aft.
Both Meunier and Schonewille were awake and he stopped to check on their condition. His brother was still feeling rather queasy, so he unhooked an oxygen mast and held it to his face for a few minutes.
“Keep it here Friedrich, and take a whiff every few minutes. It will help you feel better.”
He lay down on his bunk and then felt a urgent need to urinate, but at first he felt too weary to move. Eventually he got up and went to the rear of the bomber where the toilet was situated near the crew entry door. He struggled with his flying suit zip before he was able to complete the task.
Back in his bunk he looked over at the woman who stared back unblinkingly.
“It’s all fine. We’re doing fine,” he said, and quickly fell asleep.
0815 Hours, 26 March 1945
It was a brilliant morning. The sun shone through the nose Perspex and the ceiling astrodome above the navigator’s compartment. An occasional small fluffy white cloud swept by. Meunier and the two Wencks sat crammed into the nose of the aircraft, the pilot sitting with his back braced up against one of the ammunition boxes. They were discussing their next moves.
“Our approximate position is fifty-seven degrees west by twenty-two degrees north,” said Helmuth. “The tail wind has meant we have travelled about 300 kilometres further west than we would have in the same time. It’s nice to have it up our sleeve.”
The others nodded in agreement, but added nothing more to the conversation. Wenck senior looked up from his map. “Bloody talkative this morning, aren’t we?” He transferred his gaze back to his map and continued talking. “Now where was I? We’re over three-quarters of the way there, another 1,400 kilometres at most. We’ll probably arrive there around about noon local time. Conrad, I want you to go back to the radio and see if you can pick anything up of interest.”
They discussed what call-signs were needed to contact Colonel Ferdinand Savory. Meunier explained that, as arranged, he had contacted the air force colonel when they had left Norway and again when they had left the Spanish Sahara.
“I hope he’s more reliable than your previous contact and the natives are a little more friendly,” said the pilot wryly.
“And that we don’t have to machine-gun half the inhabitants,” added Helmuth Wenck.
Meunier shook his head and said soberly, “If there is any problem there, Helmuth, we’re finished. The airfield at Puerto Plata is a full working base for the Dominican Air Force and also caters for private aircraft. Taking this into account, we had better pray Savory is prepared to keep his part of the bargain and sell us the gasoline. Otherwise we are well and truly at the end of our voyage.”
“I tell you what though,” remarked the pilot. “We won’t have long to find out. With what we’ve gained by the tail wind, we’re ahead of schedule.
So, Meunier dear chap, you’d better get back to your little hole and try and work that radio and see if Colonel Savory is waiting for us.”
Meunier sniffed and cleared his throat. He obviously wanted to speak, but then just shrugged his shoulders and left the two Wencks alone.
“How’s the fuel situation?” enquired the general
“It’s holding up well, Father. We should be well within our estimates. In fact, we might even have a couple of hours to spare.”
They joined Swabisch, but Peter Wenck did not bother to take over the controls. He just sat in his seat and, although outwardly relaxed, still searched the sky, his eyes and head never still for more than a moment. Half-an-hour passed in silence. He checked with Meunier on whether the diplomat had managed to raise his contact on the radio. The answer was still a terse no.
A probable cause appeared soon after. The sky ahead was turning darker. Not the grey and white of an average rain-bearing cloud formation, but the ugly black mushrooms of nimbus, their bowels full of water and their temper ugly. The closer they got, the more alarmed the three fliers became. All had piloted aircraft through conditions like these at one time or another, and not one would have chosen to pit their skills against such extremes of nature if they could have chosen another alternative.
“Teufel, Teufel,” said Peter Wenck, and then added another stream of obscenities under his breath as a huge multi-pronged streak of lightning flashed in front of them. “We can’t risk flying through this lot,” he said turning to his father. “Let me take over Leo. Jesus, we’d better go up.” The plane was already rocking from the force of the wind as he manipulated the throttle levers and pulled the aircraft’s nose up.
At 6,500 metres they were still not above the clouds and in desperation he increased power. The plane was now much more responsive than she had been earlier. With most of her fuel load consumed and much lighter because of her reduced gun armament, she was still climbing rapidly.
“Get everyone onto oxygen,” he yelled to Swabisch, who put a hand to his mask and flicked on the intercom switch.
While the Boeing continued to gain height, Swabisch kept re-adjusting the turbo superchargers to make sure they did not over-speed. They finally broke clear at 7,250 metres and Wenck levelled off and re-set the plane’s trim.
As they continued westwards, Meunier kept trying to raise the airfield at Puerto Plata, but to no avail. Finally, with perhaps one hundred kilometres to go, Helmuth Wenck informed his son that they would be getting close to the island of Hispaniola and it was time to descend.
The cloud formation below was as thick as before, although there seemed less violence in its midst. Gingerly, he eased the bomber downwards. While there was no more lightning, there was intense rain and wind and Miss Nonalee Two began to sway and shake like an alcoholic trying to dry out.
They were down to 2,400 metres when Meunier eventually made contact with the airfield. The voice at the control tower was evidently waiting for them for once they gave the correct call-sign it immediately requested them to wait while Colonel Savory was fetched.
Scarcely a minute later Savory’s impeccable Spanish filled Meunier’s earphones. Unfortunately, his message was not at all reassuring. The diplomat listened in disbelief as the officer informed them that they could not land just yet and they might have to wait for some time. He relayed the message to the pilot.
“Shit, Conrad. For Christ’s sake ask him what the hell he’s playing at. What does ‘some time’ mean?”
Meunier spoke into the radio and was told by Savory that an American political legation that had been due at the capital Ciudad Trujillo had been forced to detour because of the storm and had landed at his base. “Apparently the storm came from the south and first hit the capital. Now it has also closed right in on the air base.”
“They are waiting in the terminal building for the storm to lift, Senor, and I do not think it wise for them to see you land.” Meunier passed on his explanation to the pilot.
Cursing, Peter called up his father and they discussed what to do. In the meantime Meunier elicited further information from Savory and then relayed the details to the Wencks.
“He says the storm will probably last at least another three hours and asks whether we have enough gasoline to last that long.”
Peter Wenck replied that they had enough fuel left for a maximum of an hour-and-a-half in the air. “Tell him that despite who’s at his base, we’ll be landing in just over an hour and it will be up to him to make sure we’re safe. Tell him to get the bastards drunk, provide them with women, whatever he can dream up, but he only has an hour in which to do it.”
Peter Wenck kept the Boeing relatively low. He had no choice. They had enough oxygen left for just over an hour’s use and he wanted to keep this for an emergency. At the same time, although the rain was still heavy, the wind had dropped so the buffeting was less severe.
An hour later to the minute, Savory came back on the radio. He informed them the Americans were currently being wined and dined to a full lunch in the mess, which had no window facing the main runway and, consequently, he had given instructions for them to be allowed to land.
“My apologies for the delay, Senors, and my apologies for my manners, but you will be directed to a discreet parking area at which you will have to stay until the Americanos have departed.”
Meunier thanked the Spanish colonel and effusively winked at Schonewille, who listened as the diplomat translated the message to the pilot.
The SS officer was out of his depth. His last role of importance had been at El Aiun. Now his future depended on other people and he did not like it. His old inferiorities were coming back to haunt him. Nobody now asked him what he thought about the current situation let alone deferred to any wishes he might have. His father and brother quite patently did not need him and barely spoke to him.
In reality his feelings were a little silly, since he had been key in the decision to kill the Spanish Air Force personnel at El Aiun. But under his present state of mind this was already forgotten. What was worse, his mistress was distinctly cool towards him. A feeling of helpless rage began to well-up inside him and it was with difficulty that he hid his feelings from the diplomat. So, in answer to the wink, he just shrugged his shoulders, a gesture that Meunier reciprocated.
The only trouble faced by the travellers over the next few minutes was actually locating the airfield, but once they found the town the base was relatively easy to find.
The wind had died down and even though the rain, if anything, had increased in intensity, the landing was smooth and not unduly difficult.
The runway was a little short and the pilot needed to be judicious with his brakes. An open Model-T Ford was parked near the end of the concrete. Two bedraggled figures waved at them through the teeming rain indicating for them to follow. It was obvious they were being led as far from the main administration buildings as possible, since they took a wide circuitous route by way of a series of perimeter runways before reaching several hangars at the extreme left of the airfield’s administration buildings that were situated approximately half-a-kilometre away.
There were two hangars spaced some eighty metres apart and the Ford drove between them, its occupants gesticulating for the Boeing to follow. The pilot hesitated for he did not want to park the bomber with its nose facing away from the runway. Then, making a quick calculation on the space between the two hangars and his aircraft’s wing span, he eased the bomber forward, keeping the port wing tip as close as possible to one wall of the nearest structure. When they were sufficiently deeply inside the space, he locked the starboard wheel and gently swung the bomber around on its axis until it faced the way it had come.
Cutting the engines, he vacated his seat and made his way through the fuselage to the rear crew hatch. There he encountered his brother holding his Schmeisser machine pistol.
“Weg mit der Waffe, Du Dummpkopf,” he snapped, not wanting the Dominicans to see the German weapon. He was no
t sure what the occupants in the Ford knew and as far as possible he wanted to give the impression they were Americans. His brother did not take kindly to be spoken to like that.
“Was unterstehst Du Dich so mit mir zu sprechen!”
Peter Wenck ignored the words, but to his relief saw him place the machine pistol behind some blankets.
After hours of thin air and canned oxygen, the smell of the tropical Dominican atmosphere was like a heady aroma when they opened the hatch. Even though the rain was coming down in sheets it was quite warm and the wind was now almost non existent.
One of the Ford’s two occupants splashed his way towards the aircraft. Despite the rain he was in no hurry, probably because he was already wet through and any more water would not matter one iota.
Peter Wenck’s caution about the Schmeisser was justified because the Dominican addressed him in English. He apologised on behalf of Colonel Savory, explaining that the Dominican Air Force officer was engaged with his hosts and he would see to their needs as soon as possible. Then, as he left he added, “Oh, I almost forget. Colonel Savory orders for you to remain inside the aircraft until he comes.”
When they had left, the Germans held a council in the rear fuselage.
Schonewille, still smarting from being called a fool by his brother, was belligerent, demanding to know why they should remain inside the bomber. The pilot was about to tell him to shut up, but a warning look by his father dried the words in his throat.
All were on edge. In the preceding two days they had spent just over forty hours in the bomber. Given the tensions of their escape and the dangers of their flight it had been a mammoth journey. All wanted to get some proper rest. Their ears were still not used to the engines being shut down and, except for the rain beating on the aluminium, all was quiet.
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 35