The son looked at his father and gave a smile that contained little mirth. “Father, I am too old to be told what to do. Also, I am too good a pilot to be told what I can or cannot do in my aircraft. I will make the decisions.” He raised his eyebrows in a gesture that was not a plea for agreement, rather a bald statement of fact. He then turned his back and strode towards the crew hatch. “Oh, and you had better pay the colonel,” he said over his shoulder.
The general waited outside while Meunier followed the pilot back inside the fuselage. He went to one of the sacks that he knew contained foreign currency and extracted several wads of American dollars. Satisfied with the amount he went back outside.
Much to the Dominican’s delight he handed over $30,000. “Thank you, Colonel. There is $30,000 in these bundles, almost all the American money we have. I trust you are satisfied?” The colonel nodded his head, a wide smile creasing his lips. The smile vanished though, at Meunier’s parting words. “And please remember the general’s warning. I know you have had Hertel neutralised, but we have other agents and other people on our payroll. Therefore, it would be in your best interest if it is never known about our stay here.”
Savory said he understood. He stuffed the bank notes into his pockets until they bulged and, turning away, spoke rapidly in Spanish to his men. The two tankers moved off leaving only the Ford. Without a backward glance, he got inside and drove away.
As Meunier walked towards the crew entrance, one of Miss Nonalee Two’s Wrights coughed into life. By the time he had closed the hatch two were running sweetly and the propeller on the third was beginning to turn. When all four were bellowing in unison, Swabisch and Peter Wenck completed their cockpit check and, with nothing amiss, the co-pilot released the brakes and his partner gunned the engines, easing the Boeing out of its hideaway and onto the apron in front of the hangars. Seconds later they were trundling down the same taxi-way negotiated by the Curtis Commando a short time before and, like the American pilot, Wenck did not hesitate when the Boeing reached the runway. He opened the throttles and the B17 gathered speed, leaving the long runway halfway down the tarmac.
Once the wheels had tucked themselves into their housing and the flaps had been retracted, he banked the aircraft to starboard as though he was flying east. He continued on this heading for ten minutes and when the land had fully disappeared turned in a wide arc to port so they were flying roughly north-east. Fifteen minutes later he swung to his left again and in another ten minutes turned slightly to his right, aligning the aircraft so it would pass between the eastern tip of Cuba and the southern tip of the island of Great Inagua.
Although the sun was already sinking low in the horizon, the sky was still a brilliant blue and only a few remnants of the recent storm clouds hung in the sky. Up ahead the clouds petered out completely.
For a moment, he forgot all about Meunier’s ghastly revelations.
The view through the Perspex was simply breathtaking and in appreciation of its beauty he turned to Swabisch and gave him a friendly punch on his left shoulder. His old comrade understood what the pilot felt. They were climbing slowly and he checked both altimeters before adjusting the turbo boost on all four engines.
Miss Nonalee Two droned homeward.
Chapter Thirty-Two
26 March 1945
2200 Hours
The Boeing’s original altimeter indicated they were flying at 10,000 feet, or 3,000 metres by the German instrument. The reduced height and slightly higher speed of just over 300 kilometres per hour was indicative of the shortened length of this, the final leg of their long journey.
The night sky was clear, the stars twinkling and the moon shining a broad benevolent smile down at them. A dozen or so kilometres off their starboard wing tip they could see a few dim lights. Peter Wenck sitting in the co-pilot’s seat was still wide awake, living on adrenalin and nervous tension. He pointed to the lights and Swabisch asked what they were.
Wenck consulted his map and did a rapid calculation.
“Could be Key West, although one would think the Americans would not be so stupid as to have no blackout. I mean, during 1942 and early 1943 our U-Boats laid waste to these waters, so much so they called it the happy hunting ground.”
The Straits of Florida were already behind them. Cuba was some 120 kilometres due south and Cape Sable on the tip of the Florida peninsular some 140 kilometres to the north-east. Miss Nonalee Two was now heading into the Gulf of Mexico.
Half-an-hour later and now deep into the Gulf it was time for Miss Nonalee Two to change course. Helmuth Wenck, awake at his position in the navigator’s compartment, switched on his intercom and gave them a new heading. It was a minor change and would enable the bomber to fly in an uninterrupted straight line to their destination.
They crossed the coast into Texas about halfway between Galveston and Freeport. Heavy cloud obscured this momentous event, but to their relief it gradually dissipated so, by the time they were 200 kilometres inside the United States, the sky was clear once more. The further in from the coast they flew the more lights they saw.
“Mein Gott!”
Swabisch’s exclamation made Wenck jump. He had been dozing, his tiredness finally catching up with him.
To their right the ground was a blaze of light signifying a large city. Wenck called up his father who also exclaimed in wonder. To the crew it was an amazing sight. For the past few years the only lights seen by German aircrew at night were burning cities, the glare of searchlights and the flashes of anti-aircraft fire.
Helmuth Wenck was busy searching a map covering part of Louisiana, all of southern Texas and most of northern Mexico. His son, whose map was not as large or detailed, was doing the same, asked him what town it was. The parent told him to wait a few moments and then finding the spot, said exultantly. “Austin. It’s Austin, Texas.”
They were on course and travelling well.
The entire group stared out of their respective windows and canopies at the vista of the city’s lights. The scene was so foreign to what they had been used to that most were for a moment quite bereft of speech.
The scene had an effect on all of them, though in very different ways and for the first time brought home fully to each just how close they were to succeeding and that in this success their lives would be irrevocably changed.
As the B17 continued on its journey, they were left with their thoughts, expectations and doubts.
Of the six it was the SS officer who was the most worried. For most of his life Friedrich Schonewille had felt adrift from those of his social strata. It was not until he joined the Nazi party that he had fully felt a part of something. It had given him prestige, power and a strong sense of belonging. It had also given him the opportunity to exorcise those hatreds and inferiorities that had bedevilled him most of his life.
Now, devoid of all that which had given a status and anchor to his life he was becoming quite frightened and unsure of his future. To divest himself of his uniform, soon after leaving Guernsey, had been a traumatic thing. It was like shedding a protective armour. The action at El Aiun had for a brief moment given him a sense of importance, of belonging, both to and with the group but, since then, he had felt insignificant and useless.
In part these feelings of lack of worth were compounded by the attitude of his mistress. Sophia continued to be distant and evasive to his questions and attempts at intimacy, reduced as they were because of the proximity of the other travellers.
As they stared at the lights Schonewille fully understood for the first time just how alien was the culture of the country they were about to embrace. Strangely, he had never given much thought to their ultimate destination. He had never travelled outside Germany, even though his English was quite passable and he spoke a little Italian. His primary thought in leaving the country of his birth had been to escape the wrath and vengeance of the Allied troops, for he was under no illusion of what would happen to him in a conquered Germany. Although he had not been a party to t
he actual wholesale killing at the camps he had known what was going on and had personally executed a dozen or so members of the German intelligentsia.
He looked across at Sophia crouched a metre or so away as she stared at the scene below. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Schonewille staring at her and without hesitation she stretched out a hand to him. The effect on the SS officer was, to her, quite astounding. He took her hand in both of his and in the dim light she could seen tears welling up in his eyes. She had never seen such a display of emotion from him in all their time together.
“Danke, liebchen,” he said.
He bent forward and kissed her hand and for a moment she felt a degree of tenderness for the man who had risked so much to rescue her from almost certain death. Yet, in part, the tenderness was because she knew what she intended doing, how her main aim now was to be rid of him and as much of her past as she could possibly shed.
For Schonewille her gesture had a strong calming effect and for a short while at least enabled him to feel more positive about his future.
Meanwhile, Meunier, lolling back on his seat by the radio, also felt at peace. All was working according to plan. On leaving the Dominican Republic he had been able to make contact with his agent who had been waiting just outside the town of Prescott 120 kilometres north of Phoenix.
The diplomat was looking forward to his future life. His only regret was his wife and how she would not be able to join him. Yet, he knew that where he wanted to go female companionship would not be hard to find. He had no intention of staying in the United States. Mexico was not too far away and with money and his American passport he would be able to live like a king within its borders.
In the navigator’s station Helmuth Wenck stared at the unfolding panorama of the American south-west, the area made so famous by the cowboy novels and films of his youth. He knew the area well and he wished it was already daylight so he could see the desert landscape. Yet even at night it was enough to see the lights of the towns and the occasional solitary light of some isolated ranch to visualise what was below.
He too doubted whether he would make the United States his home. To a degree it would depend on his wife, for his longing for the woman, now that he was free to join her, was extreme. Five years was a long time. He intended travelling to Halifax and contacting her from there. If she wanted him to travel to Iceland he would do so and risk recognition, for he was well-known in the small island community. His fervent hope was that she would join him in America and from there they would journey to Canada or, if this was not favoured then the northern reaches of the United States where the weather was more conducive to their way of life. His favourite place in the USA had always been Montana.
In the cockpit, both pilots had vastly different dreams.
True to his nature, Captain Leo Swabisch had never given too much thought as to his reasons for escaping. Peter Wenck’s going was enough for him join the band. Of course, this had been strengthened by the thought of seeing America and doing so with enough money to live without a care in the world for the rest of his life. The thought of all those American women made his loins twitch whenever he thought about them, which was often. For a short time before the war he had been a skiing instructor in the Alps, albeit a very junior one and it had never ceased to amaze him how willing the American women were to make love with any instructor once they had spent a few days on the slopes. It was through these women that he had polished his schoolboy English, especially the words designed to ingratiate himself and then arouse the opposite sex.
Although he had not discussed his future at any length with his friend, he was hoping to be able to stay with Peter Wenck, at least for the short term.
The plane’s commander looked at his watch. It read just after four in the morning: they had been in the air for ten-and-a-half hours. He made a mental calculation as to the correct local time and came up with somewhere between one and one-thirty in the morning.
Peter Wenck had always had very definitive ideas as to what he wanted to do once he reached America. His years both in the United States and England had given him a good command of English as well as a reasonable understanding of what drove these two cousins and what needed to be done to survive in the American culture. He too wanted to see his mother, but he had no intention of either travelling to or living in Iceland.
While still in Norway the two Wencks had held numerous discussions on their future once they had escaped the Reich and reached America. This they had continued during their brief sojourn in the Dominican Republic. To their consternation, this last discussion had only reinforced the realisation of how both wanted different things.
His father now only wanted a quiet life. To him the wealth in the bomber represented protection from being caught by the Allies and the ability to live a restful, stress-free life with his wife. He had originally hoped to have both sons with him, though he now acknowledged this would not happen. The revelation of Schonewille’s link with the concentration camps so sickened him that all he wanted was for his first born to disappear from his life forever.
As for Peter, he knew his adventurous second born still had a lot of living to do and his share of the money would only increase his ability to sample more of life.
In truth, his father’s thoughts were not strictly correct.
Peter Wenck’s one abiding wish was to continue flying, possibly in control of a small airline. This would bring some problems since he would have to re-train and re-gain his flying licence under his new identity. He had hoped he might ultimately be able to return to using his real name even though he quickly realised how this might bring about a number of difficulties into his new life.
In the meantime, his thoughts kept returning to operating a small feeder line in Canada or Alaska. Maybe Leo Swabisch would join him?
Wenck’s mind then turned to the Jewess. He felt very attracted to the woman, though intuitively he knew she would have nothing whatever to do with him, not because of her relationship with his brother, but because of his German nationality. This thought allowed his mind to stray and he recalled Meunier’s demeanour on revealing the details of the camps. The subject was so horrific and still so new that he was still not able to face it squarely, so he quickly turned his mind to other things.
He drifted into sleep as Miss Nonalee Two droned on. They crossed into New Mexico and shortly after flew over the Pecos River and passed south of the small town of Stanton. Then it was over the Rio Grande and into the mountains north of Silver City.
Their destination was a large airfield in the Arizona desert, almost halfway on a line running north-west between the towns of Prescott and Boulder City. A few hours more and they would be landing for the last time.
Leo Swabisch checked the instruments, a continuous check on the pulse of the aircraft, yet in their dull glow he saw no reason to worry. Boeing’s finest was behaving herself like the thoroughbred she was.
Chapter Thirty-Three
27 March 1945
0600 Hours
Dawn revealed the full vista of the American south-west. The desert stretching away across the horizon, a range of mountains rose to their north and finally a huge airfield, jam-packed with aircraft under their wings. Had they arrived?
Helmuth Wenck took another reading just to make certain: thirty-five degrees, twelve minutes north by 114 degrees, four minutes west. Yes, this was it.
A nervous excitement permeated through the aircraft feeding from person to person.
Meunier had no difficulty in raising the airfield’s control tower but, to his consternation, they were not expected. A sleepy voice in a slow southern drawl at first did not seem at all interested in who they were or where they were from.
It was now time to put their plan into action. Helmuth Wenck switched his radio mike to send.
“Now you listen here, son,” he said in his most authoritative tone. “This is General Hanson and if you are real nice you can call me Dutch Hanson like the rest of my boys … do
you read me?”
The Dutch pseudonym was an idea of Meunier’s to cover his friend’s accent. There was a stunned silence on the other end of the radio.
“Sir, yes Sir, I’m listening, Sir!”
“Good. Now, what’s you name, son?”
“Corporal Ruthven Kent, Sir!”
“Right, son. I want you to have a Jeep ready at the end of the main runway to direct us to a spot as far from your administration buildings as possible. Do you understand?”
Kent said hesitantly that he understood, so Wenck enquired whether there was a truck waiting for them. The answer was in the negative, yet the corporal took the initiative and said he would check to make certain.
While the line was dead, Helmuth Wenck spoke to Meunier over the intercom and asked him for the third time in the past hour what had been arranged with their American contact. The diplomat’s answer showed his irritation.
“I’ve told you before, Helmuth. I spoke to him shortly after we last took off. It was all arranged. He would meet us here with a large lorry shortly after dawn. He would be in an American Air Force uniform.”
They continued circling and then the voice of the American corporal came back on the radio.
“Sir, General Hanson, Sir, there is a truck and a lieutenant waiting for you at the guardhouse. He arrived an hour or so back. What do you want him to do, Sir?”
Peter Wenck punched a fist into his palm in exultation and Helmuth Wenck breathed a deep sigh of relief. It was almost too easy. He dared hope.
“Tell the lieutenant to follow the Jeep and meet us at the end of the runway and then, like I said, direct us to a spot as far from your administration buildings as possible.”
“Yes, Sir. Sir! The base commander is not on duty at the moment. Do you want me to have him sent for?”
The Reichsbank Robbery Page 37