“The Herr Standartenführer is quite correct. How do you do, Herr Schmidt?”
They shook hands.
“Now, what is this about tie-downs, whatever you said?” Cranz asked.
“The Storch has to be tied down, sir. I have the ropes and the stakes, but I need something to drive the stakes.”
“If I may, Herr Standartenführer?” Herr Schmidt said.
Cranz nodded.
Schmidt turned toward the workers at the trucks and bellowed, “Two men and a hammer. Two hammers. Here. Immediately!”
There was sudden frenzied activity at the trucks to comply with the order.
Which, von Wachtstein decided, was indeed an order.
“Herr Schmidt” gave it like an officer.
And those guys are responding to it like soldiers.
He talks funny. I can generally tell where somebody’s from in Germany by their accent; I can’t with this guy.
So, what does that mean?
That he’s not a German? Somebody like Günther Loche, maybe? A German who came here from Germany.
What do they call them? Argo-Germans.
The Loche family are better Nazis than Hitler.
And those soldiers understood his German, making them more Argo-Germans?
Argo-German Nazis in the Argentine Army?
What the hell is going on here?
Two of the men in blue coveralls, each carrying a heavy iron hammer, trotted over to them.
“Major von Wachtstein will tell you what he needs done,” Herr Schmidt said.
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” the older of the two said, then saluted von Wachtstein.
Von Wachtstein crisply returned the Nazi salutes.
“What I need you to do, Stabsfeldwebel, is have your man drive these stakes so that I can make sure my airplane doesn’t get blown away.”
He pointed to the ground where he wanted the stakes driven.
“Jawohl, Herr Major,” the man said. He turned to the man with him and said, “You heard the Herr Major.”
And then he turned back to von Wachtstein. “Actually, it’s Oberfeldwebel, Herr Major.”
So, not sergeant major, but master sergeant.
Close enough. A sergeant.
Oh, you are clever, Hansel!
“How did you know he was a soldier, von Wachtstein?” Cranz asked.
And stupid, too.
“Well, before I was commissioned, Herr Standartenführer, I was an unterfeldwebel. Willi Grüner and I both were unterfeldwebels, commissioned the same day. One feldwebel can always recognize another, right, Oberfeldwebel? ”
The master sergeant smiled happily.
“I would say that’s so, Herr Major.”
“Willi Grüner?” Herr Schmidt said. “By chance, the son of our Oberst Grüner? I know he had a son in the Luftwaffe.”
“Yes,” von Wachtstein said simply. “The sad duty of telling him the circumstances of his father’s death fell to me in Berlin not long ago.”
Von Wachtstein exchanged a glance with Cranz.
So is this where the standartenführer decides that I really am a loyal officer?
Or that I am not, in which case Cranz takes out his Luger and shoots me?
No, probably not here. He’d have to drive back to Buenos Aires.
Maybe a little later—maybe when we’re back in Buenos Aires—when he can come up with a credible story. Maybe that he caught me trying to tell the enemy about this operation.
“Oberst Grüner died for the Fatherland, for National Socialism,” Schmidt said. “I am proud that he was my friend.”
“I regret that, while I did know him, I cannot claim to have been his friend,” Cranz said. “But back to duty. Major von Wachtstein said that if there had been a windsock, our landing would have been safer.”
“You will have to understand, Herr Major, that I am an officer of mountain troops and know very little about aircraft.”
“A windsock indicates to the pilot how the wind is blowing,” von Wachtstein explained.
“I suspect that this will not be the last time we will meet on a windy beach,” Cranz said. “Have a windsock the next time.”
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer. I assure you that omission will not happen again,” Schmidt said.
“See that it doesn’t,” Cranz said. He then smiled and asked, “I hope you did give some thought to our lunch?”
Schmidt pointed to an area behind the trucks, where von Wachtstein saw a tent fly had been erected over a folding wooden table.
“It is not much, Herr Standartenführer, but it will stave off starvation.”
It turned out to be sort of an Argo-German picnic lunch, served from insulated containers whose markings made it clear they belonged to the Argentine army. They were painted a dark olive drab, showed signs of frequent and hard use, and had serial numbers stenciled on them in white.
They contained empanadas, knockwurst and sauerkraut, leberwurst, butter and condiments, kaiser rolls, and loaves of rye bread of a kind von Wachtstein hadn’t seen since leaving Germany. It was all served on a white tablecloth by a young man in blue workman’s coveralls.
Von Wachtstein refused both beer and wine, saying he had to fly.
When lunch was over and the table cleared, another map was produced.
“Be so good as to explain to Major von Wachtstein his role in the operation, ” Cranz ordered.
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer,” Schmidt said. He used a pencil to point at the map. “The U-405 is here, Herr Major, just outside Argentine waters. In other words, twenty-one kilometers; twenty to comply with maritime law, plus one kilometer as a safety factor. Our last communication with it—”
“The Kriegsmarine would say ‘her,’ ” Cranz corrected.
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer,” Schmidt replied, then went on: “The last communication with her was early this morning. There be will no other radio communication with her unless there is an emergency of some sort. Now that we have the airplane, that won’t be necessary. U-405 currently is submerged. At sixteen-thirty, she will come to the surface, where she will hope to see you, Herr Major, in your Storch. That will—”
“Presumably, von Wachtstein,” Cranz interrupted, “you will be able to find U-405, now that you know where she is?”
“If she’s where the Herr Oberst indicated, I can, Herr Standartenführer.”
“Why did you refer to Herr Schmidt as ‘Herr Oberst,’ von Wachtstein? And don’t tell me that it’s because all obersts recognize one another.”
Because my old friend the oberfeldwebel addressed him as such, you arrogant prick.
“It was a slip of the tongue, Herr Standartenführer. I can’t imagine that Herr Schmidt would be an Argentine coronel.”
“Of course not,” Cranz said.
They all smiled at each other.
Schmidt continued: “Seeing the Storch will be the signal for the U-405 that everything is going according to plan. She will acknowledge seeing you by some means. Will you be low enough to see someone waving a flag?”
“I can fly low enough to see someone smiling at me, Herr Schmidt,” von Wachtstein said, and they all smiled at each other again.
“The U-405 will then submerge,” Schmidt resumed, “and head toward the beach, to this, the fifty-fathom line. At ten knots, she should be there in under an hour—”
“By which time,” Cranz interrupted again, “Sturmbannführer Raschner and Fregattenkapitän Boltitz will be here.”
What the hell is Raschner doing with Boltitz?
I know he said they were driving here in an American Packard, but why?
“Yes, sir?”
“At seventeen forty-five,” Cranz explained, "U-405 will rise to periscope depth and look for a signal which Fregattenkapitän Boltitz will transmit with a signal lamp. On receipt of that signal, she will surface and come closer to the beach. . . .”
Cranz gestured somewhat imperiously at Schmidt to pick up the story. “This is the ten-fathom li
ne,” Schmidt said, pointing to the map with the pencil. “It is, as you can see, about five hundred meters from the beach.”
“Yes, sir,” von Wachtstein said.
“During this period, we will have communication with the U-405 with the signal lamp,” Schmidt went on. “When she is in position, she will launch rubber boats to bring the special cargo ashore. As soon as it is ashore, the U-405 will move to the fifty-fathom line, submerge, and return to the high seas.”
“And while all this is going on, von Wachtstein,” Cranz said, “you will be flying overhead the shoreline to make sure that Herr Schmidt’s plans to make sure no one happens to come up the beach have been as good as he assures me they will be. And as soon as you see the rubber boats heading for the beach, you will land in case something has come up that will require your aviation skills.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have any questions, von Wachtstein?”
“No, sir. But I think I had best see about refueling the Storch.”
“Can Schmidt’s men handle that?”
“I’d rather do it myself, sir.”
“Speaking of Schmidt, is there any reason Schmidt could not go with you when you go to signal the U-405?”
Afraid you might get your feet wet, Herr Standartenführer?
“No, sir.”
“I think his splendid work setting this up has earned him that privilege,” Cranz said.
“Yes, sir. So do I.”
[FOUR]
38 Degrees 26 Minutes South Latitude 58 Degrees 59 Minutes West Longitude Off Necochea, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1625 23 July 1943
Herr Erich Schmidt had become visibly nervous when he could no longer look over his shoulder and see the landmass that was Argentina, but not nearly as nervous as Standartenführer Karl Cranz had looked when von Wachtstein had descended rapidly on their way to Necochea.
Von Wachtstein almost regretted telling him, “No, sir. There are no life preservers on the aircraft. When the standartenführer told me we were not going to fly over the River Plate, I removed them.”
And Cranz saw me take them out.
Which is more than likely—likely, hell!—OBVIOUSLY the reason he rewarded Schmidt with the privilege of going out to meet the U-405.
Right after takeoff, von Wachtstein had done the navigation in his head.
Course: Due east. Altitude: 1,000 meters should do it. Length of flight: Winds off the ocean at probably 20 kilometers, indicated airspeed of 150, so that’s 150 minus the 20-kph headwind, or 130. And 130 into 21 kilometers is—what?—hell, call it a fifth of an hour.
Twelve minutes into the flight by the elapsed-time clock mounted above the windscreen, he started to examine the surface of the ocean.
No whitecaps, just rolling seas.
Wait, there’s a whitecap . . . no, that’s not a whitecap.
The rushing wave he’d spotted grew larger and whiter, then turned into a pole racing across the sea.
A sub periscope.
Goddamn! There she is, Lindbergh!
You get the Luftwaffe Prize For Dumb Luck Dead-Reckoning Navigation.
"There she is, sir,” von Wachtstein said, banking the Storch to give Schmidt a better look.
The periscope was now visibly atop a submarine’s conning tower. Then a deck-mounted cannon broke through the waves. People appeared in the conning tower. One of them pointed at the Storch. Another ran aft of the conning tower to a sort of iron-pipe railed platform.
Von Wachtstein saw a flag appear as the U-405 came completely to the surface.
Not the swastika flag.
That’s the Kriegsmarine battle ensign—what Langsdorff arranged to fall on when he shot himself.
He picked up a little altitude, then made a steep descending turn and flew back to the submarine. He lowered flaps, flying as slowly as he could and as close to the waves as he dared.
I’ll be a sonofabitch . . . that’s an SS uniform on the guy giving that stupid fucking Nazi salute.
There were several Kriegsmarine officers on the aft platform and in the smaller area atop the conning tower. He could tell because they were wearing officer’s brimmed caps and sweaters. The SS asshole was wearing a white shirt and tie.
The officers waved—broad, wide-spread arms—but not one saluted.
When von Wachtstein was past the submarine, he dumped the flaps and shoved the throttle to full emergency power. The Storch quickly gained speed and altitude . . . Like a goosed stork, he thought with a grin, imagining Schmidt’s pucker factor reflex to the maneuver.
As soon as he could, he turned and dropped back to the surface of the sea.
Now the Kriegsmarine battle flag was gone, as were all the men but one— an officer, on the conning tower, who waved a final time, then disappeared into the boat as the U-405 began to submerge.
Thirty seconds later, the submarine was gone.
Von Wachtstein turned the nose of the Storch due west.
After crossing the coastline, he flew low and slow enough over the trucks so that he could signal with an upraised thumb that they’d made the rendezvous with U-405. Then he flew for several kilometers over the beach and finally flew several kilometers inland.
There were three dirt roads leading from a paved road to where the trucks sat on the rise overlooking the beach. Each road had been blocked by a truck and soldiers. These men were in uniform, not in the blue workman coveralls that all the others wore beside the beach.
When he returned to the landing strip, as he was landing, he saw two things he hadn’t seen on his flyovers. One was a large four-door sedan, which had to be the American Packard in which Sturmbannführer Erich Raschner and Fregattenkapitän Karl Boltitz had driven from Buenos Aires. The other was that there were now two machine guns and their crews—in uniform, not blue coveralls—in position so they could cover the beach.
He recognized the model of the machine guns.
I didn’t know the Argentines had Maschinengewehr 34s; I thought they were still using World War I Maxims.
And why are some of these mountain troops in uniform, and the rest in blue coveralls?
Okay. Civilians in coveralls with Maschinengewehr 34s would really make people, like the local authorities, curious.
This way Herr/Oberst Schmidt can get away with saying he’s running some sort of repel-the-invaders field exercise.
But, that being the case, why the coveralls on the others?
Then he saw where he was relative to the ground, made the necessary corrections to his flight path, and softly set down the Storch.
[FIVE]
Near Necochea Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1705 23 July 1943
“I thought I made it clear that your role in this was to fly along the beach,” Standartenführer Cranz said when von Wachtstein walked up to him.
“Sir, I landed for several reasons, among them being that I thought the Herr Standartenführer would want confirmation from Herr Schmidt that we made rendezvous—”
“Quite right.”
“—and that we saw nothing out of the ordinary. And I thought Herr Schmidt wanted to be here—”
“Very well.”
“—and I wanted to top off my tanks, and I thought you might have further orders for me, Herr Standartenführer.”
“Only those that I gave you earlier: to maintain an alert observation and to return to the field the moment you see the rubber boats leave the submarine.”
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer. Sir, am I permitted to make a suggestion?”
Cranz made an impatient gesture for him to go on.
“Sir, if you flew with me, you would be much better able to see what’s going on than you can from here.”
Cranz considered that for a full fifteen seconds—which seemed longer—in the process looking at Schmidt and almost visibly deciding that he had survived the flight without permanent damage, then said, “Good thinking, von Wachtstein. What was it you said, ‘top off’ your tanks?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Well, then, do that immediately. We’re running out of time.”
There’re possibly three reasons you agreed to go along with me:
One, you may be worrying that if I’m up there by myself, I’ll get on the radio and tell somebody what’s happening;
And/or, two, if something does go wrong, we’ll be already in the air and can just go back to Buenos Aires, leaving you out of the mess, and leaving Raschner and Boltitz to sort things out;
And/or, three, you’ll now be able to tell Himmler that you personally risked your life by flying over the actual landing of the special cargo.
At seventeen forty-five, von Wachtstein, flying five hundred meters offshore and two hundred meters off the surface of the sea, saw what he thought was the periscope of U-405 slicing through the water. He looked at the beach and saw the flashes of light Boltitz was sending with his signal lamp.
A minute or so later, U-405 surfaced, then slowly turned toward the beach.
Von Wachtstein saw that the battle ensign was again flying from the platform aft of the bridge.
Men began to appear on the deck forward of the conning tower, struggling to get something up and out from inside the submarine.
And then rubber boats took shape, apparently inflated with some sort of air tank. First one, then a second, then a third.
At the sub’s stern, there was the bubbling of water as the propellers were reversed. And then she stopped. Seamen put the rubber boats over the side.
Five men in black Schutzstaffel uniforms appeared on the deck. Two of them made their way carefully down the hull of the submarine, using a rope. Then a wooden crate appeared on the deck.
That’s the special cargo. God only knows how much money is in that box!
With great effort, the crate was very carefully lowered into the rubber boat. When it was in place, two men—both officers, one navy and one SS—followed it into the boat. The navy officer went to the stern of the rubber boat and jerked the starter rope of a small outboard motor. When the motor started, the boat turned away from the submarine and headed for the shore.
Von Wachtstein looked over his shoulder and saw that Cranz had a Zeiss 35mm camera to his eye.
Death and Honor Page 40