The Hess Cross

by James Thayer

  "Few of the top Nazi leaders were ever sane," Sackville-West said as he smiled at Smithson, who beamed, grateful for the recognition.

  Sackville-West returned to the folder. "A few months after the amnesia and hallucinations began, Hess started dropping phrases like 'fission,' 'heavy water,' and 'uranium.' At first the doctors thought nothing of it, thinking it was the wandering of a deranged man. But the more Hess's mind seemed to deteriorate, the more these scientific words cropped up. The doctors soon realized they were not qualified to question Hess further, because they had no idea what he was talking about."

  "So the European Documentation Center was called in?"

  "Yes. Normally, Hess would have been referred to them immediately after his arrival. But he was clearly having mental troubles, and it was thought that psychiatrists would be more efficient gaining whatever information Hess could offer.

  "The EDC produced a report after interviewing Hess one week. Mind you, the doctors were also present during these interviews. The EDC people, as good as they are, do not have psychiatric training, and we didn't want to lose whatever strands of sanity Hess still possessed.

  "The EDC report indicates that Hess, far from being a do-nothing party speechmaker, had a very important role. For some reason unknown to us, he understood the potentials of what Professor Otto Hahn told the German leaders about an ultimate bomb long before other Nazi leaders did. He became interested in nuclear physics. Perhaps as a pacifier, Hitler assigned him to oversee the nuclear experiments and to act as liaison between the scientists and the Führer. Hess apparently kept a close watch on the experiments and became knowledgeable about them. For several years Hahn and the other German physicists told him immense amounts of scientific data in order to convince Hess to keep money coming to the experiments."

  "How technical is Hess's information?" Crown asked.

  "We don't know. The EDC men don't know anything about nuclear physics, so they can't ask intelligent questions. The best they can do is to scribble down what Hess mutters and pass it along."

  "It wouldn't seem possible that a fanatic Nazi bootlicker never known for any intellectual prowess could have data that would help us."

  "Perhaps not," Sackville-West replied, "but all information, no matter how general, must be extracted from Hess. The very least he knows is how much emphasis the Nazis are putting on the nuclear experiments, and that information alone is vital.

  "There is only one man qualified to question Hess, and he is here at the University of Chicago. His name is Enrico Fermi. I'll be brief with his biography."

  Sackville-West picked up a 3A sheet and summarized. "Fermi was born in 1901, the son of a railroad administrator. He quickly outgrew traditional education and began the study of physics as a hobby. He purchased and borrowed physics texts, and he decided to become a physicist before his high school ended. In 1918 Fermi went to Pisa to begin his higher education at the Reale Scuola Normale of Pisa. In 1922 he received his doctorate in physics. Fermi then taught at various institutions and studied with the world's leading physicists. In 1924 he became a lecturer at the University of Florence, and two years later he went to the University of Rome as a professor of theoretical physics. He made important discoveries involving the behavior of electrons in solids, electrical conductivity, electron emission, and thermoelectric effects.

  "In 1928 he was married to his present wife, Laura. This apparently didn't slow him down, because in 1934 he developed a theory of radioactive beta-ray disintegration. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in physics in 1938." Sackville-West lowered the 3A. "What I'm trying to impress you with is that Enrico Fermi is a heavyweight."

  "You've succeeded admirably," Crown replied. The prospect of meeting a Nobel laureate intrigued him.

  "Mussolini began cracking down on the Jews and intellectuals in the late thirties. Fermi is a Catholic, but he found he couldn't carry on his research and teaching in the repressive atmosphere of fascist Italy. He fled in 1939 and accepted a post at Columbia University in New York. A while ago he came to Hyde Park."

  "Where he is working on research similar to the Germans', research on the ultimate bomb," Crown guessed. His assignment was beginning to take shape.

  "Yes. His research is too important to take the time to fly him to London to interview Hess. So Hess is coming here. Fermi will interview him, and then Hess will return to England. European Documentation Center personnel will also come to Hyde Park to assist Fermi. In fact, Peter Kohler, the assistant chief of the EDC, has been in Hyde Park for over a week preparing a safe house. Your job is to transport Hess from England, to ensure his safety while he is in Chicago, and to get Hess back to England. This must be done with unprecedented security. The Germans, and everyone else for that matter, must not even have slight suspicions of Hess's travels.

  "As you know," Sackville-West went on, cutting off the opportunity for questions, "Smithson here is in charge of mid-States antisabotage. He has the resources you need, like automobiles and the like. He'll cooperate in every way, and you're to call him if you need anything. You have one week to work with Peter Kohler to make your preparations for Hess's confinement in Hyde Park. Next Monday, we have transportation for you to London to pick up Hess. I've prepared a packet of further instructions, which you can read downstairs. They are not to leave the building."

  When the flurry of orders ended, Sackville-West rose and walked around the desk, indicating the meeting was over. He put his hand on Crown's elbow and said, "I'll walk you downstairs," meaning he had further instructions out of Smithson's hearing. As Crown left the room, he saw Smithson busily sweeping tobacco crumbs from the desk just vacated by the Priest. Smithson carefully dropped them into the wastepaper basket.

  As they slowly descended the stairs, Sackville-West said, "I was a little hard on Smithson back there. Don't underestimate his value. He's in charge of our entire Midwest effort. And for some reason which escapes me, he's very good at it. The Germans are busy in the U.S., but Chicago has less instances of so-called accidental power blackouts, explosions, and missing personnel than any other area in the country. Smithson knows his job."

  "What about Miguel's killer?"

  "You don't have time to look for him. Stay away from that. That's an order."

  "I want him dead." Crown could not keep the fever out of his voice.

  Sackville-West said in a softer voice, "John, the importance of your assignment can't be overstated. The stakes are enormous. Your job is to escort Hess from London to Chicago. Miguel is gone, and you've got to forget him for a while."

  Not very likely, Crown thought. Not very likely at all.

  IV

  IRON MIKE WAS MADE TO CARRY BOMBS, not passengers. The huge Flying Fortress, official USAF designation B17D, was the most sophisticated bomber in the world.

  Boeing engineers in Seattle had been given three short guidelines: speed, payload, and protection of the crew. They produced a bomber that soon became the backbone of the Allied air forces. Speed: the B17D was powered by four 1,200-horsepower Wright Cyclone turbo-supercharged engines capable of propelling the plane at 325 miles per hour at 20,000 feet. Payload: over eight tons of bombs. Protection of the nine crewmen: three machine guns forward, two amidships, and two in a bulge beneath the fuselage.

  The most distinctive feature of the B17D was its glass nose, in which the bombardier was stationed. This greenhouse was also one of the most vulnerable targets on the plane. The pilot and copilot sat side by side in the cockpit above the fuselage just ahead of the leading edge of the wing. Above the cockpit was an astro-hatch lookout post, resembling a bubble, where a crewman watched for diving enemy fighters.

  Iron Mike was RAF Wing Commander Thomas Stratton's Fortress. He had flown it from the Boeing plant in Seattle to Wichita, where the oxygen system, automatic pilot, homing equipment, and machine guns were installed. Then on to London's Croyden Airport, where it had been assigned to the RAF's Hell Fire Fifteenth Squadron.

  Stratton had personally painted "
IRON MIKE" on the plane's nose behind the bombardier's greenhouse. The fierce cartoon boilermaker raised a steel mallet above his head for another blow at the black anvil he stood behind. Below the cartoon was the inscription "IRON MIKE—ONE MORE STRIKE," followed by fourteen bomb decals, each representing a mission over Germany.

  On Monday, November 16, Stratton received orders to remove Iron Mike's bomb racks and install nine wicker seats. He protested loudly to Group Captain Benchley that his Fortress was a bomber, not a bus, but was told only that Iron Mike was being assigned to an extremely important mission that would only last several weeks. Stratton was not placated. His crew was enraged. Waist gunner Jimmy Toland threatened to reverse his .30-caliber machine gun so its barrel pointed at the passengers. Bombardier Lou Budwig promised to drop the nine passengers and their bloody wicker seats through the bomb bay somewhere over the freezing channel.

  Despite the complaints, the bomb racks were removed with the alacrity which naturally follows an order given to an RAF group captain from an air chief marshal. Benchley had been sworn to secrecy by Air Chief Marshal Hilling. Neither the group captain's superior nor his superior's superior was to know of the work on Iron Mike. For security reasons, Stratton and his boiling crew were confined to quarters for the three days until the mission. Profits at the Goat's Head Pub near the airfield plummeted.

  John Crown's safety harness strapped him tightly to the wicker seat. He was wearing a leather flight coat, and he was cold. The Fortress's cabin was not heated. And because it was not pressurized, Iron Mike could not climb above the weather. Adding to Crown's discomfort was the tough little waist gunner who sat on the bicycle seat near his machine gun, glowering at him.

  Many times during the flight Crown questioned his choice of the B17 over a conventional passenger plane, say, a Boeing Stratoliner. The Stratoliner had padded seats, a heated and pressurized cabin, hot meals, and even bunks. But the drawbacks to the passenger plane were substantial and dangerous. It had a range of only 1,750 miles, which would have required a fueling stop at the RAF airfield in Greenland, one of the most hazardous fields in the world. And a more dangerous factor: scheduled passenger service between Croyden and New York's La Guardia had been suspended due to the heavy German air raids on London. A passenger plane would have been highly conspicuous. Crown didn't want a curious Luftwaffe fighter pilot investigating an unarmed Stratoliner.

  A Fortress crossing the North Atlantic was routine. Hundreds of them flew from the U.S. to England as the States became increasingly involved in arming the British. Many of the B17s returned from England to Wichita to be re-outfitted and refurbished. To make Iron Mike look as if it needed repair, Wing Commander Stratton had been ordered to paint strings of black spots on the plane's wings and fuselage to resemble bullet holes and to blacken one of the engine encasements to appear as if it had been on fire. Enraged bombardier Budwig greased and regreased the bomb bay doors.

  Wing Commander Stratton climbed down from the cockpit and squeezed through the short aisle between seats toward Crown, who wondered how the 25-year-old Britisher had risen to the rank of wing commander at such a young age. Air Chief Marshal Hilling had promised him the best pilot available. Crown was an inexperienced flier, so his only gauge of Stratton's competence was the obvious high regard his crew had for him. Even the surly waist gunner straightened up as Stratton walked past.

  "We're just over Lake Michigan, sir. We'll be arriving at Midway in thirty minutes or so," the wing commander said, just loud enough to be heard over the engine rumble. "The runway is clear, and the fog has let up, so there'll be no problem."

  "Thanks, Commander," answered Crown. "Have you contacted our ground escort?"

  "Yes, sir. They're in place and ready."

  "Did the Hurricanes have any problem?" Crown asked, referring to the twelve RAF fighters that had accompanied the Fortress until it was out of the war zone. An hour after Iron Mike lifted off from Croyden, Crown had climbed into the observer's bubble atop the cockpit to view the escort. The shark-nosed fighters were flying in two six-plane V formations, one two miles off the bomber's starboard wing and the other at ten o'clock off the port wing. The formations had been ordered to maintain a substantial distance from the bomber to reduce the possibility an enemy spotter would see the entire procession and attach significance to it.

  "No. They turned back two hundred and fifty miles out, and they're all back at Croyden. And the Greenland fighter escort returned to base in good shape, too."

  Only during the last few hours of the transatlantic flight, when the plane had been well beyond the range of any German fighter, had Iron Mike been unescorted. It touched down at La Guardia for fueling. No one had been allowed to leave the plane.

  "Good. Say, Commander, I understand your crew wasn't very enthusiastic about this flight."

  "No, they weren't. Neither was I. No one would tell me who we were going to transport, but I took a look at the bloke when he boarded Mike, and I placed him." The commander bent closer and said, "This is one very important cargo."

  "That's right. I toyed with the idea of confining you and your crew during our stay in Chicago, which may last several weeks. But I've got enough problems without a mutiny. So I want you to impress upon the crew that this flight and anything they may have seen on it must be kept an absolute secret. If I get wind of any leaks—and believe me, I will—everyone will be put into a barracks with a twenty-four-hour guard until the court-martial. That sounds harsh, Commander, but secrecy is vital here."

  "There'll be no problem with the men. My engineer is an RAF volunteer from Chicago. He's been salivating ever since I told him our destination. He and the others don't want barracks duty."

  As Stratton wove his way back to the cockpit ladder, Josef Ludendorf, sitting in the seat of Crown's left, leaned toward Crown and asked in a voice fraught with tension, "Is everything all right?"

  "Yes, of course. The commander just told me we'd be landing in Chicago shortly."

  Ludendorf had been nervous throughout the flight. He had not tried to hide it, and told Crown that he had flown only twice before. Both prior flights had been accompanied by heaving sickness. He had managed to contain himself thus far. The EDC chief was a slight man, perhaps five feet, five inches tall. He was losing his hair, and he slicked down long strands on the side of his head over the bald spot. He wore rimless spectacles and constantly shoved them back on his nose. A small red spot glowed from both sides of his nose where the ill-fitting glasses kept the skin perpetually raw. His mouth was small and pinched. At first Crown attributed the constant cringe on Ludendorf's face to his fear of flying, but later, as the bomber left the turbulent air of the North Atlantic and the ride became smooth, Crown realized the fearful expression was chronic.

  Ludendorf was a bifurcated man. Crown's first impression of a hesitant, retiring, and anemic individual was dispelled soon after their conversation about Hess's interrogation began. Somewhere over the North Atlantic, Ludendorf had launched himself into the briefing, happy to be diverted from grim thoughts of the flight. Ludendorf's cracking voice firmed. His presentation had been systematic and complete. And he had made what could have been a weary account of Hess's medical condition fascinating.

  Crown now saw that Ludendorf was beginning to lose himself to the terror of the approaching landing. The EDC chief sucked on his lower lip and gripped the chair arms as if he were visiting a dentist. Crown attempted to shift Ludendorf's thoughts by asking, "You say you're convinced Hess isn't insane?"

  Ludendorf wheeled in his seat to Crown, his eyes wide and his left hand ready to gesture for a conversation that would not require gestures. He pitched into a speech. "Yes. Yes. I'm told by the psychiatrists that although he shows symptoms of several mental disorders, most of the time he is lucid." Ludendorf spoke with the soft German accent of one who has spent years trying to overcome that last vestige of his origin. "I did not have trouble communicating with him. That is to say, he had no difficulty complaining to me about various
things. It was often hard keeping his mind on the subject at hand. . . ."

  To slow Ludendorf down, Crown interjected, "What did Hess complain about?"

  "Numerous grievances. His most frequent was that secret agents were trying to poison his food. He would not specify whether they were German or British agents, but he mumbled things like Himmler was out to get him. He began losing weight, so one of the guards agreed to sample Hess's food before Hess ate it. This quieted him a little, but even when he dined with us, he was very suspicious. If the food was served from a common tray, he would select a portion, but never one nearest him. He also accused the jailers of plotting to destroy his sanity by pumping the sounds of motorcycles, airplanes, and machine guns into his cell. These sounds were hallucinations. Then he complained that his cell was electronically bugged. We could not convince him otherwise."

  "Was it?" asked Crown.

  "Of course. But it should not have concerned him." Ludendorf managed a weak smile. He knew why Crown had asked the same questions he had answered hours before. He was grateful for it.

  "Hess's favorite topic is Hitler," the professor continued. "He often recounts that when he first heard Hitler speak he had a vision that Hitler could lead Germany to greatness. Hess enjoys telling how he became a fervent worker in the Nazi party. He regards Hitler as a god, the only man who can save Germany. In his cell, Hess gave speeches to the guards or psychiatrists about the glorious Hitler. Have you read the excerpts from his speeches made before the flight?"

  "I read as far as I could."

  "Well, these talks in his cell were similar to them. In fact, so similar they sounded memorized. We began looking more closely at this drivel and discovered that most of it was memorized. Hess gave almost the identical speech day after day. None of it was spontaneous. Hess was not searching for new and increasingly eloquent statements about Hitler, as a true flatterer will. So we began digging a little deeper into Hess's true feelings." Ludendorf released his grip on the chair and used both hands to animate his lecture.