Mark H. Downer
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2012 Mark H. Downer
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
March 22, 1945. Kelheim, Germany
Chapter 2
May 14, 2001. Louisville, Kentucky.
Chapter 3
May 17, 2001. Louisville, Kentucky
Chapter 4
May 18, 2001. Chicago, Illinois.
Chapter 5
May 19, 2001. Louisville, Kentucky.
Chapter 6
May 19, 2001. Chicago, Illinois.
Chapter 7
May 20, 2001. Louisville, Kentucky.
Chapter 8
May 20, 2001. Louisville, Kentucky.
Chapter 9
May 20, 2001. Louisville, Kentucky.
Chapter 10
May 21, 2001. Louisville, KY
Chapter 11
May 21, 2001. Louisville, Kentucky.
Chapter 12
May 22, 2001. Zurich, Switzerland.
Chapter 13
May 22, 2001. Lucerne, Switzerland.
Chapter 14
May 22, 2001. Zurich, Switzerland.
Chapter 15
May 23, 2001. Lucerne, Switzerland
Chapter 16
May 23, 2001. Northeastern Switzerland.
Chapter 17
May 24, 2001. Chicago, Illinois.
Chapter 18
May 25, 2001. Wildhaus, Switzerland
Chapter 19
May 25, 2001. Voralpsee Lake, Switzerland.
Chapter 20
May 25, 2001. Wildhaus, Switzerland.
Chapter 21
May 26, 2001. Zurich, Switzerland.
Chapter 22
May 27, 2001. Treasure Beach Resort, Barbados.
To my mother who always believed I could, and
to my father who passed on the skills to make it a reality.
Ghosts of the Past was truly a labor of love, and fulfills a promise made to someone who was always my biggest cheerleader. I am quite certain she will read it in her own time and heavenly dimension. Hopefully, this is one of many more to come.
I want to acknowledge a long list of friends whose names are recorded for posterity in the first and last names of the characters in the book. For the two main characters, I want to thank my father for allowing me to borrow from him, and many thanks to my dear departed friend, Grady, for allowing me to lift his name for another.
Prologue
The sound inside was deafening as the whine of the sputtering engine gave way to the rush of air against the metallic body tilting earthward. The smell of burning oil was overwhelming in the dense, white smoke, which choked off not only the oxygen, but the visibility outside.
The altimeter spiraled counterclockwise, increasing in speed to the point that it looked like an additional propeller, but offered none of the benefits. Another volley of fifty caliber bullets strafed the fuselage of the helpless craft, a rapid succession of dull thuds into the lifeless body.
His hands fumbled blindly inside the cockpit, searching desperately for the release handle to the sliding canopy. His goggles were caked with black residue from the oily smoke and he reached up and ripped them from his face. Sweat dripped out from under his flight hat and into his eyes, and he tore at the leather gloves, removing them from his trembling hands. He reached the handle and pulled at it, only to have it break off in his hand.
He was growing disoriented and delirious, and he could sense the charge of oncoming ground. Banging at the canopy overhead, desperately trying to unseat the seal, the specter of death crept inside the airplane with him. He had envisioned dying many times, almost welcoming and inviting its finality, but not this way… not now… not yet. He still had to tell someone.
He needed to reveal the whereabouts of the crash. It could all be returned, given back to the original owners, absolving him of his responsibility, all sins forgiven. It was time to tell someone, but now there was no time.
He cried out, “It’s in the rock! The treasure’s behind the rock.”
He patted his flight jacket, reassuring himself that the letter was there. He couldn’t feel it; he couldn’t feel anything, his hand passing through his body as if it were air.
“Look in my jacket. Tell him to start with my flight jacket,” he mumbled aloud.
The rush of air had grown quiet and a cool breeze flowed through the cockpit. Bright light replaced the smoke, and a sense of euphoria overtook him. He was floating next to the plane and then it disappeared. Soft, pleasing music tickled his ears and he heard his mother calling to him through the veiled illumination.
The monotone hum of the heart monitor registered a flat line and the nurse reached over to switch it off. She looked back at the elderly man and stroked his hand softly. “Goodbye Mr. Hignite. May the peace of God passeth all understanding.”
Chapter 1
March 22, 1945. Kelheim, Germany
It was cold. Not the bitter, biting cold of mid-winter, but the wet, bone chilling cold of an early Bavarian spring night. Major Max Hignite, all six feet and two inches of him, was hunched into a knot under the gray wool blanket, the rock hard bench barely noticeable through his overwhelming fatigue. He had been falling in and out of sleep waiting for some explanation as to why he had been summoned from the warm confines of his squadron’s barracks earlier in the evening.
He and the young lieutenant, lying on the opposite bench in the back of the Mercedes M-366 half-ton truck, had been driving for almost two hours. Mercifully, they had come to a halt in the woods just outside of Kelheim, about 20 kilometers southwest of Regensburg. Another identical truck, filled with a rag-tag collection of enlisted men, idled behind them. A kubelwagon with two officers and a driver angled around the parked vehicles and moved forward another few meters into the clearing, just off the dirt road they had navigated. The flurry of activity and noise from the disembarking soldiers was still not enough to keep him from slipping out of consciousness.
“Max, you’re not trying to sleep in there, are you?”
The voice was a deep sleep nightmare, until the canvas drop flap was thrown open and a cold blast of air rifled through the back of the truck, immediately returning Hignite to his senses.
“Come on Herr Major, you’d think this was a holiday compliments of the Fuhrer!” Bellowed the voice of the intruder as the narrow beam of a flashlight probed the dark interior of the truck.
“I should have known you’d be responsible for this intrusion on my peaceful duty to the Fatherland, Dieter,” Hignite muttered as he rolled over to face the old acquaintance.
Max Hignite was tired. Over four years of war had sapped his energy. The once sharp, rugged features appeared to sag under the weight of stress and strain, and with the two-day old stubble, he looked ten years older than his twenty-six years of life. His only saving grace were the sharp, penetrating green
eyes inherited from his mother that still flickered with life.
Born and raised in Munich, Hignite’s mother was an elementary school teacher and his father a university professor. His younger brother and sister, along with himself, were all born and raised with a distinct eye towards education and cultural pursuits. However, outside of school Hignite had developed a passion for flying. Fueled by his Uncle Wilhelm, himself a World War I ace, Hignite spent many weekends at his Uncle’s farm, just outside of Augsberg, mastering the old Folker D-7 that Uncle Wilhelm had meticulously restored.
As Hignite grew to adulthood, the political climate was shifting dramatically. The family was very cognizant of the birth and ascent of the Nationalsocialistiche Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, and the injustice and evils that were inherent with the Nazi’s rise to power. Nevertheless, the allure of the emerging military air force, known as the Luftwaffe, was too great for Hignite to pass up, and he enlisted in 1937.
Hignite, however, never believed in National Socialism and never trusted the actions of the Nazi party. Therefore, armed with the knowledge of the impending invasion of Poland, certain to take place sometime in the fall of 1939, Hignite had warned his father, who packed up the entire family and snuck out of Germany into Switzerland. Hignite’s father, mother, baby brother, and sister all found their way to the United States less than two months later.
Hignite remained behind, and distinguished himself as one of the finest fighter pilots in the Luftwaffe. With 46 kills to his credit, he had been shot down once, wounded in action twice, and decorated with every medal available. However, the winds of war had shifted dramatically, and the heady days when he and his comrades had ruled the skies were long gone. The war was winding down and Germany was being decimated with each passing day. Moreover, with no forewarning, he had been summoned to this remote wooded area, and instructed to wait for orders.
Oberst Dieter Heinrich hoisted himself into the back of the truck and was busy slapping at Oberleutnant Wilhelm Gernert with his riding crop. Gernert was fumbling his way to his feet in anticipation of saluting the superior officer who had so rudely awakened him also.
“Stay seated young man,” Hienrich interrupted him. “Just scoot your self over and allow me some room to sit.”
“To what do we owe this pleasure, Dieter?” Hignite inquired.
“Business before pleasure Max. I have volunteered you and young Gernert here for a very important mission. And you start tonight!”
“Thanks for the advance warning,” Hignite scoffed. He leaned over to shake hands with Gernert. “Major Max Hignite. I apologize for not introducing myself earlier, but I didn’t see the need in waking you when they picked me up in this luxury mode of transportation.”
“No apologies necessary Major,” Gernert replied, meeting Hignite’s hand halfway. “Willy Gernert.”
Heinrich leaned back toward the rear of the truck and again applied his riding crop to lifting the drop flap, his aristocratic Prussian background evident in his handling of the equine instrument. Yelling down at the milling soldiers outside, he said “Unteroffizier, please bring us a lantern in here, bitte.”
The young corporal standing outside clicked his heals and retreated into the night.
“So we’ve been volunteered,” Hignite shivered as he returned everyone’s attention to the conversation. “I have never liked the sound of that.”
“You may like the sound of this one,” replied Heinrich. “It will allow you to exit this war before the final outcome is determined.”
“This war is over, Dieter, you know that as well as I do. It was over months ago. Hell, for that matter it’s been over for more than a year. Why that maniac in Berlin can’t see it is beyond any reasonable comprehension.”
“Careful Max,” interrupted Heinrich. “Keep your voice down and your thoughts to yourself, at least until you’re on your way with this mission. If it’s any consolation, I agree with you, but I have managed to hold my tongue this long, at least until I can find a way out of this mess as well.”
“Sorry Dieter, I’m a little tired, cold and irritable.”
“No need to apologize to me, old friend.” Heinrich smiled.
The flap once again pulled back, and the winded corporal stuck his arm in holding a hissing lantern that cast a greenish white glow on the inside of the dreary truck.
“I’ll get that sir,” said Gernert, as he reached out and grabbed the lantern handle, and nodded to the corporal, “danke.” Looking up he found several rusting hooks wired to the metal supports holding the camouflaged canvas cover over the back of the truck. He selected one toward the front and hung the lantern at the far end away from their eyes.
Gernert returned to the bench and he and Hignite both cast their gaze to Heinrich, who shuffled his body on the bench in a futile attempt to make himself more comfortable.
Dieter Heinrich was tall and muscular, with sharp features carved by generations of his heritage. His once piercing blue eyes were fading to gray, overcome by the weight of too many sleepless hours. He was thirty-one years old, but as with most soldiers at this point in the war, he appeared several years older.
He and Max had met at flight training school in Hamburg and had immediately developed a strong friendship. That bond was made even stronger when Heinrich discovered he was colorblind and was unable to continue flying. Max had spent many long hours consoling his despondent friend, a majority of those accompanied by binges of heavy drinking and womanizing.
Heinrich’s influential family managed to keep him in the Luftwaffe, and to their delight, he was commissioned an officer on Herman Goering’s personal staff. Heinrich was not as pleased. All he ever wanted to do is fly fighter planes. Moreover, to add insult to injury, he had no great interest in the Nazi party, but found himself smack dab in the middle of it.
Turning to face Hignite and Gernert, Heinrich began, “You’re both flying tonight.” Holding the palm of his hand face up to Hignite, “Before you interrupt me, let me finish. You’re going up in a Ju-52.”
Hignite’s reaction was subdued. He reached up with his left hand and massaged his neck, but managed not to interject.
“This flight was authorized by Goering himself and there will be no record of it ever having transpired. I was given the freedom to choose the best pilot I could find, so here you are Max. No disrespect to you oberleutnant, but they wrestled you up because you were available.”
“No disrespect taken,” said Gernert.
Hignite could not wait any further. “I don’t like the sound of this, Dieter. This has the makings of something covert, and I am not about to start being a spy now. Or it has the nasty smell of being illegal, and I’m not interested in pissing off the enemy any more than we already have.”
Before Heinrich could reply, the rumble of an approaching car engine, and the authoritative shouts of officers, captured the attention of all three men. It was Gernert’s turn to crouch forward and lift the flap to observe the disturbance.
Two large, black Mercedes sedans accompanied by four BMW motorcycle sidecars and two half-ton Mercedes trucks were all vying for parking rights in the clearing where the other assemblage of vehicles had congregated. They all seemed to come to halt in unison, as if this show of force had been choreographed many times before. Jumping out from the passenger door of one of the sedans was a leather-coated Luftwaffe captain, who never broke stride as he approached a young lieutenant snapping to attention and offering up the Hitler salute.
“Heil Hitler, Herr Leutnant!” barked the captain as he returned the salute.
“Heil Hitler, Herr Hauptmann, what can I do for you sir?”
“Where can I find Major Heinrich?”
“Right over here Hauptmann.” Heinrich stepped to the back of the truck and hopped down to the soft, moist ground. As he made his way closer to the captain, he mimicked the young lieutenant’s
curiosity, “What can I do for you captain?”
Again, the captain raised his arm at the required forty-five degree angle. “Heil Hitler Herr Major!” Heinrich returned the salute with a casual flip of his hand. “Sir, the Reichmarshall would like to have a word with you.” And as if on cue, out struggled Reichmarshall Hermann Goering from the back of the second sedan, while an obedient sergeant held the door for him.
He was immaculately dressed in his medal-studded Luftwaffe uniform and full-length wool topcoat, and as usual, carried with him his trademark baton. He was a large man, who seemed to grow larger every day, not only in physical stature, but also in what he perceived was left of the disintegrating Nazi regime. He walked powerfully over to where Heinrich was standing and before Heinrich could muster a salute, Goering placed his hand to the brim of his hat in a traditional salute, which Heinrich duplicated immediately.
“Good to see you again Dieter, and dankeshoen for dealing with this delicate matter.” Goering laid his hand upon Heinrich’s shoulder.
“Nice to see you too, Herr Reichmarshall. I’ve secured everything according to your orders,” replied Heinrich.
“Who did you select to fly?” Goering inquired.
“Major Hignite. I believe you’re familiar with him?”
“Quite. I believe I gave him the Night’s Cross last year. But I didn’t know he was flying transports?”
“He hasn’t been, but he has flown them before. He is also familiar with the terrain, having actually flown into the Swiss Alps on numerous occasions before the war. In addition, I thought he was the best pilot available in this area, under such short notice. His squadron just returned from combat yesterday afternoon, and there were not many aircraft left. In fact there were more pilots than planes, so I took him and a newly assigned leutnant, who would not have been much use in combat anyway.”
Goering nodded “Very well. Does he know the nature of the cargo?”
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