“I understand, Herr Admiral.”
“The Führer has not found time in his busy schedule to share with me his thoughts about what happened in Argentina, or, for that matter, to convey to me the importance he places on Operation Phoenix. Possibly this is because the Führer—who not only believes, as we all do, in our ultimate victory, but is burdened with the leadership of the state—does not feel he should waste his time dealing with the contingency of being offered, or forced to seek, an armistice, and the ramifications thereof.”
“I understand, Herr Admiral,” Boltitz said.
This wasn’t entirely true. Karl Boltitz was trying very hard to understand what Canaris was really saying.
Kapitänleutnant Boltitz recalled what his father, Vizeadmiral Kurt Ludwig Boltitz, had told him as he was about to report to the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht for duty with the Abwehr: “The best advice I can give you, Karl, is to listen to what Canaris is not saying.”
Kapitänleutnant Boltitz had not been at all happy about his assignment to a desk in Berlin. After a brief service upon the Graf Spee, he had been reassigned to submarines. He had quickly risen to become the Number One (Executive Officer) of U-241, operating in the North Atlantic from the submarine pens at St. Nazaire, and there had been no question in his mind that he would shortly be given his own boat.
There had in fact been orders waiting for Leutnant zur See Boltitz when U-241 tied up at the underground pens of St. Nazaire after his seventh patrol. But rather than announcing that he was detached for the purpose of assuming command of another submarine, the orders told him to report for duty to Section VIII (H) of the Naval Element, Oberkommando der Wehrmacht.
He had been a bureaucrat in Navy uniform long enough to know what Section VIII (H) was. It was the purposely innocuous-sounding pigeonhole to which naval officers working for Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, the Chief of Abwehr Intelligence, were ostensibly assigned.
Earlier, he had had no doubt that his father had arranged his assignment to the Graf Spee; and now he had no doubt that Vizeadmiral Boltitz’s influence was getting him off submarine duty…a situation that gave him a good deal to think about.
For one thing, he could not deny his first reaction to his orders…both the shame and the immense relief. Relief because he would no longer have to put to sea in U-241 and face the terrors of being depth-charged by British or American destroyers.
Shame because of the simple question of honor. His father had acted dishonorably in using his influence to remove his son from combat service. And consequently, as a man of honor, it was clearly his duty to protest the special treatment and to resist it in any way he could. If necessary, he decided, he would appeal upward in the chain of command all the way to Admiral Dönitz, even if that meant embarrassing his father. That couldn’t be helped. His father should not have done what he did.
When he confronted his father in Berlin with the accusation, Vizeadmiral Boltitz’s response was not at all what he expected.
“I had absolutely nothing to do with your transfer,” his father said.
“I have your word?”
“If you feel that that’s necessary, Karl.”
“In that case, I offer my apologies.”
“Don’t. If I had the influence you think I have, you would never have gone to submarines in the first place. And I have tried and failed ever since you went to submarines to get you out.”
“That’s dishonorable!”
“Let me tell you something, Karl,” his father said. “For reasons we can only guess at, God gives some men authority over others. How a man uses that authority, for good or evil, is between himself and God, as well as between himself and the State. We are engaged in an evil war, if I have to tell you that. If I can keep my son from being killed in an evil war, I will do that, and I think God will be on my side.”
Karl didn’t reply.
“Tell me, Karl,” Vizeadmiral Boltitz said, “do you remember your first cruise out on the U-241?”
Karl did, vividly.
His first patrol aboard U-241—as the gunnery officer, in charge of the deck-mounted cannon and the conning tower–mounted machine guns—had not been quite what he had expected.
For one thing, firing his cannon at an old, battered, and rusty merchantman and watching her sink mortally wounded beneath the waves, and then leaving her crew afloat in lifeboats, three hundred miles from shore in the North Atlantic in winter, had not seemed to be much of a glorious victory at sea.
And what had happened in the captain’s cabin immediately afterward was not in the honorable naval tradition of, say, Admiral Graf Spee.
The captain—Kapitänleutnant Siegfried von Stoup—had been two years ahead of Karl Boltitz at the Naval Academy. They had not been friends, but they knew each other. “Congratulations on your marksmanship, Boltitz,” Kapitänleutnant von Stoup said.
“Thank you, Sir,” Boltitz replied.
“You may examine the entry in the log,” von Stoup said, and slid it across the tiny table to him.
* * *
1550 23 Feb On Patrol Zone A17
Sank by gunfire (oblt Boltitz) ss star of Bombay, Est. 12000 Gross Tons. No survivors.
* * *
“No survivors, Sir?”
“I am sure, Boltitz, that if there were any survivors, you would have seen them. In which case, in compliance with orders from our Führer, you would, as an obedient officer, have made sure there were no survivors. Nicht war?”
“You mean fire at the seamen?”
“I mean ensure there were no survivors, as our Führer has ordered.”
“That’s the order?” Boltitz asked incredulously.
Kapitänleutnant von Stoup nodded. “So far, I have not informed the enlisted men of the order,” he said. “Except, of course, the Chief of the Boat. Some of them might find machine-gunning seamen in lifeboats distasteful.”
“Good God!”
“The Führer is of course right, Boltitz. Survivors of a sunk merchantmen are skilled seamen, who can serve aboard other ships. This is total war—we can’t permit that to happen.”
Karl had looked at him in disbelief.
“You will make sure, won’t you, Oberleutnant Boltitz, that no one on your gun crew saw any survivors either?”
“Jawohl, Herr Kapitän.”
“That will be all, Karl, thank you.”
It was the first time Kapitänleutnant von Stoup had ever called him by his Christian name.
Later the same day, the Chief of the Boat told him that he had served under his father when he was a young seaman and would be grateful, when the Herr Oberleutnant had the chance, if he would pass on his respects. The Chief added that he had already spoken to the deck gun crew to make sure no one had seen any survivors of the Star of Bombay.
“As an honorable officer,” Karl’s father was saying, “how did you feel about machine-gunning merchant seamen in their lifeboats?”
“That never happened on U-241,” Karl said.
“You have sworn an oath of personal loyalty to the Führer. Was it honorable to disobey an order from the Führer? Or did you perhaps think that disobeying an order to commit murder was the more honorable thing to do?”
“I was never actually given the order,” Karl said. “My captain—Kapitänleutnant von Stoup—was an honorable man, incapable of murder.”
“It’s always easier, of course, to let a superior decide questions of honor and morality for you. But sometimes you will have to make those decisions yourself. That, I suspect, is what you are going to have to do when you go to work for Wilhelm Canaris.”
“Are you suggesting he’s not an honorable man?” Karl asked, genuinely surprised.
“My experience with him, over the years, is that he is far more honorable than I am, and certainly more than the people he
serves.”
“What are you saying?”
“The best advice I can give you, Karl, is to listen to what Canaris is not saying.”
The validity of his father’s advice became immediately apparent on the second day of Oberleutnant Boltitz’s duty with Section VIII (H).
His immediate superior—Fregattenkapitän Otto von und zu Waching, a small, trim, intense Swabian—took him to meet Admiral Wilhelm Canaris.
“I always like to personally greet officers newly assigned to me,” Canaris began, looking intently into Karl’s eyes. “To make a snap judgment, so to speak, about how well suited they may be for work in this area.”
Karl could think of nothing to say in reply.
“You come highly recommended for this assignment, if I am to believe Kapitänleutnant von Stoup,” Canaris went on. “He seems to feel that your belief in, your dedication to, National Socialism and your unquestioned obedience to the orders of our Führer is to be expected from an officer of your heritage.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m surprised that he even knows who Siegfried von Stoup is, much less that von Stoup recommended me for an assignment here.
God, what did the Old Man say? “Listen to what Canaris is not saying.”
My God! Canaris is telling me that he knows von Stoup is disobeying the “no survivors” order; and that he also knows—the crack about “someone of your heritage”—that my father believes we are in an evil war.
“Where we’re going to start you off, Boltitz, under Fregattenkapitän von und zu Waching, is as the liaison officer between this office and that of Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop. You will be expected to make yourself useful to both von Ribbentrop and von und zu Waching, and to keep your eyes and ears open over there for anything that might interest us. Additionally, to give you a feel for the conduct of a covert operation, I want you to come up with a plan to have the officers—and the men, if this is feasible—of the Graf Spee to be returned to service from their internment in Argentina.”
“Jawohl, Herr Admiral.”
“It would appear that you have some unusual qualifications for this assignment. You speak Spanish; you served aboard the Graf Spee; and it is self-evident that submarines will have to be involved. And it will serve as a learning experience for you. Both initial assignments will serve that purpose.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I will be interested in your progress, Boltitz. I hope that you will not disappoint me. Or your father. Or Kapitänleutnant von Stoup.”
“I will do my best, Herr Admiral.”
“That will be all, gentlemen,” Canaris said, dismissing them.
Though no one had told him anything specifically, Boltitz had quickly come to understand that making himself useful to both von Ribbentrop and von und zu Waching consisted primarily of carrying messages between von Ribbentrop and Canaris without anyone in the Foreign Ministry knowing about it. But he additionally made mental notes recording everyone in the Nazi hierarchy who called on von Ribbentrop, and passed this information in person to von und zu Waching in a daily report.
Most of his time, however, was occupied with planning the escape from Argentina of the two hundred–odd German officers interned there and bringing them back to Germany. Since he knew absolutely nothing about Argentina or about planning a covert operation, he at first imagined the assignment was intended (as Canaris had said) to be a learning experience and nothing more.
But in time he came to understand it was more than that. For reasons he couldn’t imagine, Canaris and von und zu Waching wanted him to acquire extensive knowledge of Argentina. And in doing this, he found he had an unexpected ally in Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop himself, who ordered that he be given access to the files in the Argentine Section of the Foreign Ministry.
All of these loose strands came together in January 1943 at what had been announced as a small dinner party at von und zu Waching’s home in Potsdam to celebrate Karl’s promotion to Korvettenkapitän. He had expected neither the promotion nor the party.
The presence of some of the people at the von und zu Waching villa doubly surprised him—first because they were there at all, and second because they had come almost surreptitiously, in ordinary cars, rather than in the enormous and glistening Mercedeses and Horch limousines almost invariably used by the upper echelons of the Nazi hierarchy.
Martin Bormann was there, and Heinrich Himmler and Admiral Dönitz and Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop, and of course, Admiral Canaris. Only Canaris stayed for dinner, the others having wanted only to see for themselves the young Naval Intelligence officer whom Canaris wished to involve in Operation Phoenix.
Two SS officers, Oberführer Freiherr Manfred von Deitzberg, Himmler’s adjutant, and von Deitzberg’s deputy, Sturmbannführer Erich Raschner, appeared ten minutes after Himmler left. Over dinner, Boltitz’s role in Operation Phoenix—essentially liaison between the Navy, von Ribbentrop’s office, Himmler’s office, and the Abwehr—was discussed at some length.
“I think I should tell you, von Deitzberg,” Canaris said, “with the exception, of course, that we will be using the Océano Pacífico and not a submarine, that the plan to repatriate the Graf Spee officers is Boltitz’s. He has become our Argentine expert.”
“Then perhaps we should send him over there. Or is that what you’re suggesting?”
“I discussed that with both Himmler and Dönitz. We are agreed that he will be more valuable here. In case something goes wrong.”
“Are you suggesting that something will go wrong?”
“Did you ever hear the phrase, my dear von Deitzberg, ‘the best laid schemes of mice and men,’ et cetera?”
“There is no room in Operation Phoenix for error,” von Deitzberg said.
“Even the more reason to expect the unexpected, my friend,” Canaris said.
And now it was 0930 on the twenty-eighth of April, and the unexpected had happened. The Graf Spee officers would not be repatriated aboard the Océano Pacífico, the special cargo had not been landed, the two officers in charge of the operation had been shot to death on the beach of Samborom-bón Bay, and Admiral Canaris had summoned Karl Boltitz to his office.
“The Reichsführer-SS,” Canaris was saying, “has just about convinced himself that there is a traitor in Buenos Aires. He may well be right, and he may have information in that regard that he has not seen fit to share with me. The possibility exists, however, that the Argentines—knowing absolutely nothing about Operation Phoenix—are responsible for the deaths of Oberst Grüner and Standartenführer Goltz. Ordering the elimination of Oberst Frade may well turn out to have been very ill-advised in this connection alone, not to mention the damage it did to our relations with the Argentine officer corps.”
Karl Boltitz nodded but said nothing. He had long before learned that Admiral Canaris had no time to listen to verbal agreements. If there was no objection, he presumed full agreement with him.
“I have no doubt that a means will be found to land the special cargo in Argentina, and that Operation Phoenix, supported as it is at all echelons, will ultimately go forward. But I consider, and so does the Führer, that the repatriation of the Graf Spee officers is also very important to ultimate victory.”
He glanced at Boltitz as if looking for an indication that Boltitz understood him.
“I have the feeling that the Führer will wish to see the reports from Spain and Buenos Aires. Read them himself, rather than trust a synopsis. The Führer does not like reports that offer ambiguities. So the report that you and whoever the Reichsführer-SS sends with you to Spain should contain no ambiguities. If there is any disagreement as to what the report to Himmler should contain, defer to the SS.”
Now a reply was expected, and Boltitz gave it. “Jawohl, Herr Admiral.”
“I would, of course, be interested in anything you
develop there, or in Buenos Aires, that Himmler’s man does not feel is worthy of the attention of either the Reichsführer-SS or of the Führer.”
The translation of that is that I am to report to him, unofficially, anything in the report to Himmler I don’t agree with, as well as anything I think—or suspect—he should know.
“I understand, Herr Admiral.”
“If you can find the time, Boltitz, perhaps you could meet the Condor from Buenos Aires when it lands in Lisbon.”
“Jawohl, Herr Admiral.”
Admiral Canaris smiled at Boltitz, then signaled with his hand that their little chat was over.
[TWO]
Avenida Pueyrredón 1706
Piso 10
Buenos Aires
0405 29 April 1943
Alicia Carzino-Cormano was twenty years old, tall and slim; and when she came out of the bathroom, her intensely black hair hung down over her shoulders and almost below her bare breasts. The bedroom was flooded with moonlight, and she could see quite clearly.
What she saw made her smile tenderly. Twenty-four-year-old Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein was lying naked in his bed, on his back, arms and legs spread, breathing softly, sound asleep.
She walked to the bed and looked down at him.
He was really blond, she thought, blond all over, not just the hair on his head, but the hair on his chest, between his legs, and under his arms.
There were blondes in Argentina, of course. Dorotéa Mallín, Alicia’s friend since childhood—and soon to marry Cletus Frade—was a natural blonde, an English blonde, but she had seen Dorotéa changing clothes, and she wasn’t blond all over the way Peter was.
She sat down on the bed very carefully, so as not to wake him, and looked at him again. After a moment, she swung her legs into the bed.
Secret Honor Page 8