by Jeff Kildow
When von Schroeder finished, Berthold’s drawings were scattered across the General’s desk. Wever sat chain smoking another cigarette, deep in thought.
“Unlike most proposals, this one has a reasonable chance for at least technical success. There are other missions these aircraft could be used for as well. Take this material to Major Goddard, at Technical Division – you know him, yes? Good. Have him and his merry band of gnomes look this over. If they agree, we go forward.”
He snubbed out the cigarette and eyed von Schroeder sharply. “What price did you agree on?”
Von Schroeder showed him the contract, “These figures are tentative, of course, sir, pending your approval.”
Wever was impressed, “No, you have done well, Gerhard; the schedule is impressive as well. If they live up to this, you have a mission. What about the tanking aircraft?”
The Oberst was quick to reply, Wever noted, “Herr General, Junkers is test flying a modified JU-290.” The JU-290 was a big, four engine cargo transport with a ramp which could be lowered in flight. “They have transferred water simulating fuel, but their design is unrefined. The reel for the transfer hose jams, it often doesn’t seal properly, and the entire apparatus is clumsy to control. I wish Doctor Berthold could help them—”
Wever knew about the progress at Junkers; the question was a test of von Schroeder’s honesty; he was pleased the man hadn’t lied. He said, “I agree. I will arrange for the good Doctor to ‘consult’ with Junkers.”
He removed a typed order from his ornate desk, and signed it with a flourish. “Here is your authorization, Oberst von Schroeder, in advance of Technical Division’s approval. You will advise me on your progress monthly, or more often should there be good success or bad news. You are dismissed.”
Von Schroeder saluted, collected his drawings and left. Wever saw a huge smile break out on his face as the man closed his office door.
Von Schroeder shook his fist in triumph. Now! Now those verdammit Americans will feel my wrath! Projekt Rheinwasser is real!
Chapter 12
14 August 1942
Millville Army Air Field
Millville, New Jersey
0800 Hours
Packard
Major Joel Knight rapped his knuckles lightly on the door jam. Lieutenant Colonel Randolph, Deputy Base Commander, looked up. “What’s up, Joel?”
“Sir, a question,” Joel said. “I’ve got a chance to replace that wheezing old ’35 Plymouth of mine with a pretty nice ’41 Packard Model 110 coupe. I wanted your opinion as to the propriety of it, my being just a lowly major and all!”
“Packard, huh? Well, you’re probably OK! Now, you’re not going to show up my Betty’s Buick are you?” The Colonel shook a finger at him, jokingly. “If you do, she’ll be hounding me for a newer car! Then you’ll really be in trouble!” Mrs. Colonel Randolph whisked about the base and town in a beautiful buttercup yellow 1940 Buick convertible sedan; it was a grand automobile, and she watched jealously for any that would show it up. “No, I don’t see a problem, Joel. After all, the old man drives a Cadillac limousine.”
The “old man” was Lieutenant Colonel Tarleton Watkins, the base commander. He was driven about in an elegant 1940 Cadillac Model 160 sedan, officially painted in Army olive drab.
Joel saw his boss was pleased. Colonel Watkins had been visibly irritated when some younger pilots showed up with expensive, show-off cars. It was an unwritten law: lower ranking officers didn’t drive cars more ostentatious than their seniors; it just wasn’t fitting.
“So, tell me about this Packard!” Randolph said, sitting back in his chair and lighting his pipe.
Pleased, Joel filled him in. “My old Plymouth needs an engine overhaul, and it isn’t worth it. I think with the decent tires it has on it, I could probably sell it for $50 or $75. The Packard’s only $800. It’s two-toned,” he told his boss, “a grey top over a medium blue body. It has a blue and white stripped broadcloth interior with jump seats in the back. It even has a radio,” he enthused. “And only 4,000 miles! The tires are perfect!” New tires in the Packard’s size were impossible to obtain due to the strict rubber rationing.
“Why’s he selling?” the Colonel asked him, blowing a fragrant cloud into the air.
“Well, I hate to take advantage of another fellow’s misfortune, sir, but a doctor in Vineland is going blind, poor guy, and has to sell. I heard about it from a friend in the squadron who knows him from church.”
“Too bad for him, but the car sounds good,” mused Randolph; “now, go buy it and get out of my hair before I put you to work on these reports, many of which are yours anyway!”
“I’m leaving! I’m leaving!” laughed Joel. “See you Monday morning, sir!”
The next morning, a friend drove him to Vineland, and he purchased the car. It had a bright red “C” gas rationing sticker on the windshield; they were reserved strictly for physicians. Joel carefully removed it, and returned it to its owner.
He’d get his own sticker, a green “B” designating its use for official purposes. He knew that he could get gas on base, too, as long he was doing official errands.
1943
Chapter 13
3 February 1943
Gotha Waggonfabrik, Gotha, Germany
1000 Hours
Future Plans
Generalleutnant Walther Wever sat with his deputy Oberstleutnant [Lieutenant Colonel] Karl Berger, and his senior aide, reviewing plans. A magnificent wood model of the new six-engine Gotha GO-460 flying wing sat on the desk.
Berger said, “This, sir, is the force structure we propose, which constitutes the initial Geschwader [group] of four Gruppes [wings] of six Staffels [squadrons] each. A normal compliment would be twelve of the Gotha’s for each staffel, or a force of 248 aircraft, plus a Geschwader Stab [staff] aircraft for each, for a grand total of 252 aircraft. We have also included a training squadron comprising an additional ten aircraft, which could be pressed into duty, should the need arise. Finally, there is a 200 man maintenance and logistics group. The basing concept would be similar to the typical twin engine bomber bases, but with larger hangers, taxi ways, and runways. My team will recommend possible locations for the base soon. When the RLM approves the funding, we are prepared for four more groups as fast as Gotha can build them. The total force would be approximately 1000 aircraft. The proposed designation is Schwergeschwader (SG) [heavy bomber].”
“That designation is satisfactory. To include the GO-447 in the same Kampfgschwader [medium bomber] (KG) designation with the HE-111s and JU-88s never made sense to me. I’m glad to see a fitting designation for a truly heavy bomber. Now, where does Gotha propose to build the production plant?” Wever asked, snubbing his cigarette. The initial aircraft had been built in an old, cramped WWI vintage building, which was far too vulnerable to Allied bombing for Wever’s liking.
With some excitement in his voice, Berger said, “Sir, we have an innovative answer for that – we propose a site on the Western side of the Pyrenees, in central Spain. There are several rail lines from both France and Spain. The local workforce is not terribly skilled, but they are very willing to work, and eager to learn. We shouldn’t have the normal labor problems.”
Wever knew he was referring to the unreliable slave labor used at many German aircraft plants.
“And, there is good access to the plant site from the new Spanish aluminum plant. They are willing to supply us with adequate petrol as well, although the price may be steep.”
“Indeed? That location would make it difficult for the Allied bombers to reach us even when they discover us! This is good. Is the geography such that we can build long runways?” Wever was impressed with his aide’s cleverness; building a plant in Spain hadn’t occurred to him.
That the plan violated Spain’s territorial sovereignty, as well as her position of neutrality never passed either man’s mind. Neither did the near impossibility of building 1000 complex aircraft.
“Yes, sir,” the aide continued, “a
nd because the GO-460 is basically an upgrade of the GO-447, it will quickly go into production. At first, it will be manufactured conventionally. But by approximately sixty to seventy units into production, there will be a major change.”
General Wever lifted his eyebrow; Berger knew that meant the man didn’t understand.
“Dr. Berthold has worked another of his wonders, sir. He has modified the design so that it will be manufactured remotely in major parts – he calls them sub-assemblies – then assembled in Spain. With Minister Speer’s approval, he has already directed that production of the components the GO-447 and GO-460 have in common to begin.”
“The factory buildings for Spain will be pre-fabricated in Germany, and shipped in pieces by rail to the location. Assembly should require approximately thirty days. When the buildings are completed, we will move both completed sub assemblies and tooling to manufacture them from Gotha here in Germany, to Spain by train.”
He stopped and consulted his documents.
“Sir, according to Dr. Berthold’s schedule, there should be a first flight by early June, with sixty or more completed aircraft by the end of this coming September.”
“That is an ambitious schedule,” General Wever observed.
“Yes, sir, it is,” Oberstleutnant Berger said, “but Dr. Berthold has obtained a very high level of priority for this project from no less than Minister Speer; we will have equipment, materiel, and manpower in abundance, it appears.”
General Wever shook his head in happy disbelief, “This is unexpected, but most welcome; well done, Berger.”
Thirty minutes later, Wever was very pleased as the men left his office. He’d sign the necessary orders at once. The magnificent new Gothas will be a force for the Allies to contend with. I wonder how long we can maintain the secrecy of their manufacturing facility.
Chapter 14
5 April 1943
Berlin, Germany
Monday Evening
2030 Hours
Conspirator’s Plot
He had been a conspirator for six months; he’d lost fifteen pounds with the worrying and fear. The constant pain in his stomach was surely an ulcer. He’d become so paranoid even his own wife wasn’t above suspicion.
If the SS get the slightest whiff of this, I’ll be arrested, tortured, killed, and my wife and family with me, he thought despondently.
SS Führer Heinrich Himmler’s Gestapo were always sniffing the air, like hungry, predatory wolves, searching out the smallest plot, the ill-advised disloyal statement, any gesture of contempt. Even the thought of falling into their hands made the sweat break out on his forehead again.
Oberstleutnant [Lieutenant Colonel] Claus Schenk, Count von Stauffenberg, was an aristocrat, born into a prominent family in southern Germany. He had reached prominence in the eyes of the German high command as a result of bold decisions he made in the North Africa campaign. He’d been nearly killed by a land mine, losing an eye and his right hand. A handsome, virile man, he had been peripherally involved in an earlier plot involving high ranking generals, but became disenchanted with their hesitation and inaction. As he suspected, the plot came to nothing.
Joining this conspiracy had been an incredibly difficult decision. As the grandson of a Napoleonic War hero, he’d been raised and educated at the finest military schools where above all, the honor of the officer corps had been stressed. He had to defend his country against the Nazis, and especially Hitler, his outrage at their brutal actions coming from deep within his soul. But in doing so, he had to violate the oath he’d taken to support Hitler. It had taken months for him to resolve the deep moral dilemma; he must be loyal first and always to Germany. He had to try to bring Hitler and the Nazis down.
Carefully, he began to explore whether there were others, perhaps outside the military, who felt as he did. With Hitler gone, a more reasonable administration could seek peace. That an assassination might set off a civil war seemed a risk worth taking.
The seven men had spent long months feeling each other out, careful to reveal as little as possible until at last they came to trust each other. The event that pushed them over the edge, from talk to action, was that fool Hitler’s invasion of Russia! Then, his refusal to fall back at the approach of winter.
Can’t the man read history? Even mighty Napoleon came to a bloody, humiliating end in the Russian snows; what makes the “little corporal” think he’ll do any better? “General Winter conquers all” was the Russian slogan, and not without much truth.
One of the conspirators, Dr. Heinz Ottoman, was an octogenarian widower.
“Come,” he told them, “let’s use my parlor; we can play at bridge as a camouflage. That way, if we meet every week, there is evidence in the score sheets of our innocent games!” So they began to gather, and discuss how Hitler could be removed. And they actually played bridge.
Hiding behind the ruse of the card game, they began to analyze the problem. “I don’t see how we could poison him,” said their thoughtful farmer, Johann Schmitt, “he has an official taster; that’s a poor fellow, to say nothing of the SS watching every stir of a spoon.”
“No, that won’t do,” said Vernor Stroebel, former Bürgermeister [mayor] of a nearby small town. “And, it would be equally difficult to shoot him – to use a pistol, one would have to be nearly at his side.”
“And the SS would swallow you up before the gun was out of your pocket!” interrupted Schmitt, clinching his fist to demonstrate.
“True. To use a rife would be almost as bad, I think,” interjected von Stauffenberg.
“Those long range shooters? What are they called? Ah! Heckenschüte [snipers]! What about one of those rifles?” asked Warren Housner, who had been forced out of retirement to work as a pharmacist.
“These are impossible to obtain, and their ammunition is special. We would reveal ourselves just trying to get them. Not a workable idea,” von Stauffenberg summarized.
They thought in silence and continued the game.
“Well, then what about some sort of a bomb? Couldn’t we do that?” said Schmitt. He played his card.
“If we did build a bomb, how would it be placed?” said Stroebel.
“This is something that I could do,” von Stauffenberg said quietly. “I have been assigned as General Hoepner’s aide, the cold hearted Nazi pig. Because of him, I have been in the same room with Hitler on several occasions. What sort of bomb?”
The discussion went far afield that night, with no conclusion. They agreed to consider it, and continue the next time.
Two weeks later
“Let’s use one of the captured British bombs – the timers are silent, not like a ticking clock,” said Bürgermeister Stroebel, looking at the cards in his hand. A number of British-made time bombs, using acid triggers, had been taken from captured partisans.
“Two problems with that,” said a man who had been mostly silent to this point, “they are very hard to obtain, and they are unreliable; we need to be sure the fuse will work.”
“You know this how—?” Stroebel asked.
“I am a policeman, do you forget? They have warned us about these devices, the SS, and told us to leave them alone – even some SS ordnance disposal men have died, trying to disarm them. No, we need something from the Army.” He played his card, took the trick, and looked at von Stauffenberg.
“No. Not military explosives – they are watched far too carefully. What we need is some sort of, say, mining explosives, something like that,” von Stauffenberg said.
“Because of my farms, I have some good Swedish dynamite,” Schmitt offered quietly, “how much do we need?”
“Better too much than too little –six sticks.”
“So then, a dynamite bomb. We need detonators as well – can you get those?” Schmitt nodded silently.
At their next meeting, the discussion continued.
“What would we use as a timer?” asked Housner. “We dare not use a clock; the noise would give it away.”
&
nbsp; “I know an old clockmaker who is sympathetic to our cause; perhaps he could make us a timer from a Swiss watch, or so; they run quietly, and we could wrap it in cotton to muffle what sound it does make,” the policeman said.
“How would we make it into a timer?” asked the Bürgermeister.
“I think – perhaps the clock maker could attach electrical contacts to the hour and minute hands, then set it to, say, ten minutes to noon. When the contacts touch, an electrical spark goes to a detonator and so goes the bomb.”
“So. And how would one set this clever timer going? I can’t reach into my briefcase and set a watch!” von Stauffenberg said, miming with his hand a clumsy man setting a watch. There were chuckles.
“I have a thought,” Dr. Ottoman, whose passion was wood working, told them. “Look at this.” He turned over a score sheet and quickly sketched a wooden box that would hold the watch, and then drew a simple lever which would press against the stem of the watch. “You see, a short, stiff wire attached to the lever, and going up inside the briefcase can be pulled, starting the watch. The action would be as if you were reaching inside for a paper.” A murmur of agreement greeted the idea.
“Destroy that score sheet,” von Stauffenberg said.
Within two weeks, the initially reluctant clockmaker had fashioned an old watch to work as a timer. Several tests using a flashlight bulb as a substitute for the detonator convinced them the idea would work.
At their next card game, their wood worker proudly showed them his handiwork “Look at this!” He had changed the wooden box to a simple piece of white pine a centimeter and a half thick; on each end were three groves to hold the dynamite sticks and detonators.
“Here in the center, just so, the watch fits, the lever pivots on this brass rod, and the trigger wire goes out through the top. The batteries fit into this cavity, and the wires route along the notch, here.”