by Jeff Kildow
With the confidence of experience, the boat crew retrieved the thrown line, and the boat was pulled securely against the looming submarine. A slight, bespectacled man in his late twenties looked up at Schuster from the boat and nodded. Schuster turned and immediately went down into the submarine, awaiting his passenger.
“Hello, Bo,” the serious man greeted him with a solid handshake.
“Good to see you again, Wilhelm,” Schuster replied. Both were patriotic Germans, but neither was a Nazi Party member; by unspoken agreement, they never used Nazi greetings.
“We must speak in your cabin at once,” Wilhelm Miller said, intently.
Schuster pulled the cloth drape across the entrance to his tiny compartment.
“As you can see, I am not well equipped for private conversations,” he told his visitor dryly.
“This will do, Bo. I must tell you so that you can send immediately the message to Berlin; I do not trust the weather message encryption device,” he said almost as an aside.
“What’s so important, coming from this God forsaken ice-encrusted rock?” Herbert crossed his arms; he knew this serious meteorologist wasn’t the sort to jump at phantoms or waste his time.
“Just this, Herr Kaptain: we are not alone on this end of the ‘ice-encrusted rock’.”
The submariner’s face contorted as he tried to make sense of the statement.
“What? You don’t mean the Icelanders—.”
“No, sir, I mean Americans. They are building what may be a new air base no more that fifteen kilometers from here. One of my men was taking early morning temperature readings, and saw the earth moving tractors. He foolishly crept up and observed them, and somehow got away.”
He held up a heavy, waterproof envelope. “I have photographs of them, with clear American Navy markings.”
Schuster was amazed, “When was that, Wilhelm?”
“About ten days ago; since then they have made amazing progress. Bo, there are men and equipment swarming all over the place. My guess is that the runway, if that’s what it is, will be about two and a half kilometers [8,000 feet] long, perhaps longer yet. It would seem that they are expecting some very large aircraft. Don’t you agree we must radio this immediately?”
“Of course, but first answer this: you are sure that neither you nor your men have been spotted? Did you inform Klein? We must not reveal this location.”
“Yes, I informed him. I suspect he will be told to curtail his work once Berlin finds out. I hope so. I also suspect that you’ll return here sooner than you planned; they’ll want to bring in spies, or so, to see what the Americans are up to.”
“And I suspect you are correct on both counts.” The captain reached for the bulkhead microphone, “Radioman to the Kapitan’s cabin.”
The radioman appeared while Schuster was still writing.
“Send this highest priority, using a one-time pad,” he told the young fellow. “We will stand by for instructions, to be sent to us at –,” he looked at the chronometer on his wall. “At 0900 Greenwich.”
Again, he took the microphone, “XO, advise the Kapitan when you are secure for diving.”
“Aye, aye, sir; no more than two minutes,” came the tinny voice over the ship’s intercom.
They dived and waited silently, every man watching the hands of his watch. As 0900 Greenwich approached, Schuster said, “Take him up to periscope depth.”
Again carefully surveying the surrounding seas and skies, Schuster satisfied himself that they were alone.
“Run up the radio mast.”
Exactly on time, the radioman began receiving the encoded message, his hand flying as he wrote it. In moments, he handed the decoded message to his captain. Schuster read it, as Wilhelm read over his shoulder.
“It would seem that Berlin both believes us and takes us seriously, Wilhelm. I must send a man ashore with these new orders.”
Gustavus Klein shook his head as the sound of the rubber boat’s muffled motor faded as it headed back to the submarine. This was his third tour at the hidden weather station, but they’d never before sent a man ashore with a message. He turned, and walked into the entrance of the warm cave they lived and worked in. It was one of the thousands of geothermal vents on the volcanically active island. It maintained an even seventy degrees, no matter the arctic cold only feet away.
He sat at his desk, and opened the envelope. In seconds, he leapt from his chair, and called for his men.
“We have new orders. From the highest levels,” the men all knew who that meant. “The authorities have ordered us to stop all weather observations, and to remain inside the cave. All outside instruments must be retrieved immediately. We are to immediately dismantle the radio tower, and bring it inside. We will return home within thirty days and be replaced with SS intelligence specialists and special soldiers.”
He again shook his head in disbelief, “We are prohibited even from cooking sausages or sauerkraut, because of the smell! It seems this new American air base is more important to the Reich than our mere weather reports,” he finished with a note of bitterness.
Chapter 87
29 April 1945
Coastal Defense Command Headquarters
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
General White’s Office
0800 Hours
Report
Admiral Thomas Flanagan and Navy Captain Gerald Whitman joined General White and Joel in General White’s office for a debriefing on the attack on Hampton Roads.
Before the men seated themselves, General White said, “Admiral Flanagan, Captain Whitman, please meet Colonel Joel Knight. Joel is my ACP for Region 2. Joel, Captain Whitmore is your ACP 3 counterpart.”
The pleasantries completed, White turned to Whitman. “May we have your report, Captain?”
“Of course, sir. The first warning came from a PBY on patrol at about 0640 hours. Central Command was immediately notified, and by 0700, we had fighters airborne. Coastal artillery from both Fort Monroe and Fort Story fired AAA, but to little effect.” He continued for fifteen minutes, carefully recounting the battle, answering questions as he went.
“Now, preliminary statistics look like this: despite fighter pilot reports that seventy-five plus bombers were shot down, we believe the accurate number is thirty to thirty-five. Photographs indicate 200 to 210 aircraft, so their losses were between 15 and 20 percent. Our trailing aircraft reported three more bombers crashed during the two hours it followed the Germans, so they took awful heavy losses.”
He sighed, “For ourselves, sir, it’s been more difficult. Several fighter units not on my roster joined the fight and we haven’t identified them all yet. What we do have isn’t pretty: forty Navy F6Fs were officially involved; six were lost and seven damaged. There were about a dozen more F6Fs from an unidentified unit; we have no notion of their losses. The Marine F4U unit had eighteen fighters, and lost three. There were twenty-four Army P-38s, and they lost five.
“There was a small group of old F4Fs, going to gunnery practice; we’re not sure how many were involved, but they lost five or six. Those pilots showed exceptional bravery, by the way, sir. Those old planes only have 0.30 calibre guns, but they pressed in and finished off several stragglers.
“So, using the official numbers, we lost fourteen aircraft out of eighty-two, a loss rate of almost 17 percent. It is possible – I’m hopeful – that this number could be revised downward later, but for now, that’s it. In addition, about eighteen aircraft were damaged and may have to be written off. Not a good day.
“On the ground, the damage was also severe. An ammunition ship, the USS Baxter James, took a direct hit, and blew up; at least seventy-five dead. Fortunately, it was isolated, or the causalities might have been higher. Seventeen or eighteen other ships were damaged, several of them badly. Hundreds of buildings were damaged or destroyed by severe fires; incendiaries again.”
He continued with a look of distaste on his face, “Considerable damage was caused by our own AAA
shot dropping on military and civilians alike. There are reports of damage caused by German rocket fire, but they’re unconfirmed. I’d be surprised if at least a few of our losses in the air didn’t result from friendly fire. I have no figures for casualties on the ground, military or civilian.”
General White looked grim. “Why did we get hit so hard in the air, Jerry?”
“Sir, it’s early to draw conclusions, but my opinion, for what it’s worth, is that our guys pressed in too close; given the range of our new rockets, they could have stood off farther, and still been effective. Our guys aren’t using the rockets effectively yet, and the Germans are devastating with their defensive fire.”
The senior officer digested what he had just been told.
Whitman cleared his throat, “Sir, there is better news as well.”
White motioned him to go on.
“Sir, the PB4Y trailing the German formation was never spotted, so far as we know. He watched for more than two hours, and recorded a heading change they made. They originally were on 090 degrees, which would have meant landfall on the Continent near Gibraltar. They turned north, to about 070 degrees, which results in landfall on the Spanish coast west of Seville. Here’s the best part, sir, a British flying boat sighted the formation, and confirms it flew into Spanish territory.”
“That’s stunning!” White exclaimed, “Has Washington been informed?”
“Yes, sir, right away. There’s another detail of interest, sir. The PB4Y reported that when the Germans were at 18,000 feet, before the heading change, all of the airplanes – every single one – feathered the two outboard engines. We took some telephoto pictures, and you can see the stopped props.”
Joel sat up and exclaimed, “Sir, that’s it! That’s the missing piece! That’s how they are able to fly so far – they shut down some of the engines, and fly on the remainder. That would really cut fuel consumption. Wow, that’s clever.”
Admiral Flanagan frowned, “How can they fly long distances with engines off? Wouldn’t they just use more fuel on the other engines?”
“Actually, no sir. They can fly on a lot less power once they’ve dropped the bombs and used up most of their fuel. They’d probably slow down seventy-five or a hundred miles per hour, but that gives them the range they need.”
General White said, “Colonel Knight is an aeronautical engineer besides being a crackerjack pilot. He’s been trying to figure out how the Germans are able to fly back and forth across the Atlantic.”
He looked thoughtful. “Joel, do you think they do that on the way here as well? Wouldn’t they be very vulnerable to attack?”
Joel nodded; “Yes, sir, they probably do. Now, their speed would be higher because of the weight of the bombs and fuel, but yes, I think they do. In fact, as I think about it, they must do that. That accounts for how they got all the way to the sub yards in Maine a couple of months ago, and why they dropped so few bombs. If we could find them, yes, I’d say they would be sitting ducks.”
“Now,” he mused to himself, “we need to discover where they’re fueling in flight, ‘cause we could really nab them then.”
“By the way, gentlemen, in his enthusiasm, Colonel Knight just revealed a classified fact: the Germans are fueling their aircraft in flight. You will not repeat this.
“Is your report complete, Captain Whitman?”
“No, sir, not quite,” Whitman replied. “We captured around 100 German crewmen, many injured. If our estimate of thirty-five Gothas downed is right, at six men per crew, about 210 Germans fell on our soil. Not all survived, of course, but we assume about 100 more Germans are unaccounted for. We’ve contacted the civilian police authorities, including the Virginia State Police, telling them that their officers and troopers should approach crash sites carefully, and to contact the SP [Shore Patrol – the Navy police] or the Army MPs before getting too close.”
“Are there facilities for so many POWs?” General White asked.
“Yes, sir, at Naval Operating Base Norfolk there’s a facility that can handle 300 POWs for two or three weeks. They even set up a field hospital for the less seriously wounded.
“The Red Cross has been notified, and has representatives on the scene. Everyone has been thoroughly briefed on the proper treatment of POWs; as soon as they’re processed, the plan is to ship them out to the POW camp in Colorado.”
General White grunted in agreement. Sending German prisoners 1200 miles into the country’s hinterlands diminished the likelihood of a successful escape to near zero. It was a good solution.
Chapter 88
10 May 1945
Iceland Weather Station
0610 Hours
Replacements
The weathermen were evacuated on the 28th day. In their place was a team of ten combat-hardened soldiers, all experienced in clandestine military work. Once again, no Allied ships or aircraft were nearby as the men and dozens of heavy crates were brought ashore.
Inside the cave, SS Major Georg Bergerman spoke to his troops in unnecessarily hushed tones. “I tell you again that our work here is most important. Our first goal is to remain unobserved. This we must do at all costs. Your time in Russia toughened you; you can do this.”
He looked at the solemn faced men. “I expect and demand the most careful attention to maintaining the secrecy of our location when we venture outside; that means strict efforts toward hiding completely tracks or any other evidence. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking that these Americans are less attentive than the Russians. If they only suspect we are here, they will be relentless in finding us.”
He looked at his watch, “In approximately two hours, the Luftwaffe will drop bombs on Reykjavik. Their real purpose is to photograph the new base. We will receive photographs within forty-eight hours.”
“Now,” he looked at a toughened unteroffizier [sergeant]. “Hugo, take two men, and go photograph this facility. The new gear is far superior to what we had last year; the camouflage is especially effective. Schmitt – raise your hand – is our supply sergeant; see him for supplies as well as tent halves to hide under. Take also weapons, but use them in the most dangerous situations only, understood? If you must kill someone, bury his body well.” The man nodded. “Go. Be back before midnight, yes?”
As the men left, Bergerman said, “Unteroffizer [Sergeant] Hansson and Gefreiter [Corporal] Unser are in charge of our new photograph laboratory.
“Their special radio equipment is the most advanced and secret in the Reich. I tell you this because we are few in number and living in such a small space. This secret machine sends photographs using radio waves to Berlin in seconds. Ask no questions of the men operating it.”
He continued, “The Americans will eventually discover our messages, and then look for where they were sent from. To make their task more difficult, you will practice how to assemble, erect, lower, and disassemble the new radio tower quickly. It will be erected only for actual transmission, yes? We want nothing that American RADAR, or a sharp-eyed soldier can see.
“Fortunately, we will be warm here. Our scientists provided means for us to create electricity from the hot water underground. We will have a life of ease, compared to the steppes of Russia!”
Right on time, the JU-88 twin engine bomber roared over Reykjavik harbor. The few bombs did little damage beyond angering those on the ground. Two pilots at the nearby airbase ran to a pair of tired P-40Cs and taxied for takeoff. The JU-88 pilot put on a spurt of power, and “escaped” toward the northeast, which “accidentally” took him over the new base.
Photographs taken, the pilot triggered the recently added nitrous oxide system which fed the oxygen-rich gas directly into the cylinders. Instantly, the engines roared loudly as their output nearly doubled. The aircraft rocketed upward, leaving the P-40s hopelessly behind.
The camouflaged schnellboot, an older, larger version of the American PT boats, risked heavy seas for hours coming from Norway’s western coast. No submarine was available so the small, fast
boat was thrown into service on short notice.
The young, sunburned captain turned to port, and slowed as they approached the Icelandic shoreline. He had only the barest information on his rendezvous point.
“Don’t worry, Herr Kapitan! They will find you!” his commander had assured him.
They cruised southward along Iceland’s eastern shoreline for twenty-five kilometers, then a bright flash from the rocky coast caught his eye. It repeated, sending the expected signal. “Steer toward that signal light,” he ordered.
SS Major Georg Bergerman took the water-proof package of photographs, and dismissed the teenaged Kapitan.
The weatherman was correct; there is a major airbase being built, all but under our noses, mused Bergerman as he pored over the glossy prints. Why such a long, broad runway?
His orders were to watch and wait. What were the Americans doing? If he was careful, the Reich would have advanced warning about whatever it was, if only they weren’t discovered too soon. He had no illusions about this cave remaining secret long once they began sending reports and photographs. The Americans weren’t the stupid brutes that Goebbels pretended they were. He intended to go down fighting.
Chapter 89
17 May 1945
Reykjavik – East U.S. Army Air Field
1137 Hours
First Landing
The SeaBee’s paused to watch the largest airplane they had ever seen gently land on the virgin runway with a puff of smoke and a rubbery squawk from the dual main gear tires.
As a Jeep with a jury-rigged flag guided the aircraft to the hangers, a second landed. Within an hour, there were thirteen others, each with a distinctive purple trapezoid painted on its tail; the first B-29s of the 513th Bomb Group had arrived in Iceland.