The Mary Dear
Alfredo de Gallegos
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing at Smashwords
Copyright © Alfredo de Gallegos 2010
Alfredo de Gallegos has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-9554070-9-3
Paperback ISBN: 987-0-9554070-8-6
Cover design by
Mark (Will) Williams
Everything else by
Default, Luck and Accident
The Mary Dear Synopsis
It is 1951 and a storm is raging in Guayaquil when Edward Hannah boards a plane on its way to Peru’s capital, Lima and so begins a tale of pirates, treasure islands, looted Nazi gold, terrorists and KGB assassins.Hannah is Joseph Keating’s best friend who dies in Austria at the end of WWII as a result of a mysterious car accident leaving him with a treasure map and an enigmatic black notebook that belonged to a U-Boat commander. At the start of the New Millennium Elliott Shepherd, a journalist and adventurer, finds himself in possession of the map and the notebook and sets off to find the treasure. In London he meets Natalia, a beautiful Chechnyan art dealer who is involved with Esteban Blanco, a Colombian drugs baron. Elliott is dragged down into an underworld that he is not prepared for where the risks of death are high but where the pay-off is a king’s ransom.
Table of Contents
To:
Vicky, Viviana, Carlos and Lorenzo
and in memory of my dear brother
Jorge (1944-2004)
Guayaquil, Peru, 22nd December 1951
LANSA’s morning flight to Lima taxied to the end of the runway and turned into the wind. The low dark clouds blocked out the early morning sun. From the left seat of the Douglas C-47, his right hand resting on the throttle, Captain Morales surveyed the airstrip ahead. It was raining hard and thick drops like pellets washed down the plane’s windscreen like a curtain of water making the wipers struggle to clear the view before falling to the tarmac. The runway ahead glistened reflecting the lights on either side. He was clear for takeoff and turned to his co-pilot indicating he was ready to go, pushed on the throttles and revved the twin piston engines, noise and vibration in the cockpit increased. He released the brakes and the airplane sped along the runway, Morales eased back the control column, outside the runway shot past in a blur. Soon the tail came up and shortly after the tyres left the ground, the aircraft gaining height. The landing gear went up with a clunk; the terminal building looked like a toy as he banked away leaving Guayaquil behind.
Twenty minutes into the flight, Captain Morales handed over command to his first officer to begin his usual walkabout to the passenger cabin; his co-pilot barely nodded, he was used to his Captain’s habits and took control of the plane. Morales disappeared through the small door and came face to face with Luisa, the pretty twenty year old solitary cabin crew member, who greeted her Captain with the flirty smile she reserved for him and offered him coffee from the galley which he gratefully accepted. A brief glimpse at his passengers confirmed the information on his flight manifest, some local farmers, three missionary nurses from Ecuador on their way to Lima and a foreigner, Edward Hannah, an Englishman sitting towards the front who had smiled at him when he’d entered the cabin. Captain Morales sipped the hot coffee and leaned across an empty seat to glance out of the window. The sky had turned dark and now and then distant lightning flashes made the black clouds glow an angry red for an instance before returning to the same somber darkness. Heavy turbulence shook the aircraft and made him spill what was left of his coffee; they had hit a large air pocket and lost a lot of height in a split second. Passengers exchanged nervous glances; Morales told Luisa to make sure everyone was strapped-in and went back to the flight deck. That was the last time he saw her or his passengers. The plane crashed and was swallowed by the thick jungle canopy surrounding Chachapoyas, land of the Cloud People, an area dotted with villages and burial sites, bounded by rivers and tributaries winding down steep mountain ranges on their way to feed the formidable Amazon River.
The Gold Train
On December 15th 1944, a few minutes after midnight, the Deutsche Reichsbahn locomotive, pulled slowly out of Budapest’s main station sending clouds of steam billowing high into the cold night air. The wagons creaked and juddered and the wheels slipped and spun, struggling to grip the frozen rails. The train moved slowly at first but soon began to speed up; the compartments rattled when they crossed the points. A few minutes earlier the dimly lit platform had been a hive of activity crowded with passengers jostling each other, eager to board the train and head west to the safety of Berchtesgaden, the Eagles Nest mountain stronghold in the Alps where Hitler’s residence, the Berghof, was located. The passengers’ final destination was the Bahnhof they would be lodged at Berchtesgadener Hof Hotel where in times past, Eva Braun, Erwin Rommel and even Neville Chamberlain, had been guests.
On top of the train, one man to a carriage, the soldiers guarding it settled down for the long journey. Sitting cross-legged, a short plump soldier guarded the last carriage. He’d never wanted to be in the army, he was no hero and hated the war and his superiors in equal measure; unlike his comrades he’d even more reason to be frightened because he knew what was coming. The Russian army was close on their heels, a hundred miles or so from the city. The sound of distant guns a constant reminder of that fact. He was the proverbial small cog in the much larger wheel; his fate sealed by the Fuhrer himself who’s order to Karl Adolf Eichmann had set Operation Margarethe, the codename for the invasion of Hungary, in motion. He cursed his luck, Hitler and all his fucking Generals. Freezing cold and scared to death he hoped he’d make it through to their destination in one piece. Budapest was a mess and he was not sorry to be leaving it behind. The Jews were up in arms; it was all the talk in the cafes and shops since the government had forced them to deposit their gold, gems, ornaments and any other valuables with the authorities. At first he’d not believed it but soon it became clear as he saw long queues of men women and children handing over their precious possessions at various collection points in the city; the very treasures he had helped to load onto some of the train carriages that were now being taken away from Hungary along with the passengers fleeing the advancing Russian armies. The little man pulled the collar of his winter coat up as far as it would go and tried not to think.
It was a clear night and a full moon cast its eerie white glow on the steel tracks snaking their way out of Budapest. In the cold, crowded compartments, passengers huddled together to keep warm. Those sitting by a window wiped the glass with their hand clearing a gap in the condensation to gaze at the city’s buildings as they receded and disappeared from view, the barely visible faint light from the odd window here and there; the only outward sign of life in a nation gripped by fear. They steamed on passing through the outlying areas of the city, its austere grey apartment blocks lined by street lamps, their hazy yellow light catching the odd solitary pedestrian hurrying home. As Budapest slipped away it gave way to the smaller towns of the suburbs. The train had no scheduled stops until they reached their final destination. At the Austrian frontier the weather worsened and a steady snowfall grew gradually in intensity. Soon the wind too, whipped up blowing in gusts increasing the wind-chill factor making it feel even colder. Snow flurries caught in the light from the locomotive made the driver strain to see the way ahead, forcing him to drive slowly for fear of missing a signal and colliding with another train. The Hungarian guards sat crouched forward on the roof shielding their face from the wind and snow, their German MG 34 machine guns cradled in their arms; despite their warm uniforms they were cold and demoralized.
They had been travelling for ages, making slow progress. The guards had fought-off ten futile and badly planned attempts to rob the train, nine of them by breakaway members of the SS. Now time and hardship had reduced them to a pitiful state of tiredness but still they remained alert to the possibility of further attacks. They were about two kilometres from Boeckstein with the snow still falling hard when the train engineer saw a large dark shape across the tracks in front of him and braked hard. Fortunately he’d not been travelling fast or God knows what might have happened but still the wheels slipped and squealed for what seemed an eternity before the train began to slow down and stop. The shape he’d seen was a German Army Panzerwerfer, its tracks straddling the railway lines, its rocket launcher pointing ominously straight at his locomotive. The driver stared at the empty troop carrier standing not ten feet from where his train had come to a halt. The Eiserne Kreuz Black Cross on the side of the truck faintly visible to him. He wondered why the hell the German Army had stopped a train that had the highest level clearance? Despite this knowledge, the engineer felt decidedly nervous; could these be more rogue elements of the SS? Inside the carriages the passengers, unaware of any impending danger and unprepared for the emergency stop, flew into each other. There were cries of pain from the women as they tumbled to the floor, accompanied by loud cursing and shouting from the men, mingled with the cries of children screaming for their mother. No sooner were they able to stand than some of the passengers pressed their faces to the windows, anxious to see through the snowstorm what could have brought the train screeching to a halt.
Sitting on top of the carriages, the Hungarian guards had a good view of the troop carrier and of a staff car, with the distinctive Waffen-SS insignia on its door. Anticipating trouble, some of them started to stand ready to come down from the roof. The soldiers on the ground turned their machine guns towards them. With a wave of his hand, their Captain indicated to the guards on the roof to remain stationary. The soldiers accompanying the staff car were an elite unit of the Wehrmacht Heer, not like the ragged deserters they’d encountered previously so the guards decided to do as they were told but remained ready for action. The silence was unsettling, broken only by the wind whistling through the branches of nearby trees. The troops on the ground had fanned out into a wide semi-circle while their commanding officer turned and spoke to the train driver. He was tall and stood casually, hands on hips, his goggles hanging loosely around his neck, oblivious to the furious snowstorm that showed no signs of abating. From the last carriage the soldier guarding it couldn’t hear what was being said but the sight of the soldiers and those uniforms sent shivers down his spine, he could feel his heart pumping faster and his finger edged towards the trigger of his machine gun.
Inside the staff car and barely visible; a German officer in a white uniform sat back and waited.
After twenty minutes or so, the Captain who’d been speaking to the engineer said he could leave, turned around and ordered his men back into their truck and joined the driver. They sped off, followed by the staff-car and its occupant. Though they had only been stopped for a few minutes, to the passengers it seemed an eternity. The train’s unscheduled stop was put down to one more spot-check and everyone was relieved when they started to move again.
***
‘Hey Lieutenant! Over here!’ Kowalski’s shout made First Lieutenant Tony Santini turn around.
‘What’s up Kowalski?’
The gangly corporal with the US 3rd Infantry Division, was returning from a recce leading a Company Platoon and smiling ear to ear.
‘Well, you gonna tell me or what?’ but before the Corporal could answer the rest of his men came into view, their M1 carbines pointed at a line of soldiers who walked with their hands on their heads. Santini broke into a run in the direction of Kowalski.
‘Now what the hell have you brought me?’ A huge grin spread across his face.
‘Well Lieutenant, this is just for starters, you’ll not believe what we’ve got for you.’ He told Santini how they’d found a whole train hidden in the Tauern Tunnel just south of Werfen and, what was more, they’d taken it without firing a single shot.
Santini stood there with a goofy grin on his face watching the line of prisoners being marched to a holding compound.
‘I left a squad guarding the rest of the train’s passengers but that ain’t all Lieutenant! Wait till you see what we found in the train’
Santini listened to the Corporal’s account shaking his head in amazement
‘Kowalski, you son of a gun, keep this up and you might just make Sergeant someday’ he said grinning.
Kowalski gave him an account of what had happened and left saying he needed to talk to one of the prisoners who had some explaining to do.
Santini was looking at Kowalski talking to the soldier when someone spoke to him from behind.
‘What’s going on here Lieutenant?’ The gruff voice belonged to Major Frank S. Bright who was standing behind him and looking at the men Corporal Kowalski had just brought in.
Santini saluted ‘Yes sir Major. Kowalski’s just got back from a recce with his platoon; seems he’s captured a whole train sir.’
‘Who’s that he’s talking to?’ He was pointing to the Corporal who appeared to be interrogating a nervous looking soldier.
‘That little squirt was guarding the last carriage. There’s a bit of a discrepancy and Kowalski’s trying to get some answers.’
‘That right?’ he said, ‘I’m gonna go talk to him, mean time you’d better let the old man know’ he said walking away.
‘Yes sir, Major. He’s just gonna love this.’
As Santini had predicted General Daniel Waynright, the commanding officer of the 42nd Infantry Division, The Rainbow Division, was mighty pleased. They were sure going to love this at HQ.
Two days later Santini knocked on the General’s door with some more news.
‘How much?’
‘Fifty million, sir. Give or take a cent.’
‘Fifty million!’ He repeated ‘Well goddamnit Santini, that’s a shit load of money’ he was looking up at his Lieutenant, his face creased in a grin. He’d been sitting at his desk, a large cigar he’d yet to light stuck in his mouth, going through the usual load of Division crap. The news had brightened up his day no end. When Santini left, the General was smiling and had lit his cigar.
***
Two officers walked side by side, their steps echoing off the stone floor as they made their way along a narrow corridor deep in the bowels of Schloss Hohenwerfen. The fortress built in 1076 perched high on a rock 345 feet above the Salzach was an awesome structure that now housed the Headquarters of the American army holding the city of Werfen.
‘Where is he?’
‘We’re holding him in an interview room, it’s just around the next corner.’
‘Has he said anything?’ The voice was clipped and public school
‘Nothing, except that he’ll only speak to a British Officer, and by the way, this guy’s a German.’
‘Is that so? I thought you said the guards were all Hungarian.’
‘Well yes I did, I mean he’s wearing a Hungarian army uniform so naturally, when I went to interview him, I took an interpreter with me, but it turned out that he’s German.’
‘That’s very curious; I must say I can’t wait to meet him.’
The young American lieutenant wished him more luck than he’d had and stopped outside an imposing door flanked by a large MP standing guard.
‘Well, if he wants a British Officer I guess I fit the bill.’
The American smiled and saluted smartly. The British officer returned the salute.
‘Don’t worry Jim; I’ll keep you posted whatever I find out.’
Captain Joseph Keating VC gestured to the MP to open the door. The soldier knocked once and identified himself to his opposite number on the inside who promptly obliged. The MP standing guard over the prisoner was larger, if anything, than the one outside. As soon as he entered the room, he closed the door and stood at ease guarding the exit.
The first thing that struck Keating on entering was the smell, that and the cold. The smell was an unpleasant mixture of damp and male sweat. Keating took in the small, windowless, fifteen by twelve foot space; a single naked light bulb in the middle of a high-vaulted ceiling shone dimly, casting its faint light directly over a small table, empty but for a pitcher of water and a glass. Around the table were four straight-backed wooden chairs. A soldier in a Hungarian army uniform sat bolt upright in one of the chairs and glanced nervously towards the door when it opened to admit the new visitor. The next thing that struck Keating was that the prisoner was looking at the MP and not at him and from the look on the German’s face, he could see, that he was scared.
‘That will be all Sergeant.’ The MP looked startled.
‘Sorry Sir, but my orders are to guard the prisoner.’
‘And I’m giving you new orders; you can stand guard outside. Don’t worry Sergeant, I’ll call if I need you but I think I can handle the prisoner,’ he said with a smile.
The MP was surprised but the British Captain outranked him so who was he to argue and besides, he was sick of guarding the prisoner and staring at four blank walls, so he saluted and stepped out smartly shutting the door behind him and stationing himself next to his friend. The MP on the outside, surprised to be joined by his friend, looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face.
‘I guess the Captain wants be alone with the prisoner,’ he said with a shrug.
Captain Keating made his way to the opposite side of the table, took a chair and sat down. He set the notepad and pen he had brought with him on the table and observed the German for a moment. The prisoner was small and chubby, not at all a fine exponent of the Aryan race. He had black hair that he wore swept back and small green eyes that looked red and watery. Despite the cold room, he was sweating and looked scared
‘Sprechen sie Englisch?’
The soldier looked relieved to find himself without the MP in the room.
‘Ja… yes…s…sir, before the war I was a student in Brighton for a while’ he said, studying his hands and trying unsuccessfully to keep them from shaking.
Keating poured him a glass of water that the man drained before setting it back on the table. He took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one, drew a deep pull on it, savouring the taste and saw the pained look on the German’s face.
‘Cigarette?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ he accepted the cigarette and the light that Joseph offered.
The cigarettes and the matches he left on the table, tantalizingly near to the German who was busy taking in the smoke deep into his lungs and coughing, unaccustomed to the taste of British tobacco.
‘You asked to speak to a British Officer. Well here I am, let’s start with you giving me your name.’
The prisoner looked around the room as if making sure that no one else would hear him
‘They will kill me,’ he said in a shaky whisper.
‘Who? Who’s going to kill you?’ Keating could see that the man was frightened, his face was ashen; beads of perspiration pearled on his forehead, and he was shaking as if he had a fever. Bearing in mind how cold the room was; Joseph thought that he was either sick or scared witless and, if the latter, wondered who or what could have him so spooked.
‘Can you protect me sir? I’ll tell you what you want to know but I need to know you will protect me.’ The man’s eyes were red and watery and he seemed close to tears.
‘Protect you? From what exactly?’
‘The Americans…please don’t give me up to the Americans.’
Joseph sat back and considered his position. He had been seconded to a US department to help them identify looted works of art because of his civilian degree in Fine Art. He wondered just how much latitude he had and what his CO would say if he overstepped the mark, but he needed to know what was going on so he decided to chance it.
‘All right, but that will depend on what you tell me.’
The prisoner seemed to consider this.
‘I am sorry sir but you must promise me. I must be a British prisoner of war.’
A prisoner making demands, that’s a new one on me, thought Keating.
‘Look old chap; you’re not in a very strong bargaining position now are you?’ but seeing the look on his face he thought that a softly; softly approach would be better and, though he wasn’t sure how he’d pull it off, decided to take a chance.
‘All right I’ll make sure’ he promised, ‘we have a POW camp nearby; I’ll get you sent there. Now who are you and what’s all this about?’
The prisoner looked as if a large weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
‘I’m Unteroffizier Dieter Klein, he said in an unnecessary whisper ‘and it’s about the train sir…the one the Americans captured and brought here to Werfen’ he began.
‘I was one of the guards on the train.’
‘All right Corporal, that much I know, but what about the train? What’s so special about it?’
Dieter’s expression was one of astonishment.
‘But surely you know sir?’
Of course Joseph had heard about the capture of the train but did not know all the details; when the prisoners had been brought in he had been in a nearby town identifying looted works of art. Joseph’s curiosity had been pricked. What had our American cousins been up to?
‘Suppose you tell me?’
‘Well sir, it’s a long story’… he began.
‘I have the time. Why don’t you start at the beginning,’ he said opening the notepad and unscrewing the cap of his Parker pen.
Dieter took a moment to compose his thoughts ‘when we left Budapest, on our way to Berchtesgaden, our train was 44 coaches long, the last 24 were special, very special. We made an unexpected stop, unexpected but not for me… I knew it would happen.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Because it was the reason I was on the train and guarding the last carriage.’
Dieter’s eyes darted round the room; he reached for the glass but it was empty. Joseph filled it for him and waited for him to take a long drink.
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to explain that.’
Dieter didn’t need more encouragement, ‘No one else knew what we were carrying you see; they thought it was military equipment but I knew. It was gold…diamonds, treasure and valuable paintings. My mission was to wait until the train was stopped and to uncouple the last carriage. It had to be left behind you see.’
Dieter paused for a moment, but realized that what he was saying was not making much sense.
‘Perhaps I should go further back…before Budapest.’
‘Perhaps you should.’
‘I’m sorry’ Dieter said, struggling to get his story across ‘but it’s all a bit complicated…I need you to know some things…so… so you can understand you see’ and again he paused as if waiting for approval. Joseph urged him to continue.
‘Before the war, my father was a successful business man but unfortunately someone…a business rival we think, though we never found out for sure, somehow found out our dreadful secret’
‘What secret?’
Dieter was quiet for a moment. How could he make this Englishman understand what even he could not understand? He had to try.
‘In another time or another country this would not have been considered a secret worth keeping but in today’s Germany, unfortunately for us, it’s like a death sentence. You see, this man…he knew that we…my family that is, are descended from Jews and he saw a way to get at us by giving us up to the Gestapo.’
Joseph could easily understand why that kind of information would be worth hiding, after all the Allies had known as early as ’41 about the existence of the death camps, there was even some intelligence from a Polish officer…what was his name? Pilecci no, Pilecki, that was it Witold Pilecki. He’d read the file and had been horrified. Joseph himself had many Jewish friends and thought he understood how the German was feeling but he could not understand what the hell a Jew was doing in the Wehrmacht wearing a Hungarian army uniform and guarding a train loaded with treasures? First things first, thought Joseph ‘But you’re here…how did you escape from the Gestapo and what happened to your family?’
‘Well sir, a good friend of our family heard a rumour that the Gestapo had been tipped off and he came to warn us to get away as fast as possible. We knew that would not work, I mean, where would we go? Well, as I said, my father…he was quite successful before the war and had made some money though that alone would not have helped us, but he has some influential friends and one of them is Göring’s half-brother Albert.’
That information came as a complete surprise to Joseph.
‘I was not aware that he has a brother…but how did that help?’
‘Albert is a good man. Hates the Nazis and all they stand for but despite their differences Hermann loves him. Albert has asked him for help on many occasions. The Gestapo has arrested him more than once but his brother’s always intervened and had him released.’
‘Are you saying that your father went to Albert and he got his brother to protect you before the Gestapo could get to you?’
‘Das ist recht…I mean that is right sir…we lost everything of course but at least we kept our lives. But I am jumping ahead. I should explain our escape was not easy. Albert told us about his meeting with his brother. He said his brother was not happy at all. Hermann said it would be dangerous, even for him, to get involved but, when Albert explained we were both in the armed forces fighting for Germany and my brother a decorated U-Boat captain in the Kriegsmarine, he agreed to see us.’
When Albert turned up on his doorstep with yet another request for his intercession, Göring had been annoyed. More than that, he’d been exasperated that Albert could not grasp the difficult position his constant demands put him in but, when he heard that a member of the family was a U-Boat commander, he agreed to see them. Maybe fate had put in front of him a solution to a problem he had been pondering long and hard. Göring knew that the war was all but lost but defeatist talk in Hitler’s Germany got you a firing squad, if you were lucky. He had a plan to secure his future but he needed help from people he could trust which meant people whose lives he held in his hand.
Albert and the Klein family arrived shortly before midnight. It was pitch dark and the blacked-out headlamps of the Mercedes barely gave out enough light to drive by. Albert was relieved when at last he stopped outside his brother’s impressive residence. It was bitterly cold. They emerged from the car, their breath freezing like smoke in the air. All the houses on the street had blackout curtains drawn tight as a precaution against the regular allied air raids. The small group followed Albert up to the front steps that led to the entrance. He knocked on the door and, after a few moments, the butler opened it. The hall was gloomy; a faint strip of light shone weakly at the bottom of a door at the end of a corridor. The butler led the way and ushered them into the library where Hermann was waiting. He had decided not to wear his uniform so as to present a less intimidating image and greeted them in a most friendly manner.
‘Come in Albert, come in everyone,’ he said, ‘you must be frozen.’
Albert could not believe the turnaround in his brother’s behaviour but hoped it meant that they would get the help they so desperately needed.
When they saw Göring, Wilhelm and his brother gave the customary Heil Hitler salute. Göring smiled and returned a half-hearted version.
The imposing library room was lined with leather-bound books, most of them on aerial combat tactics. In front of the window, with its curtains tightly drawn, stood a large desk on which were some silver frames displaying family photographs and a leather framed photograph of Air Chief Marshal Lord Dowding, Göring’s opposite number.
‘I think you’ll be more comfortable here,’ he said, showing Mr. Klein and his wife to a large sofa in the middle of the room.
‘Albert, you must introduce me to your friends.’
‘Forgive me Hermann, of course. This is Mr. Günter Klein and his wife Elsa. Their sons, Dieter and Wilhelm.’ He said indicating the young men who had elected to stand by the elegant fireplace that was lit and gave comforting warmth. Günter Klein stood up to shake hands with his host and Göring kissed the hand that Elsa had extended.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you all,’ he said smiling, ‘I know it is late but is there something I can offer you. A small cognac perhaps to chase away the cold?’ They thanked him but declined the offer. Göring dismissed his butler and turned to them, ‘Albert has mentioned to me that you have a problem. How may I be of help?’
The moment had come for Albert to speak and he was wondering how best to begin. The others waited taking in their surroundings. Above the mantelpiece, an ornate gold frame displayed an oil portrait of the Führer in his grey uniform, a Swastika armband around his left forearm. The artist had captured a look of madness in his eyes that seemed to burn as he looked down imperiously on the unlikely gathering.
Albert shifted uncomfortably in his armchair while his brother surveyed his guests.
‘Well Hermann, my friends have been…’ he stopped and began again, ‘someone, it appears, has told the Gestapo that my friends are Jews. It’s preposterous. They are good Germans. Their sons are fighting for our glorious fatherland…Wilhelm has even been decorated by the Führer himself,’ he said pointing to where he stood, ‘how can anybody…’
‘Yes of course Albert; an obvious mistake,’ he said ‘these are difficult times and sometimes people can be, how shall I say, a little overzealous,’ his face expressed how regrettable he found the situation.
While Albert had been defending his friends, his brother had been studying the Klein’s. Günter was a smart looking grey haired man in his sixty’s and his wife a handsome woman, a few years younger than her husband, whose youthful beauty had followed her well into middle age. Their youngest son was clearly the runt of the family. Wilhelm, on the other hand, was something else. He stood before him in the smart uniform of a U-Boat captain of the Kriegsmarine, a six-foot two, lean, handsome man with ash-blond hair, rugged bronzed face and the coolest slate-grey eyes he had seen in a long time. A Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross with Swords, Oak Leaves and diamonds hung loosely around the Captain’s neck and Göring thought ‘a regular little hero of The Fatherland, yes he’ll do nicely, very nicely indeed.’
This was something Joseph had not expected to hear but it explained a lot of what he’d learned before and, eager to find out what happened at that meeting, he asked Dieter to continue.
‘Well sir, you see Wilhelm was in charge of leading the wolf packs of the Kriegsmarine. His mission was to hunt convoys in the North Atlantic and he was under the direct orders of the Befehishaber der Unterseeboote, commanded by Karl Dönitz. Everyone knows Göring and Dönitz don’t see eye to eye, they don’t like each other much but I soon understood that Göring needed the use of a U-Boat, more precisely, one of the newer Type VIIC’s.’ Dieter paused to see if the British officer was following what he was saying and continued ‘He could ask Dönitz to put one his U-Boats under his command, that was not the problem, but he needed a captain he could trust and now here was my brother a Fregattenkapitan of one of these very special U-Boats and one that Göring could control due to this lucky encounter that his brother Albert had arranged.’
Joseph had been taking notes and could see where this was going.
‘So Göring offered you a way out…’
Dieter nodded. ‘Yes, he arranged safe passage for my father and mother to Switzerland in exchange for our services. The price we had to pay was to help him. I guess he wanted to escape to a new life somewhere after the war, maybe South America. So he commanded my brother to take a very special assignment.’
Joseph was starting to believe the story that was unfolding.
‘What was the assignment? Did your brother tell you?’
‘Yes sir, what Göring needed was for a very special cargo to be taken somewhere, I know that much, what I don’t know is where, because he said only my brother was to know and that this was a top secret mission…but my brother was troubled you see, he did not trust Göring. He told me not to worry, said he did not want to tell me all he knew, and that it was to protect me. He told me that he had taken some insurance; he repeated I was not to worry that all would go well.’
‘The carriage you had to uncouple, the one left behind. Did you think that the special cargo were the contents of the last carriage?’
‘Yes sir, I’m sure of it. No one knows about it; just me, you and of course, Göring himself.’
‘And your brother as well’ he reminded him, ‘what happened to him?’
‘On his return from his secret mission he came to see me. He was worried Göring would not want him around with all that he knew.’
Joseph could easily understand Wilhelm’s concerns.
‘Where is your brother now?’
‘He’s dead sir, I’m sad to say.’ Dieter’s face looked drawn and sad, ‘I heard that an American destroyer depth charged him in the North Atlantic. Wilhelm and his entire crew were killed.’
Joseph was thinking Göring must have been pleased the Americans had saved him the trouble of getting rid of Wilhelm. On meeting the prisoner his first instinct had been that the German might be mad or suffering from shellshock or some such condition but now he wasn’t so sure. Dieter seemed so plausible and his fear was the genuine article; Joseph had seen that look too many times not to recognize a fake when he saw it.
‘But how is what you’ve told me going to get you killed by the Americans?’
‘No, not all the Americans sir…just one particular American,’ he said.
‘Which particular American? What’s his name?’
Dieter hesitated as if uttering that name would be like signing his death sentence. Joseph noted his reticence but he needed proof, something tangible to convince him that Dieter was not Germany’s answer to Lawrence Olivier; maybe scaring it out of him would work, after all, he was pretty frightened already.
‘How do I know you are telling me the truth? You’re expecting me to put my neck on the line for you just on what you’ve told me. It’s an incredible story I grant you and I’d like to believe you but I’m sorry my friend, I need a lot more than what you’ve said so far or, I’m afraid, I will not be able to protect you.’
Dieter, who had begun to feel better, looked terrified
‘But sir…but you promised…you gave me your word.’
The look on Dieter’s face was pitiful and Joseph almost felt sorry for him. He was clearly at the end of his tether and in that moment must have decided he had nothing to lose. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a little black leather notebook, its front cover embossed with an oval wreath, adorned by a fan of six oak leaves on both sides. A submarine lay in the middle of the wreath with a German eagle above it. He pushed it towards Joseph.
‘What’s this?’
‘My brother gave it to me when he returned from his mission. It’s what he’d called his insurance.’
‘How come you have it? Didn’t the Americans search you when they brought you here?’
‘No sir.’
Joseph couldn’t believe it but then again it was not the first time nor would it be the last that someone made such an elementary mistake. He opened the notebook. It was full of handwritten entries; an inventory of what, Joseph surmised, were the contents of the railway carriage that did not make it to Werfen but they were written in some sort of cryptic code. There must be a document that deciphers the code otherwise it would be impossible to know what the items referred to were. One thing was sure; they had to be of immense value. Now he looked at the German with renewed interest but he needed to know more…a lot more.
‘You have not told me how the carriage was removed from the train.’
At last Dieter seemed to relax. This British officer believed him, he was sure of it, he would allow him to tell his story and he would save his life, so he began.
‘It was part of the bargain with the Reichsmarshall. He needed someone else he could trust and, well…I had everything to lose and all to gain.’
He told Joseph the whole story, right up to when the troop carrier stopped them. Joseph was now sure that Dieter was telling the truth. He needed the rest of the story and asked Dieter to go on.
‘Göring had arranged for me to travel to Hungary and to be a guard on the last carriage of the train,’ Dieter paused for another drink of water and Joseph thought he saw a trace of colour coming back to his face.
‘I was so afraid, I’d never been so scared in my entire life, but what was I to do? My life and my brother’s were at stake. We were at Göring’s mercy; if I failed we were dead. I knew what I had to do; I just had to do it.’
Joseph had been talking to the prisoner the better part of two hours and was beginning to feel the room closing in on him. Dieter was sweating more than ever, the room had grown unbearably cold and Joseph’s feet resting on the stone floor were freezing. How he wished he could end the interrogation and leave the claustrophobic interview room, he could use the fresh air and warm fireplace in the officer’s mess but he feared if he didn’t get the whole story now he might never get it so he pressed Dieter to continue.
‘While we were stopped, one of the soldiers took advantage of the cover of night, I mean, it was easy, it was so dark and snowing hard, everyone was paying attention to what was happening at the front of the train.’ Dieter paused for a moment, ‘the soldier went round to the opposite side, away from where the Captain was speaking to the driver. No one noticed him come alongside my railway carriage except me but I was expecting him. I saw him running crouched down keeping close to the carriages. When he reached the end of the train he looked up and signalled me to be quiet; climbed onto my carriage and went forward towards the guard on the coach in front of mine. I saw him draw a bayonet from his belt, clamp a hand over the guard’s mouth and slit his throat. It was horrible. He pushed the dead soldier off the roof; he landed silently on the snow on the blind side of the carriage.’
Reliving the terrifying memory had been almost too much for Dieter.
‘The soldier turned towards me signalling for me to climb down while he took the place of the guard he’d just killed. He was taking a chance that the guard on the coach in front of him didn’t look back. At that distance he would have spotted the German uniform and God only knows what would have happened. I hurried up and uncoupled the last carriage. It was easier than I had thought it would be. When the train moved off I was still the guard on the last carriage. I turned back to see the one I’d been guarding disappear into the snowstorm.’
Joseph had listened to Dieter’s story with growing amazement; it was so detailed it had to be true. Besides, there was the matter of the black notebook not to mention the contents of the captured train.
‘All right,’ he said ‘I believe you but which American are you afraid of and why would he want to kill you?’
‘The Americans found the cargo manifest and saw there was a missing wagon. I was riding on the last carriage; I had to know what happened to it.’
Dieter had been talking fast, the words tumbling from his mouth but he still hadn’t said why anyone might want to harm him.
‘I remember there was a Lieutenant Santini when we were brought in, then a Major arrived and took charge. He was a large man, and intimidating. I am not a brave man; I don’t mind admitting I was very scared. I told him what happened but left out my part in it. I don’t think he believed me. I heard him order some soldiers to take a jeep and investigate where I told him we had been stopped.’
Joseph thought the story made sense and Dieter was eager to continue.
‘Our arrival at your barracks attracted a lot of attention. An American Colonel arrived to take over and I heard the Major tell him I should be held separately for further interrogation, so they sent me here but before that the Major said to me something like you and I are going to have a little talk. Just from the way he said it I knew what I could expect.’
‘What did you think was going on?’
‘Well sir, I thought the Major wanted the treasure and I knew what would happen when he got hold of me so I said I would only talk to a British officer.’
Joseph was still holding the notebook when there was a knock at the door. Dieter jumped from his chair and Joseph quickly pocketed the notebook at the same time saying ‘Enter’.
The MP held the door open for an American Major and, from the look on Dieter’s face; Joseph did not need Sherlock Holmes to tell him who he was.
On 18th November 1944, Fregattenkapitan Wilhelm Klein’s boat U-1977, a type VIIC of the Kriegsmarine left Kristiansand, on Norway’s south coast, with a complement of 54 men onboard at the start of its secret mission. Klein’s orders were to sail to Argentina. On arrival at Mar del Plata he would be met by Göring’s representative who would identify himself with a password that had been given to him and was only known to the three of them. This representative would receive the cargo and Wilhelm’s mission would be complete. He was then instructed to return to Norway for a short leave before resuming his duties. His instructions were to avoid enemy contact at all costs.
Now, leaving Kristiansand, Captain Klein was thinking about how to address his men. What would he say to them? They would do their duty yes, but the sinking of the Tirpitz by Lancaster bombers on 12th November, just six days previously, had badly affected the men and their morale was low. He was on the bridge with his Executive Officer and friend.
‘Well Heiny, we hunt again!’ he said. They were at the start of their mission but this time, he knew, would be different. There would be no hunting. Not if they could help it.
‘Yes Wilhelm and God help us.’
Oberleutnant zur See Heinrich Lehman, was his friend and second in command. They had an understanding. When they were alone they called each other by their Christian names, in front of the men it was back to normal. Should anything happen to him, if he got sick or was killed, Heiny would take charge of the boat. Wilhelm trusted him completely. A quiet man and devoted Christian, Heiny was the last man you’d imagine commanding a submarine but he had proved himself to be a cool and capable leader. Not for the first time Wilhelm thought how much he liked his friend. They were on the bridge smoking a cigarette, the familiar background clatter of the engines for company, just passing Bragdøya on the starboard. The smell of diesel and seawater reached their nostrils. Familiar smells, comforting smells. The North Sea was cold the sky grey.
‘How are the men?’
‘They’re fine,’ he said, ‘they’re a good bunch, they’ll not let us down,’ but he knew what Wilhelm was asking, that business with the Tirpitz had affected them badly.
‘This mission…will it be a long one? I believe Reichsmarschall Göring requested specially that you be assigned…’
‘Yes Heiny, I think my medals impressed him,’ he replied self-deprecatingly with a knowing look. The answer would satisfy his friend…for now, neither man liked Göring. As for Admiral Karl Doenitz, that was another matter, they both respected and admired their leader.
They felt cold, standing on the bridge but were enjoying this brief moment of peace before getting down to business. There would not be many moments like this and they both knew it.
‘And your wife, Heiny? How long since you last saw her?’
‘Oh…about three months ago…I think. We had a few days off on my last leave. Klara’s parents have a place in Bühl on the outskirts of the Black Forest. It’s very beautiful. Very peaceful; you can almost forget the war…’
‘This bloody war…I’ll not be sorry when it ends,’ he said giving his friend a sideways glance that conveyed what both men knew, the hunting trips for The Wolf Packs would soon be over.
With a final look at the receding coastline they flicked their cigarettes into the sea and went below.
It was a nervous time for everyone onboard. They travelled on the surface keeping an eye out for enemy ships and aircraft; it was the fastest and safest way by far as they were harder to spot by destroyers whose ASDIC was useless for searching surface vessels. Their type VIIC, one of the newest U-Boats in the fleet, was 220.1 feet long with a surfaced displacement of 761 tons and 865 tons submerged. On the surface it could travel 6,500 nautical miles at a speed of 17.2 knots but submerged that dropped to 80 nautical miles and its speed by half. In addition it was equipped with the Schnorchel. Put simply, the Schnorchel was a pipe with a valve on one end, which extended above sea level while the boat was submerged. The tube consisted of an intake and exhaust pipe, where outside air was drawn into the U-Boat, and exhaust gases expelled from the exhaust pipe. The shutoff valve prevented seawater from entering the intake if the mouth of the tube dipped below the surface. Wilhelm had had more than one occasion to be grateful for this piece of kit. Being able to run its diesels’ underwater gave him a tactical advantage, not only were they more powerful, faster, and had longer range, but more importantly, they eluded allied radar.
The boat was well armed too, with four 21-inch bow tubes one 21-inch stern tube and carried 14 torpedoes. Their deck armament consisted of one 88mm cannon and a 20mm Flak gun. It was a remarkable killing machine and one that The Allies had every reason to fear.
The crossing turned out to be long and arduous. Twice they’d to crash dive to avoid an attacking enemy plane and once an American destroyer had depth charged them after failing to ram them. Only Wilhelm’s experience and nerve had saved the day. After that he decided to do a Schnorchel run for the rest of the journey. They made the Iceland Passage on course 300º, a little North by Northwest, and sixty-six days later, exhausted; they reached Cape Verde where they stopped at Praia for a short swimming break.
It was in Cape Verde, while ashore, that Wilhelm decided to speak to his fellow officers. It was a risky decision but he thought he knew them well; sailing together the past eighteen months had resulted in a strong bond being formed between them, the kind that only war and suffering is able to engender. They were sitting together watching the men swimming, laughing, shouting and letting off steam like a bunch of kids on a seaside trip with their parents. They were good men. They deserved this break. Wilhelm turned to Heiny and the other officers, his friends for that’s what they were, his mind made up. He revealed to them the truth about the secret cargo they were carrying and who the beneficiary would be. Then came the bombshell. He’d promised himself he’d tell them before the end of the war if he were still alive. After all, he knew them well and there wasn’t a Nazi among them. There followed a stunned silence but it was short lived. First to speak was Heiny.
‘Herr Kapitan,’ then softly, almost to himself ‘Wilhelm, I owe you my life and not just once but several times I seem to recall,’ his eyes were fixed on his captain’s and they held nothing back. It was simply the look of a friend who understood his position and sympathised. ‘I don’t know what the others will say, though I can guess, for me it changes nothing.’
Then the others quickly joined in echoing Heiny’s feelings but all decided that, while the war lasted, what Wilhelm had told them should go no further. After a short discussion, they agreed that the war was all but lost and that risking their lives to give a man like Göring a comfortable lifestyle after the inevitable surrender would be a travesty. Wilhelm was telling them of a plan he’d formulated that, with their help, would provide a solution. The sudden chatter of the U-Boat’s guns echoing across the beach brought their conversation to an abrupt end. Everyone looked up to see an aircraft making straight for the sub and watched in stunned silence as a 2000lb torpedo dropped from the belly of the plane and splashed into the water. They held their breath as they followed its track and let it out with an audible sigh as it careered past the submarine, its wake clearly visible heading out to sea. The rattling sound of the plane’s wing mounted machineguns grew louder as it approached low over the water sending lines of splashes as the bullets hit the waves forming stitch lines either side of the sub and missing it completely. The plane was banking and climbing now, its engine sounding more distant as it went away, before turning in a tight circle coming back towards them as the pilot set himself up for a strafing run. The sailors in the water got ready to dive for cover as deep as possible and everyone on the beach scattered running for whatever shelter they could find. The aircraft, a US Navy Avenger TBM torpedo plane with a crew of three, had appeared out of nowhere. Fortunately the U-Boat’s crew were battle hardened and the gunners had been scouring the skies for just such a possibility. They saw it before they heard its engine and by then they were tracking it with their guns. When the second run begun Wilhelm and Heiny found a ditch and made themselves as small as possible. The plane came flying low heading for the beach, it must have been twenty feet above the water, its engine roaring, its two, wing-mounted, M2 Browning machineguns sparking with an insistent cackle spraying a hail of bullets, many finding their target. As the Avenger came nearer growing larger and louder, they caught sight of the three-man crew looking at them through their goggle-covered eyes, their faces curious, like innocent bystanders at the scene of a road accident. Wilhelm could see the US Navy markings on the fuselage and beneath the wings. The submarine’s guns that had not stopped pumping bullets found their mark and a plume of black smoke appeared from the front of the Avenger, followed almost instantly by a huge explosion that broke the plane in midair scattering debris in all directions causing the front of the aircraft with the cockpit and crew to plunge into the sea sending a column of water shooting high into the sky. The front of the stricken plane appeared to sit on top of the waves for a moment, its propeller bent; the crew, trapped in the cockpit, were slumped forward and did not appear to be moving; the sea surrounding it seemed to boil for a minute and then there was nothing, not even a ripple to mark the place where three men had lost their lives. The sub’s gunners had stopped firing and scanned the sky for signs of any more enemy planes. Silence. Then from the beach came the cries of the wounded. Wilhelm and Heiny had escaped unscathed and run towards the nearest of them to see what they could do but it was clear that they were going to need more help. An inflatable dinghy was already making its way to the beach with the medical officer onboard, sailing past the floating corpses of the poor devils that had been swimming and whose blood had turned the sea red. An idyllic island had turned to hell in an instant.
They tended the wounded and carried them and their dead comrades back to the submarine. They left Cape Verde behind and an hour later, having made sure that there were no more fighters around, stopped for a burial at sea. Fifteen men had lost their lives, not counting the plane’s crew. It was bad but they had been lucky. There could have been many more if the torpedo had hit. That thought made Wilhelm shudder. After a short service and words spoken by Heiny who had offered to say them, a sombre crew went about their chores, their minds on their lost comrades. Days and nights tend to melt into each other onboard a submarine, all the same, when evening came, the mood, if anything, had worsened.
Wilhelm got together with his senior officers and finished explaining the plan that he’d been telling them before the American plane launched its attack.
They accomplished their mission. The return journey took 90 days to complete and Göring was in Kristiansand to greet them.
Captain Klein informed him that they had been attacked and had had to improvise. Fifteen men had died and been buried at sea. Many others wounded but had survived. His cargo, however, was safe. Its location clearly marked and, moreover, in a place that no vessel was likely to find, even by chance. At first Göring had not been pleased but he had been hearing nasty rumours coming back from colleagues in Argentina that indicated that it might not be the best place to hide his loot. Perhaps this was better. It meant that he could go back at his leisure and retrieve it when the time was right. Yes, he felt that he could consider the mission a success and told Klein that he was delighted, there had been a problem but he had solved it and come up with an alternative that was acceptable. He had shown initiative and confirmed the faith he’d placed in him. Almost as an afterthought, Göring expressed regret at the loss of life saying that posthumous decorations would be awarded to the men and given to their next of kin. It seemed to Wilhelm that the Reichsmarshall considered the gesture would more than make up for the loss of their loved ones and his mind boggled at the inhumanity of the man. At that same meeting he told him that his parents were safe and that his brother Dieter was to set off to Budapest in one week but that there was still time for him to see him before he left. He was on top form and this was his way of showing his appreciation.
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