Death and Honor

[ONE]

Tempelhof Airfield Berlin, Germany 0725 8 July 1943

Lufthansa Kapitän Dieter von und zu Aschenburg, a tall, blue-eyed, blond-haired, fair-skinned Prussian, sat in the pilot seat of the Focke-Wulf 200B “Condor,” impatiently tapping the balls of his fingers together.

He had hoped to get off the ground before seven o’clock, and here it was nearly half past, and the only information he could get from the goddamn tower was that permission for him to take off “would be coming momentarily. ” They had been telling him that for half an hour.

Lufthansa Flight 1007 was about to begin a journey of some 8,500 miles to Buenos Aires, Argentina. The flight would be made in four legs, and it was arguable which of them was the most dangerous. None of them was anything approaching safe.

The sleek and slender aircraft, powered by four 870-horsepower BMW engines, looked much like the smaller, dual-engine American DC-3, especially in the nose and cockpit area. It would fly—presuming the goddamn tower ever gives me permission for takeoff—first across Germany and German-occupied France, then over neutral Spain, and on to Lisbon in neutral Portugal.

That was the shortest leg—1,435 miles—well within the Condor’s maximum range of 2,200 miles. The danger here was from American and British aircraft over Germany and occupied France. Most of the real danger came from Allied fighters rigged as photo-reconnaissance aircraft. They were fitted with extra fuel tanks, and often most of their machine guns were removed. They were charged with photographing the previous night’s bomber target to see how much damage had been done and which targets needed to be bombed again.

Von und zu Aschenburg knew that not all of the photo-recon aircraft had had their machine guns removed, leaving the fighters with two .50-caliber weapons perfectly capable of shooting down an unarmed Condor if they crossed paths with one—and fast enough to chase it if that was necessary. It was perfectly legal under the rules of warfare for the Allies to shoot down a transport aircraft that had red swastikas, outlined in white, painted on the sides of the fuselage and vertical stabilizer.

Presuming the Condor made it safely to neutral Portugal, the next leg of the flight would be 1,800 miles—safely within the Condor’s range—from Lisbon to Dakar, in the French colony of Senegal on the west coast of Africa.

The danger between Lisbon and Dakar was again Allied aircraft, both long-range bombers on antisubmarine patrol and fighters operating from Moroccan airfields now in American hands, all of whom would regard the Condor as fair game.

Presuming the Condor was not shot down en route to Dakar, the airplane would be inspected and otherwise prepared for the next leg of the trip, 2,500 miles across the North Atlantic Ocean to Cayenne in French Guiana in the northeast of the South American continent.

The work would be done by “technicians” of the German Armistice Commission stationed in Dakar to ensure French neutrality after the Armistice of 1940.

The problem on the Dakar-Cayenne leg was the distance. It was 300 miles, more or less, greater than the Condor could safely fly with its standard load of twenty-six passengers, two stewards, and a ton of cargo. The solution to covering that additional distance, then, was to carry no more than thirteen passengers, plus a steward, and just about no cargo whatsoever. The weight thus saved could be used to carry additional fuel.

Presuming that headwinds or other atmospheric conditions did not cause the Condor to run out of fuel before it reached Cayenne, it would again be inspected and made ready for the final leg of the flight by “technicians” of the German Armistice Commission assigned to French Guiana.

The final leg to Buenos Aires was not only the longest—2,700 miles, 500 farther than the published maximum range of the Condor—but also involved danger from Allied aircraft again. Brazil was at war with Germany, and American B-24 bombers, modified for use as long-range antisubmarine aircraft, here patrolled the Atlantic Ocean all the way to Buenos Aires. Most of their machine-gun positions had been removed, but there were still machine guns in the forward and aft turrets, more than enough to shoot down a Condor should they happen upon one.

But the greatest danger on the final leg was the distance. If there were headwinds and they ran out of fuel, the only option would be to ditch at sea near the shore of Brazil and try to make it ashore in rubber boats. Landing in Brazil would see the Condor fall into Allied hands, and it had been made quite clear to Kapitän Dieter von und zu Aschenburg that doing so would be tantamount to treason.

But what was most galling about the Buenos Aires flights, von und zu Aschenburg had often thought, was that there was no reason even to make them— other than for their propaganda value.

Doktor Paul Joseph Goebbels—that clubfooted minister of propaganda for the Third Reich—can boast: “Germany’s great airline Lufthansa flies a regularly scheduled transatlantic service, while the Allies cannot—therefore Germany and National Socialism are superior!”

Von und zu Aschenburg also thought, very privately if not a bit bitterly, that Goebbels was entirely capable of insisting the flights be kept up because when one of them—inevitably—got shot down or, for that matter, just disappeared, he would be sure of headlines all around the world: Allies Shoot Down Unarmed German Civilian Airliner Carrying Neutral Diplomats and Medical Personnel.

On today’s flight there were three French diplomats to satisfy the “neutral diplomats” portion of that claim, as well as two German doctors and seven nurses en route to Buenos Aires’s German Hospital. There was no shortage of work for German medical personnel in Germany which was being bombed daily. And there was no shortage of competent medical personnel in Argentina. Yet still came the doctors and nurses.

Propaganda was very valuable to the Thousand-Year Reich.

Kapitän Dieter von und zu Aschenburg knew that the Condor manifest also listed a German diplomat. But that luminary had not boarded, which was almost certainly the reason the tower’s permission for von und zu Aschenburg to start his engines and take off now had been delayed “momentarily” for more than a half hour.

“Herr Oberst,” the co-pilot said, bringing von und zu Aschenburg back from his thoughts.

He had been addressed as “Herr Oberst” because—airline pilot uniform or not—he was a Luftwaffe colonel. All of Lufthansa was in fact in the Luftwaffe, but that was not for public consumption. Both “First Officer” Karl Nabler and “Flight Engineer” Wilhelm Hover were actually Luftwaffe hauptmanns who had been assigned to the Condor flights after “distinguished service” as Junkers Ju- 52 pilots on the Eastern Front.

Somewhat cynically, von und zu Aschenburg thought that their “distinguished service” meant they had somehow miraculously avoided getting shot down. The tri-motor, corrugated-skin Ju-52, derisively known as “Auntie Ju,” was easy prey for Russian fighters.

Von und zu Aschenburg wondered why he liked Willi and loathed Nabler. For all he knew, Willi might be an even more zealous National Socialist than Nabler. He had never discussed the war, or politics, with either of them.

As an intelligent man, a warrior who had seen his share and more of combat, von und zu Aschenburg was not anxious to give his life for the German Reich. But if that was going to happen as he did his duty, he preferred that he die as a soldier, in uniform. He had not volunteered to fly back and forth over the Atlantic; he had been told he had been honored by being selected for that duty. There was no question in his mind that one day he wouldn’t make it.

It was one of the many reasons he loathed the Nazis.

He often thought, If the swine could read my mind, I would be hanging from a butcher’s hook.

First Officer Nabler was pointing to the tarmac. An open Mercedes, a big one, was coming out from the curved terminal building, obviously headed for them.

Two things immediately caught von und zu Aschenburg’s attention. First, that the license plate of the car incorporated the lightning flashes of the Schutzstaffel. And second, that it held a family. There was one child in front with the driver—and the driver was in an SS uniform—and two more children in back with two adults, almost certainly the parents.

Von und zu Aschenburg thought it was entirely possible that he was about to get into an argument with the man.

Those SS bastards are so impressed with themselves they really believe they can rescind the laws of physics. Or, at the very least, cause the deplaning of lesser persons so that the wife and kiddies can go flying.

There’s simply no way I’m going to take off with the wife and three kids.

“I will see that our distinguished passenger is seated,” von und zu Aschenburg said, and unfastened his seat belt.

“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”

Von und zu Aschenburg went quickly through the passenger cabin and down the steps.

The man in the Mercedes was already out of the car, and the driver was taking a suitcase from the trunk.

“Captain,” the man said with an ingratiating smile. “My deepest apologies. I know how important it is for you to leave on schedule. Believe me, this couldn’t be helped.”

“It’s not a problem, sir,” von und zu Aschenburg said.

He then surprised himself by taking the suitcase from the SS driver.

“If you’ll come with me, sir, we’ll get you settled.”

Herr Karl Cranz of the Foreign Service kissed Frau Cranz and their three children good-bye, shook hands with the SS-sturmscharführer, then followed von und zu Aschenburg up the steps and into the Condor.