Death and Honor

[THREE]

El Palomar Airfield Buenos Aires, Argentina 1605 12 July 1943

“El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Zero Two,” came over the speakers in the El Palomar tower.

The call was faint, and in German. The latter posed no problems—just about all the tower operators spoke German—but the faintness of the call did.

The operators hurriedly put on headsets. One of them went to the radio rack to see if he could better tune in the caller. Another leaned over a shelf and spoke—in German—into a microphone.

“Lufthansa Six Zero Two, this is El Palomar.”

There was no answer, so the operator tried again, and again got no answer.

There was another call to the tower.

“El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Zero Two. El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Zero Two.”

Everybody knew what was happening; it had happened several times before. The Siemens radio transmitters aboard the Lufthansa airplane had greater range than did the radios in the tower. It wasn’t supposed to be that way, but that’s the way it was.

It produced mixed feelings in both of them, embarrassment that their tower had terribly mediocre communications equipment, and vicarious pride as Germano-Argentines in the really superb German equipment aboard the Lufthansa aircraft.

One of the operators picked up a telephone and dialed a number from memory.

It was answered, in Spanish, on the third ring.

“Embassy of the German Reich.”

“Let me speak to the duty officer, please,” the tower operator said in Spanish.

An interior phone rang three times before it was answered in Spanish.

“Consular section. Consul Schneider speaking.”

The tower operator switched to German.

“Herr Untersturmführer, here is Kurt Schumer at El Palomar.”

Untersturmführer Johan Schneider also switched to German.

“How can I help you, Herr Schumer?”

“We just had a radio call from Lufthansa Six Zero Two, Herr Untersturmführer. ”

“And?”

“We can hear him, Herr Untersturmführer, but he cannot hear us, which suggests he is some distance away.”

“We have had no word of an incoming Condor,” Schneider said.

Schumer didn’t reply.

“Which, of course,” Schneider went on, “does not mean that a Condor is not on its way here. Thank you, Herr Schumer. I shall take the necessary steps.”

“My pleasure, Herr Untersturmführer.”

“Heil Hitler!” Schneider barked, and broke the connection.

There was, of course, a protocol spelled out in great detail in the embassy of the German Reich for a situation like this. At the moment, it wasn’t working very well.

Untersturmführer Schneider, who was listed on the embassy’s manning chart as an assistant consul, was a member of the Sicherheitsdienst (the Security Service, known by its acronym, SD) of the Sicherheitspolizei (the Security Police, known by its acronym, SIPO), which in turn was part of the Reichssicherheitshauptamt (the Reich Security Central Office, known by its acronym, RHSA) of the Allgemeine-SS. The SS itself was divided into two parts, the other being the Waffen-SS, which was military in nature.

Untersturmführer Schneider was very much aware that he was the senior SS officer presently assigned to the embassy of the Reich in Buenos Aires. This was pretty heady stuff for an untersturmführer, which was the SS rank corresponding to second lieutenant.

In theory, he was answerable only to the ambassador, Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger, but on the day Schneider had reported for duty, von Lutzenberger had told him that the military attaché, Oberst Karl-Heinz Grüner, was the reichssicherheitshauptamt’s man in Buenos Aires. He also told him that Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler himself, to facilitate Grüner’s carrying out of those duties, had commissioned Grüner an honorary oberführer-SS. Consequently, Schneider was to consider himself under Grüner’s orders.

Oberst/Oberführer Grüner had immediately named Untersturmführer Schneider Officer-in-Charge of Security Documents, which meant that he would have responsibility for the reception, care, and transmission of all documents containing secrets of the embassy.

In carrying out his duties, Grüner told Schneider, he would wear civilian clothing, refer to himself as a consular officer, and not make use of his SS rank, as he himself never made reference to his SS rank. It was better, Grüner had told him, that it not become public knowledge that the SS was in the embassy.

Furthermore, Grüner had told him, he would serve as his deputy in matters of counterintelligence, which duties he could better carry out if no one was aware he was an officer of the Sicherheitsdienst. He was to make immediate and secret reports to Grüner—and only Grüner—of any activity that he found suspicious.

There were ancillary duties as well, among them responsibility for the diplomatic pouches. He was to meet every incoming Lufthansa flight and take from its steward the incoming diplomatic pouch, which he would take to the embassy and hand over to Grüner personally. Similarly, he would get the Berlin-bound diplomatic pouch from Grüner and personally hand it to the Condor steward just before the Condor headed home.

The protocol had become unworkable when Oberst/Oberführer Grüner had given his life for the Fatherland at Samborombón Bay. Untersturmführer Schneider remained subordinate to the military attaché, but the military attaché—the acting military attaché until another could be sent from Berlin— was Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe, who, as far as Schneider knew, had no SS connection whatsoever.

More than that, Schneider on several occasions had been ordered to surveille von Wachtstein by following him around Buenos Aires and by tapping his telephones in the embassy and at his apartment. This at least suggested that either Oberst Grüner or Ambassador von Lutzenberger—or both—were suspicious of him. Schneider himself thought there was something very strange in von Wachtstein’s having come through the gunfire at Samborombón Bay unscathed when Oberführer Grüner and SS-Standartenführer Josef Goltz both had been shot to death.

But orders are orders and remain in effect until changed by competent authority—which in this case would be Ambassador von Lutzenberger, who had not even mentioned the protocol, much less any change in his duties, to Schneider since Grüner had been killed. Schneider had no choice but to follow protocol, which required him on being notified of the imminent arrival of a Lufthansa flight to notify the military attaché who, protocol dictated, “would provide further instructions as necessary.”

He found Major von Wachtstein in his—rather than Oberst Grüner’s— office. He was in civilian clothing, smoking a long thin cigar, and reading an American magazine, Life. The first time Schneider had seen von Wachtstein reading enemy reading material—a copy of the London Times—he had reported him to Grüner, who had told him that von Wachtstein was doing so because he was ordered to do so, to see if there was anything in The Times which would be of interest to the Abwehr.

When von Wachtstein finally looked up from the magazine and saw Schneider, Schneider threw out his arm in the Nazi salute and barked, “Heil Hitler!”

Von Wachtstein returned the salute, not very crisply.

“What is it, Schneider?”

“Herr Major, I have just learned of the soon arrival of a Condor at El Palomar.”

“What’s a ‘soon arrival’? When is a ‘soon arrival’? In the next ten minutes? Tomorrow? Friday?”

“Herr Major, I believe the aircraft is about to land at El Palomar.”

“I was not aware we were expecting a flight. Were you?”

“I was not, Herr Major.”

“You will go downstairs and wake up Günther Loche and tell him to bring a car around, Herr Schneider, while I go by the ambassador’s office to tell him that you and I are on our way to El Palomar.”

Günther Loche, a muscular twenty-two-year-old with a blond crew cut who von Wachtstein regarded as more zealous a Nazi than the Führer himself, was a civilian employee of the embassy. He had been born in Argentina to German parents who had immigrated to Argentina after the First World War. He had been Oberst Grüner’s driver, and until a replacement for Grüner was assigned, he was von Wachtstein’s driver.

“You will be going with me, Herr Major?” Schneider said.

Oberst Grüner had rarely done that.

“No. The way that works, Untersturmführer Schneider, is that inasmuch as I am a major and the acting military attaché, you will be going with me.”

“Jawohl, Herr Major,” Schneider said, then threw out his arm again and barked, “Heil Hitler!”

Schneider suspected—he had no idea why—that von Wachtstein didn’t like him. But he was not offended by von Wachtstein’s curt—even rude—sarcasm. For one thing, an officer who had received the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross for extraordinary valor in aerial combat was entitled to be a bit arrogant.

And for another, I was wrong; I should have been more precise than “soon arrival.”

And I had no right to question his orders.

After the first call, Lufthansa Six Zero Two had attempted to contact the El Palomar tower once a minute for the next eleven minutes. Finally, the El Palomar tower operators had gotten through: “Lufthansa Six Zero Two, this is El Palomar.”

The response had been immediate.

“El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Zero Two has entered Argentine airspace at the mouth of the River Plate. Altitude three thousand five hundred meters, indicated airspeed three eight zero kilometers. Estimate El Palomar in four zero minutes. Request approach and landing permission.”

“Lufthansa Six Zero Two, El Palomar understands you are approximately one four zero kilometers east of this field at thirty-five hundred meters, estimating El Palomar in forty minutes.”

“That is correct, El Palomar.”

“Permission to approach El Palomar is granted. Begin descent to two thousand meters at this time. Contact again when ten minutes out.”

“Six Zero Two understands descend to two thousand meters and contact when ten minutes out.”

“Lufthansa Six Zero Two, that is correct.”

“El Palomar, Lufthansa Six Zero Two.”

“Go ahead, Six Zero Two.”

“Six Zero Two is at two thousand meters, indicating three zero zero kilometers. Estimate El Palomar in ten minutes.”

“El Palomar clears Lufthansa Six Zero Two as number one to land on runway Two Six. Winds are negligible. Report when you have El Palomar in sight.”

Eleven minutes later, Lufthansa Six Zero Two was on the ground.

When von und zu Aschenburg shut down the Condor’s engines, he noted in his log that he had fuel remaining for another hour and perhaps ten minutes of flight. That was unnerving, but he had landed here before with less than a half hour’s remaining fuel.

When he looked out the window he saw that the reception committee from the German embassy included—in addition to that SS asshole Schneider, who always met Condor flights—an old friend, Major Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein.

Almost a decade earlier, an eighteen-year-old Hauptgefreiter (Sergeant) Wachtstein had flown a Messerschmitt Bf 109B on Oberleutnant von und zu Aschenburg’s wing in the Condor Legion in Spain, and later a Hauptfeldwebel (Flight Sergeant) Wachtstein had flown a Messerschmitt Bf 109E on Major von und zu Aschenburg’s wing in the war in France, the Battle of Britain, and over Berlin.

Oberstleutnant von und zu Aschenburg had presented a newly promoted Oberleutnant Baron von Wachtstein to their Führer on the occasion of von Wachtstein’s award of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross for extraordinary valor in aerial combat over Berlin while flying a Focke-Wulf 190 as one of von und zu Aschenburg’s squadron commanders.

So long as he had been an enlisted man, von Wachtstein had not used the aristocratic “von”’ and his noble rank, so as not to embarrass his father. This was the new Germany, of course, but there was still enough of the old Germany left that Generalleutnant Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein had been more than a little uncomfortable to have a son serving in the ranks.

It was another of the reasons that Oberst von und zu Aschenburg liked von Wachtstein.

He had several thoughts when he saw von Wachtstein.

Well, Hansel’s out of the insanity in Germany, at least for right now. With a little luck, he can fly that Storch around the pampas until the war is over.

Good for him. He did his duty. Enough is enough.

And thank God he’s here. I can give him his father’s letter right here at the airport without the SS asshole being the wiser.

Otherwise, I’d have had to carry it around until I could get it to him, and that might have been—hell, would have been—dangerous.

Von und zu Aschenburg turned to First Officer Nabler.

“If you will deal with the paperwork, Nabler, I will deal with our distinguished passenger.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberst,” Nabler replied crisply.

If there was room, he’d have clicked his heels and given me the Nazi salute.

As von und zu Aschenburg walked past the flight engineer’s station, Flight Engineer Hover met his eyes and said, “I make it an hour and five minutes of remaining fuel, Herr Oberst.”

“What shall we do, Willi, burn it off going back to Montevideo?”

Von und zu Aschenburg pushed open the door from the cockpit and entered the passenger compartment. There were twenty-five seats, eight rows of three—a single seat on the left of the aisle and two on the right—plus a single seat next to the door to the toilet in the rear, but there were only thirteen passengers plus the steward.

Von und zu Aschenburg had seated Cranz in one of what he thought of as the best seats on the Condor, then told the steward that nobody was to be seated with him.

The best seats were just behind the trailing edge of the wing, so there was a good view downward from their windows; they were near the center of gravity of the aircraft, so there was less movement; and they were only a few steps from the toilet, which was located at the rear of the passenger compartment.

There were three of these best seats, one on the left side of the aisle and two on the right. Herr Cranz was sitting in the window seat on the right. He smiled charmingly at von und zu Aschenburg.

“Dare I hope our flight is really over, Kapitän?”

Von und zu Aschenburg smiled back.

“There are representatives from the embassy waiting for you, Herr Cranz, so whenever you’re ready—”

“I saw Baron von Wachtstein. Who’s the young one?”

He knows von Wachtstein? I wonder how.

“That’s Untersturmführer Schneider,” von und zu Aschenburg said. “He comes to take charge of the diplomatic pouch. Today, pouches, four of them.” He paused. Let’s get it out in the open; see what happens. “You know my old comrade von Wachtstein, do you, Herr Cranz?”

Cranz smiled charmingly again.

“Your old comrade, Kapitän?”

Why do I think—hell, know—that you know all about Hansel and me, and are simply playing dumb?

“Hansel and I flew Me-109Bs with the Condor Legion,” von und zu Aschenburg said.

“ ‘Hansel’?” Cranz parroted, still smiling. “Is Hansel in keeping with the dignity that comes to an officer decorated with the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross?”

“Only if one has known the holder of the Knight’s Cross since he was an eighteen-year-old hauptgefreiter who had to shave only every third day, Herr Cranz.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Cranz said. “That would have a certain bearing, wouldn’t it?”

He smiled once again, then got out of his seat and followed von und zu Aschenburg to the door.

The instant von und zu Aschenburg stepped onto the shallow flight of roll-up steps, Untersturmführer Schneider threw out his arm in the Nazi salute and barked, “Heil Hitler!”

Major Hans-Peter Baron von Wachtstein was so surprised to see Cranz standing in the door behind him that he almost didn’t salute at all.

Oh, shit! What’s that bastard doing here?

The first time von Wachtstein had seen the affable, charming SS officer was in Lisbon in early May.

As soon as word of what happened at Samborombón Bay had reached Berlin, an investigation personally directed by Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler had begun. Himmler’s adjutant, Brigadeführer Manfred von Deitzberg— wearing the uniform of a Wehrmacht generalmajor—and Sturmbannführer Erich Raschner, von Deitzberg’s deputy, had been on the next Condor flight to Buenos Aires.

Within twenty-four hours of their arrival, von Deitzberg had ordered First Secretary Anton Gradny-Sawz, Sturmbannführer Werner von Tresmarck, the senior SS officer in Uruguay, and von Wachtstein to be on the returning Condor flight, “to assist in the investigation.”

They had all understood that they were the primary suspects for being the traitor responsible for the disaster. Proof of that had come when their Condor flight had been met in Lisbon by Cranz and a navy officer, Korvettenkapitän Karl Boltitz, who immediately began the interrogation. The interrogation had been no less thorough—or frightening—because it had been conducted with smiles . . . a conversation between loyal officers of the German Reich simply trying to deduce what had happened.

Cranz and Boltitz had shown up a week later in Augsburg. Cranz was in charge of the elaborate funerals of Oberst Grüner and Standartenführer Goltz. By then, von Wachtstein had decided that while the SS officer was far more charming than the naval officer, he was also the most dangerous.

When von Wachtstein had been ordered back to Argentina, he thought he had seen the last of Cranz. And now here Cranz was in Argentina, where he was liable to find out not only that von Wachtstein was the man responsible for letting the enemy know what had been about to happen at Samborombón Bay but that Boltitz and Ambassador von Lutzenberger were also actively engaged in treason against the Führer and his Thousand-Year Reich.

Cranz was traveling on a diplomatic passport, so there were virtually no immigration or customs formalities.

Cranz smiled at the Argentine official who returned his passport, saluted, then, smiling even more broadly, walked up to Schneider and von Wachtstein.

Schneider gave another stiff-armed Nazi salute. Cranz ignored it and put out his hand to von Wachtstein.

“I am flattered that you could tear yourself away from your bride to meet me, Peter,” he said.

“Well, for one thing, Herr Obersturmbannführer, I didn’t know you were coming,” von Wachtstein said.

Schneider assumed an even more rigid posture, as befitting a junior SS officer in the presence of a senior one.

“Yes, that’s true, isn’t it?” Cranz said. “And, Peter, I have been seconded to the foreign ministry. It would be best if you forgot my SS rank for the time being.”

“Yes, sir,” von Wachtstein said, then turned to von und zu Aschenburg. “It is always a pleasure to see you, Herr Oberst.”

“You are only saying that, Hansel, because I am no longer your commanding officer.”

“The Herr Oberst is absolutely correct,” von Wachtstein said.

Cranz laughed delightedly.

“But I must tell you both,” von Wachtstein said, “that I met you because I have the duty. If I did not, Schneider here would have been your welcoming committee. But all that aside, welcome to Argentina.”

Von und zu Aschenburg thought: Well, why am I surprised that the charming Herr Cranz is actually Obersturmbannführer Cranz? He showed up at Tempelhof in an SS Mercedes.

But why isn’t Hansel awed by the Herr Obersturmbannführer?

Is that stupidity, or on purpose?

“What’s this about a bride, Hansel?” he asked.

“You hadn’t heard about that?” Cranz put in.

Von und zu Aschenburg shook his head.

“One of Argentina’s great beauties found our man irresistible,” Cranz went on, pleased with himself. “Or was it the other way around, Peter?”

“Modesty obviously precludes my answering that question,” von Wachtstein said, then: “Herr Cranz, may I present Untersturmführer Schneider?”

Schneider clicked his heels and rendered yet another crisply perfect Nazi straight-arm salute. Cranz returned it casually.

“I understand you’re responsible for the diplomatic pouch—pouches— Schneider?”

“I have that privilege, Herr Obersturmbannführer.”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said to Major von Wachtstein?” Cranz snapped. “Do not use my rank again!”

There was a moment’s silence, enough to give von Wachtstein time to think, That little sonofabitch is so scared of Cranz he can’t talk!

Cranz went on, unpleasantly: “Then why don’t you get them? I want to get to the embassy as quickly as possible.”

“Jawohl, meine Herr,” Schneider said, and saluted again. He hurried onto the Condor.

“What did you mean before, Peter, when you said you ‘had the duty’?” Cranz asked.

“The embassy protocol stipulates that the military attaché is next in line when the first secretary is not able to perform his duties,” von Wachtstein explained. “Gradny-Sawz is in Montevideo. I’m the acting military attaché.”

“What’s Gradny-Sawz doing in Montevideo?” Cranz asked.

“I have no idea.”

“And if Ambassador von Lutzenberger ordered him back here, right now, how long would that take?”

Von Wachtstein looked at his watch and then at the sky.

“If I left right now, as long as it would take to fly back and forth to Montevideo, ” he said. “That presumes the telephone lines are in, and that First Secretary Gradny-Sawz would be at the airport there when I arrived.”

“You have an aircraft immediately available?”

Von Wachtstein pointed to the hangar where the Storch was parked.

“This solution is possible?” Cranz asked.

“Possible, but not likely,” von Wachtstein said.

“Why not? The telephone lines might be out?”

“That, too. But what I was thinking is that the duties of the first secretary probably will keep him from getting to the airport in Carrasco in time for us to take off and make the return flight in daylight. And he does not like to fly at night.”

“But Ambassador Lutzenberger will have ordered him to return,” Cranz challenged.

“So what I think would likely happen,” von Wachtstein said, “after he couldn’t make it to the airport in time for me to fly him back here today, would be that he would say, ‘Now that it’s impossible to fly, the obvious thing to do is take the boat. That will get me to Buenos Aires earlier than I could flying with you in the morning.’ Actually, he’s not enthusiastic about flying in the Storch at all.”

“You’re not suggesting that First Secretary Gradny-Sawz is afraid of flying?” Cranz said.

“Perish the thought,” von Wachtstein said, his smile making it perfectly clear that that was exactly what he was suggesting. “If you have to see him right now, I could fly you over there.”

Cranz did not reply directly. Instead, he said, almost as if he were thinking aloud, “I have to see everybody, but not necessarily tonight. Generalmajor von Deitzberg is here?”

“No, sir. The Generalmajor and Sturmbannführer Raschner went with Gradny-Sawz to Montevideo.”

“Do you know why?”

“No, sir.”

“Peter, if the ambassador should send for them, how would they return?”

“By the boat.”

“Tell me about that.”

“There is an eleven P.M. boat from Montevideo to Buenos Aires. It’s usually an eight- or nine-hour ride. There’re cabins on the boat, and a bar and a nice restaurant.”

“I can see where First Secretary Gradny-Sawz would prefer that to flying in that little airplane,” Cranz said, then added, “And Boltitz? Where is he?”

“Also in Montevideo. If Ambassador Lutzenberger hadn’t told me how much he needs me to help run the embassy, I would think that no one likes me.”

Cranz laughed. He put his arm around von Wachtstein’s shoulder.

“I like you, Hansel,” he said. “And Oberst von und zu Aschenburg likes you. Isn’t that so, Herr Oberst?”

“Can I have some time to think about that?” von und zu Aschenburg said.

Cranz laughed again.

“I can see why you’re friends,” he said. “Well, then, let’s go to the embassy. I can report to Ambassador Lutzenberger and see what he thinks is the best way to get everyone together.”

Cranz looked impatiently at the door of the Condor.

“What’s taking him so long?”