Death and Honor

[FIVE]

Near Necochea Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1705 23 July 1943

“I thought I made it clear that your role in this was to fly along the beach,” Standartenführer Cranz said when von Wachtstein walked up to him.

“Sir, I landed for several reasons, among them being that I thought the Herr Standartenführer would want confirmation from Herr Schmidt that we made rendezvous—”

“Quite right.”

“—and that we saw nothing out of the ordinary. And I thought Herr Schmidt wanted to be here—”

“Very well.”

“—and I wanted to top off my tanks, and I thought you might have further orders for me, Herr Standartenführer.”

“Only those that I gave you earlier: to maintain an alert observation and to return to the field the moment you see the rubber boats leave the submarine.”

“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer. Sir, am I permitted to make a suggestion?”

Cranz made an impatient gesture for him to go on.

“Sir, if you flew with me, you would be much better able to see what’s going on than you can from here.”

Cranz considered that for a full fifteen seconds—which seemed longer—in the process looking at Schmidt and almost visibly deciding that he had survived the flight without permanent damage, then said, “Good thinking, von Wachtstein. What was it you said, ‘top off’ your tanks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, do that immediately. We’re running out of time.”

There’re possibly three reasons you agreed to go along with me:

One, you may be worrying that if I’m up there by myself, I’ll get on the radio and tell somebody what’s happening;

And/or, two, if something does go wrong, we’ll be already in the air and can just go back to Buenos Aires, leaving you out of the mess, and leaving Raschner and Boltitz to sort things out;

And/or, three, you’ll now be able to tell Himmler that you personally risked your life by flying over the actual landing of the special cargo.

At seventeen forty-five, von Wachtstein, flying five hundred meters offshore and two hundred meters off the surface of the sea, saw what he thought was the periscope of U-405 slicing through the water. He looked at the beach and saw the flashes of light Boltitz was sending with his signal lamp.

A minute or so later, U-405 surfaced, then slowly turned toward the beach.

Von Wachtstein saw that the battle ensign was again flying from the platform aft of the bridge.

Men began to appear on the deck forward of the conning tower, struggling to get something up and out from inside the submarine.

And then rubber boats took shape, apparently inflated with some sort of air tank. First one, then a second, then a third.

At the sub’s stern, there was the bubbling of water as the propellers were reversed. And then she stopped. Seamen put the rubber boats over the side.

Five men in black Schutzstaffel uniforms appeared on the deck. Two of them made their way carefully down the hull of the submarine, using a rope. Then a wooden crate appeared on the deck.

That’s the special cargo. God only knows how much money is in that box!

With great effort, the crate was very carefully lowered into the rubber boat. When it was in place, two men—both officers, one navy and one SS—followed it into the boat. The navy officer went to the stern of the rubber boat and jerked the starter rope of a small outboard motor. When the motor started, the boat turned away from the submarine and headed for the shore.

Von Wachtstein looked over his shoulder and saw that Cranz had a Zeiss 35mm camera to his eye.

Good God!

“I took these myself, Herr Reichsprotektor, while I was risking my life by flying overhead.”

“When would you like me to land, Herr Standartenführer?”

“I’ll let you know. I want to take some photos for the reichsprotektor. I’m sure he would like to see them.”

“Would you like me to fly a little lower, Herr Standartenführer?”

“No!” Cranz snapped, then recovered, and added evenly, “This height is perfect for my purposes.”

A minute later, the Storch encountered some turbulence, which caused the Zeiss to bump against Cranz’s face.

He suddenly ordered von Wachtstein, “Okay, return to the shore and land. I will get some shots of the actual landing of the boats.”

There was some more turbulence during the landing, causing the Storch to bounce twice back into the air.

“Sorry about that, Herr Standartenführer,” von Wachtstein said once he’d stopped the Storch and shut down the engine. “The winds coming off the sea . . .”

Cranz wordlessly got out of the plane and trotted toward the beach.

I think I’m supposed to stay here.

But, on the other hand, I wasn’t ordered to.

And if I go to the beach, "Perhaps I can be of some help to the Herr Standartenführer? ”

By the time von Wachtstein got there, two rubber boats had unloaded their crates and were already making their way back to the submarine for others. A dozen men in blue coveralls were with some difficulty carrying the heavy wooden crates across the loose sand of the beach and toward the trucks.

Standartenführer Karl Cranz, Fregattenkapitän Karl Boltitz, Sturmbannführer Erich Raschner, and “Mr. Schmidt”—all in civilian clothing—were standing with a navy officer, an SS-sturmbannführer, and two SS enlisted men. They were in somewhat wet uniforms. The SS men all stood at rigid attention.

Either Cranz or Raschner is giving them hell about something.

The third rubber boat approached the beach.

“You and your men get that crate out of that boat,” Cranz ordered coldly. “And I don’t give a damn how wet you get! And that includes you, Sturmbannführer! ”

The SS officer gave the Nazi salute, then shouted at his men, who ran into the surf to meet the rubber boat. The SS officer splashed in after them.

I suspect the Herr Standartenführer has just taught the Herr Sturmbannführer that it is not beneath an SS officer’s dignity to get one’s uniform wet in the performance of his duty.

Von Wachtstein saw that the navy officer—who was in a somewhat informal uniform, with a battered brimmed cap, a sweater, and shapeless navy blue trousers—was smiling at the sight of the SS splashing around in the surf.

In that moment, as von Wachtstein—to his great surprise—recognized the navy officer, Kapitänleutnant Wilhelm von Dattenberg spotted him.

“Hansel!” he cried happily. “You sonofabitch! I couldn’t believe it was you in that ugly little airplane! ”

“Willi! You ugly bastard!” von Wachtstein cried back, then ran across the sand to him.

They embraced, pounding each other’s back.

“I gather you gentlemen are acquainted?” Cranz said.

Neither von Dattenberg nor von Wachtstein paid any attention to him.

“They were at school together, Herr Standartenführer,” Boltitz offered. “I learned they knew each other only just now.”

“Herr Kapitänleutnant,” Cranz said. “If I may have a moment of your time?”

Von Dattenberg looked at him but didn’t speak.

“Is there any reason the rubber boats cannot stay here?” Cranz went on.

“How would I get back aboard my boat?” von Dattenberg asked jokingly. “That’s a long way to swim.”

“You are talking to a SS-standartenführer!” Sturmbannführer Raschner snapped.

“I’m sure the kapitänleutnant meant no offense,” Cranz said, putting oil on the troubled seas.

“I meant none,” von Dattenberg said to Cranz, then nodded toward Raschner, “but I take offense at his tone of voice.”

“Easy, Willi,” Boltitz said.

“You will have to understand, Herr Kapitänleutnant,” Cranz said, “that Sturmbannführer Raschner really has no idea of the stress you and your men have been under. I believe you owe the kapitänleutnant an apology, Raschner.”

Von Wachtstein thought, What the hell is Cranz up to?

Does he want the boats that much?

He doesn’t want to have a fracas in front of Schmidt?

Or for it to get back to Himmler that there was a fracas on the beach because his flunky didn’t like the way the U-boat commander talked to him?

“If I in any way offended you, Herr Kapitänleutnant, I apologize,” Raschner said.

Von Dattenberg nodded his acceptance.

“There are more boats on the Ciudad de Cádiz,” von Dattenberg said, turning to Cranz. “Could you make do with two?”

The Ciudad de Cádiz?

Oh, the new supply ship.

“I’ve been making do with none,” Cranz said charmingly. “If you could spare me two, Herr Kapitänleutnant, I really would be grateful.”

Von Dattenberg raised his voice.

“Everybody into one boat, we’re leaving two here!”

A seaman replied, “Ja, Kapitän.”

“And you’d better show someone how to deflate them,” von Dattenberg said.

The sailor replied by taking a wicked-looking knife from his boot and waving it menacingly.

“No, you idiot,” von Dattenberg said, laughing. “Open the valves.”

“I can do that, Willi,” Boltitz said. “I think it would be a good idea for you to put to sea.”

Von Dattenberg popped to attention. “Jawohl, Herr Fregattenkapitän. By your leave, sir?”

“Resume your conn, Kapitänleutnant.”

“Jawohl, Herr Fregattenkapitän.”

Von Dattenberg then saluted, clicked his heels, and took a step backward.

He turned to von Wachtstein.

“Hansel, if you remember to take a bath every day and stop trying to screw every female over the age of thirteen, maybe they’ll give you a real airplane again.”

“Go fuck yourself, Willi,” von Wachtstein said smiling, and wrapped his arms around him again.

Von Dattenberg looked at Cranz and Schmidt, nodded his head, said, “Herr Schmidt, Herr Standartenführer,” then trotted to where his sailors were about to launch the rubber boat back into the sea.

“Smooth seas!” Cranz called a moment later.

“I’ll help you deflate the rafts,” von Wachtstein said to Boltitz.

There was a flicker of surprise in Boltitz’s eyes, but he said nothing.

They went to the rafts. Boltitz got in and began unlashing the cover of the exhaust valve.

Von Wachtstein leaned in, as if to see what he was doing.

“Karl, if you’ve got a pistol, give it to me,” he said softly. “And don’t let anyone see.”

Boltitz looked at him long enough to see that he was serious, then said, “Get in here and give me a hand, please.”

Von Wachtstein climbed into the rubber boat.

Below the gunwale, out of the view of others, Boltitz handed him a Luger P-08. Von Wachtstein stuffed it in the below-knee pocket of his flight suit, then shoved a scarf into the pocket so the outline of the pistol wouldn’t be seen.

“Why?” Boltitz asked.

“I think Cranz is going to kill me as soon as we’re back at El Palomar.”

“Why?” Boltitz asked softly.

“My skin crawled a while back,” von Wachtstein said. “I’m not sure whether he’s intentionally trying to make me afraid, or whether he’s really going to get rid of me on the general principle of covering his ass and making himself look good. So, better safe than sorry.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“If he killed me, he would have to explain that he found out about me. That would get my father hung on a meat hook.”

“So would your killing him.”

Von Wachtstein nodded.

“The choice, Karl, is either two dead von Wachtsteins—which would mean the end of the bloodline—or one von Wachtstein left alive and one SS sonofabitch dead. And more of them dead later.”

“Hans, don’t do anything impetuously,” Boltitz said, then, really surprising von Wachtstein, added: “I will pray for you.” He raised his voice. “Now just stand on it to force the air out, von Wachtstein. Don’t jump; that will puncture the fabric.”

Cranz walked up a moment later.

“Is there a reason Schmidt’s men can’t stand on there?” he asked. “We should be getting back to El Palomar, von Wachtstein.”

“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer.”

“That sounded good, von Wachtstein, but from this moment, I again am Commercial Attaché Cranz.”

Von Wachtstein nodded.

“We’ll see you back in Buenos Aires, Boltitz. Make it in the morning. I think we have all done enough for the day.”