What Others Say About Double Eagles
Double Eagles is thrills and intrigue with a backdrop of World War II. Bill Getz masterfully intertwines historical fact and fiction into a gripping read. Highly recommended!
Jonathan Abbott, Tokyo, Japan
Bill Getz is a great historical novelist. I was impressed with the extensive research that he did in writing this novel.
Peter Palmos, Fairfield, California
Here one finds a mix of real and fictional elements embedded authentically in the WWII setting. Great detail for authenticity runs throughout,The work gave me sense of being there, experiencing, if you like, the tragedy that engulfed Germany and its people during the Hitler years.
Barney Nolan, Alexandria, Virginia
I have just finished reading Double Eagles and enjoyed it immensely. The storyline is loaded with surprising and very clever twists and turns.
Harold Jacobs, Fairfield, California
An intriguing tale of spy and counter spy involving the Germans, British and US intelligence agencies. Hard to put down.
Dick Feaster, Fairfield, California
"The blend of historical accuracy twisted with fictional possibilities is a page-turner. Character development is engrossing as one is reliving (or learning) history.
Brian Murphy, Hillsborough, California
Double Eagles
A NOVEL BY
BILL GETZ
Copyright © 2011 Bill Getz
Smashwords Edition
ISBN:978-1-4661-3520-8
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. A printed version is available from Amazon Books.
Author’s Note
Although this is a work of fiction, many of the characters were real and worked in the positions portrayed in the story. The main characters are fictitious. Wars are replete with secrets, deceptions and lies, prompting Winston Churchill to have famously said, and oft-quoted, In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies. This tale could be one such lie. Chinese philosopher Sun Tzu said, All warfare is based upon deception. So are novels.
Chapter 1
The story begins one cool early autumn day over the skies of the Pas de Calais of northeast France. Death stalked those skies. It was late in the afternoon on Wednesday, September 15, 1943. The sky was typical for that time of year, broken layers of stratus clouds with occasional billows of cumulus puffs poking themselves through the layers like so many Columns of Hercules holding up the next layer of clouds above, at times threatening rain, at times delivering on the promise.
Some of those flat layers of clouds were created by man and not by the gods. They were contrails, cloud-like ribbons formed by the American B-24 Liberator bombers of the 389th Bomb Group streaming through the moist skies of Europe. The formation, led by its commander, Colonel Jack Wood, was winging its way towards their home airbase at Hethel, England, and looking not unlike a flock of prehistoric pterodactyls slowly descending towards their nests. The sun was low in the west, and the skies were already dark to the east.
Most of the bombers’ remaining “little friends,” American escort fighters, were already hightailing it for their bases, low on gas after what was a long trip for the single-engine P-47 Thunderbolt. When German fighter aircraft first attacked the bombers inbound towards the railroad marshaling yard target in the Rheims area of France, the ensuing dogfight exhausted the fuel of most of the P-47 escorts, forcing them to return to their bases in England, reducing the number of escort fighters that could stay with the bombers to the target and return. The German Luftwaffe air controllers had planned it that way. They wanted to shoot down bombers, not fighter aircraft.
A courageous few P-47s pilots stuck with their “big brothers,” and were now coaxing a few more minutes from their fuel tanks in order to protect the bombers over the North Sea on the return trip. There were many unsung fighter pilots in those days of the short-range P-47 before the introduction of long-range auxiliary wing fuel tanks.
Then all hell broke loose!
“Bandits at four o’clock high,” came the excited yell over the intercom and radio in several of the bombers. The languid minds of exhausted bomber crews sprung instantly to full alert as the adrenalin raced through their veins at the sound of the dreaded word, “bandits.” The crews were not home free. There was still more dying to do, more toll to pay.
The experienced leader of the yellow-nosed Messerschmitt BF 109Gs. the single-engine fighter plane the Germans called “Gustav,” had correctly timed his attack knowing the Americans would be at a vulnerable point shortly after leaving the Belgium coast. He led Gruppe III from Jagdgeschwader 26, known to the Americans and English as the “Abbeville Kids,” named after their aerodrome at Abbeville, France.
The German leader’s main focus was to attack while the escorting American P-47s were minimal in number and low on fuel, and when a false sense of security had settled into the Americans’ minds. He started his attack from 20,000 feet. The wily combat-honed leader used the layers of stratus clouds to hide the approach of his fighters until the moment he was ready to begin the attack. No American airman saw the German aircraft until cannon shells from the marauders commanded the Americans’ attention - and then it was too late. Two B-24s were badly damaged and limped back to England with wounded and dead. The toll for the marshaling yard was now six bombers lost, two damaged and an untold number of men dead or wounded.
The hash-marked Me-109 of the leader remained above his Gruppe with two other fighters that comprised his Stabsschwarm, flight staff, watching the attack unfold, alert to any threat of American fighters. All three Messerschmitts joined the third and last German squadron as it began its run on the bombers. There was to be only one pass because of the proximity to the English coast.
As the Luftwaffe Kommandeur pulled his nearly stalled aircraft away from the underneath the bomber formation at the apex of his attack, and at his most vulnerable point, he was totally unaware of the red-cowled American P-47 fighter that tore recklessly through the formation, courting fire from his own bombers, but who now had the German leader in his orange optical ring gunsight. A short burst of the eight fifty-caliber guns slammed into the cowling of the BF-109. Almost immediately smoke and flames began billowing from the engine.
“Hello Calypso, this is Upper 4, over,” the American voice sounded over the emergency radio channel. “Upper” was the call sign for the American 4th Fighter Group. It took only seconds before a exquisitely cultured female English voice responded, “Roger ¨Upper 4, this is Calypso, over.”
In a typically American fighter pilot response, the American pilot said, “Hi sweetheart. This is Upper 4. Glad to hear from you. I just knocked a Jerry out of the sky, roughly three miles off the coast. He is coming down in a chute and is going to get his feet wet! Can you give him a hand? Over.”
“Roger Upper 4, understand. Please hold down your mike button for ten seconds while we get a fix on your location. Over”
“Roger Calypso, holding down.” The American fighter pilot silently counted to ten as he held the mike button and the British direction finder stations made a triangulation on his signal. After ten seconds, he said, “O. K. Calypso, did you get that?”
“We have a fix Upper 4. Standby one.” There was a brief silence and then the the English voice came on again.
“Upper 4,” and this time there was no wait for a response, “we have one of our amphibians airborne and patrolling your area. He says he can reach your position within a few minutes. However, the pilot advises that it is very dark on the surface and he may have difficulty finding the blighter. He requests that you circle the German until he gets there. Do you read?”
“Roger, read you, but I am practically flying on fumes. I’ll try to stick with this guy for a few minutes, but your people may have to pull me out of the drink if I stay much longer. What kind of an aircraft is he flying? Over.”
“It is a Supermarine Walrus amphibian, and if the sea is not too rough, he can land. If not, he will drop the Jerry a raft.” And with the essence of British dry humor, she added, “And we will be happy to extend the same boating privileges to you, Yank, should you need our services. Over.”
The Yank pilot smiled at the comment, but he was too busy to be flippant and merely said, “Thanks friend,” as he banked his P-47 sharply to circle the rapidly descending German pilot. The American pilot had to throttle back and keep his airspeed near the stalling point in order to keep the German parachute in sight in the reduced visibility of evening.
The Walrus amphibian appeared within minutes of the radio exchange, and pinpointed the German in the water with a searchlight. The Walrus’ pilot had been monitoring the rescue radio frequency.
“Upper 4, Rescue 2 reports that he has the target in sight, and he will attempt a landing. You are free to return to your base,” and with a less business-like tone and clip to her voice, with a trace of admiration, she said, “Thank you Yank. Good show!”
“Good show yourself, Limey,” he said sprightly. Then in a feigned serious voice he coined an expression that would become an American epigram, “But we have got to stop meeting like this. Bye.” And with that exchange, the P-47 made one last pass over the bobbing German, wagging the plane’s wings as he flew by. The very soaked German pilot, floating in the German version of a “Mae West” water vest, managed a wave of thanks. The P-47 flew home to its base at Debden in Essex as the Walrus splashed down in the water like its namesake.
The gods had set into motion the events that were to have a profound impact on the Allies’ conduct of the war in Europe.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Chapter 2
“Colonel Peterson?. Good morning. This is Squadron Leader Anthony Smythe here. I’m the Commanding Officer of the 277 Air-Sea Rescue Squadron at RAF Station, Stapleford Tawney.”
Lieutenant Colonel Chesley G. Peterson of Santaquin, Utah, Commanding Officer of the U. S. 4th Fighter Group, located at Debden Air Base, had difficulty understanding the voice coming through the telephone because of a mixture of static on the line and the pronounced Oxford accent. “Yes, good morning. This is Colonel Peterson. We have a poor connection, but I believe you said your name was Squadron Leader Snide?”
“Sorry old chap about the connection. I hear you fine. The name is ‘Smythe’ . . . sugar, mike, yoke, tear, how, easy,” as the the British officer spelled his name phonetically. “I have an air-sea rescue squadron over at Stapleford Tawney, and yesterday one of our amphibians picked up a German pilot out of the North Sea who had been shot down by one of your boys.”
“Oh yes, that was Lieutenant Hatcher of the 334th Squadron. He told us all about it, but how did you know it was a plane from the 4th?” Colonel Peterson asked.
“Actually, Colonel, the Jerry told us. He got a good look at your plane while he was coming down in his chute. He was able to see the white cowling ring on your plane, and he knew it was a P-47 model C, and also noted the large ‘QP-P’ on the side of the fuselage. But he knew enough to know the plane was from your group. German intelligence is rather good at that sort of thing, and we have found that most of the experienced German pilots have memorized all Allied bomber and fighter identifications. Our German seemed to be bragging about his knowledge.
“Not only that,” Smythe continued, “we have quite a prize. We believe the German is a group commander, and we also suspect he may be a top German ace. We’re checking that out now.”
“Well, that’s great Smythe, but German intelligence information isn’t quite infallible. The white ring on the cowling does not designate an organization but was put there to differentiate the P-47 from the similar-looking FW-190 so that our pilots don’t shoot down the wrong airplane. But that’s not important, what is it we can do for you Squadron Leader?
“Colonel, I have what may seem like a strange request. I would like to borrow your Lieutenant Hatcher,” but Smythe pronounced it, Leftenant. “ I believe that was the name you gave. . .”
“That’s correct,” Peterson interrupted.
“Yes, well, we would like to borrow the Lieutenant for just a few hours. Let me explain. It seems that many German pilots are rather arrogant, particularly the more senior ones. They are very rank conscious. We’ve seen that before. Anyway, this Jerry we captured insists on meeting the pilot that shot him down. Jerry pilots like to see firsthand the rank of the pilot that got them. They would never admit that, of course, but the ultimate insult to the German officer pilot is to have been shot down by an enlisted pilot. I know you Yanks do not have any, at least not over here, but the Germans do and we British do. The Germans should know this, but I think this particular German wants to be sure it was not a junior officer that shot him down. Rather petty, wouldn’t you say?”
“I agree, Smythe, and I have heard similar stories, but it seems like quite an imposition to ask Lieutenant Hatcher to visit the German just to satisfy his goddamn ego!”
“Oh, quite, quite, Colonel. That is not what we had in mind. You see, my intelligence officer has not been able to get anything out the prisoner but name, rank, serial number, and a request to meet the pilot who shot him down. He did volunteer the information about your group so that we could identify the pilot. Now, Flight Lieutenant Wingate, my G-2 officer, thought that if we granted the Hauptmann’s request, he might inadvertently give us some valuable information, or at least be more cooperative. You understand?”
“Oh, I understand, Squadron Leader . . .” Peterson responded, and after a brief pause to consider the request, continued, “. . . and I guess it would be O.K. What did you have in mind?”
“Very gracious of you, Colonel. I wonder if you could have your Lieutenant Hatcher drop on over to our base? We’re located northeast of London, about 53 kilometers south of you, less than an hour’s drive from Debden. I promise not to keep him more than two hours.”
There was the small distinctive low-squeal that is the sound of aircraft tires gently touching the concrete in a well-executed landing. The two main tires and small tail wheel of the red-cowled P-47 touched down in a three-point landing on the main runway at RAF Station Stapleford Tawney. The pilot was instructed to taxi back on the runway towards the control tower and the flight operations building. Lt. Hatcher had elected to fly rather than drive to Stapleford Tawney. It took him all of twelve minutes.
Squadron Leader Smythe, with a big smile on his mustached face, gave Hatcher a casual military salute as the Lieutenant jumped off the wing of his plane. A little flustered, the Lieutenant quickly returned the salute, removed his glove and shook Smythe’s outstretched hand.
Smythe spoke first. “Welcome to Stapleford Tawney, Lieutenant. We appreciate your taking time to give us a hand. And, oh yes, congratulations on your victory.”
Still shaking Smythe’s hand, the young pilot said, “Thank you, Sir, glad to be of help.” Well aware that a Squadron Leader was equivalent to an American Major, the Lieutenant did not display any of the cavalier and cocky attitude that he did over the air-sea rescue radio with the RAF female radio operator. Hatcher was only 22 years old. Smythe was an old timer of 41 years, badly injured during the Battle of Britain - he walked with a distinctive limp - and given the air-sea rescue assignment when he was grounded from further flight duties almost three years earlier.
On the way to the station headquarters, Smythe briefed the Lieutenant on the situation. He had already introduced Flight Lieutenant Andrew Wingate, the G-2 officer, who was riding with them.
“We are checking with Wing, but we believe this German chap is the commander of Group III, Jagdgeschwader 26. JG-26 is equivalent to your American wing in size, and I believe their Gruppe is about the same size as your group. They are based in Abbeville, France.
Hatcher was quite excited with the idea that he may have shot down a JG-26 leader, but his face kept it a secret. He was also surprised that a Luftwaffe fighter group would be commanded by the equivalent rank of a captain. Most American groups were commanded by colonels. Hatcher was unaware of the Luftwaffe’s critical shortage of senior experienced combat leaders, and slow promotions. He could not wait to get back to Debden to brag to his buddies.
“Andrew and I though that if you could get him into a casual conversation about your encounter with him, he may reveal something that would be useful to our intelligence chaps in London.”
“Does he speak English, ‘cause I don’t speak German,” Hatcher enquired.
“We don’t believe so,” Andrew Wingate replied, assuming the leadership on specifics about the prisoner. “At least our conversations have been in German so far, and I have not seen any indication that he understood our English conversations, but that is not a certainty. Fortunately, my German is passable, and I can translate for you.”
Upon reaching the air-sea rescue headquarters, they exited the staff car, and had their identification badges examined by a guard at the door. A British airman sitting at a desk near the door inside jumped to rigid attention as the three officers approached. Smythe ignored him and led the way down the hall towards his office at the opposite end. The door to the office was closed.
The German officer was sitting in a swivel desk chair with his back to the door. He was wearing his newly-dried and pressed uniform, sans the flight suit and boots, but complete with his Knights Cross around his neck, and his Iron Cross Third Class on the left side of his jacket. He sat facing Flight Lieutenant Leslie Pemberton, who had briefly studied at the University of Tübingen before the war, and had learned a smattering of conversational German.
The German prisoner’s legs were crossed as he sat relaxed, and he was smoking an American cigarette. Instead of tea, the German had asked for and was sipping strong black coffee. Andrew Wingate opened the door and stepped aside for his superior to enter. Squadron Leader Smythe politely motioned Lieutenant Hatcher to go first. As the Lieutenant entered the office, Hauptmann Branden began to swivel around in his chair at the sound of the opening of the door. His face was pleasant without a discernible smile. He did not see the Squadron Leader behind Lieutenant Hatcher, or the German would have been on his feet at stiff attention.
Lieutenant Hatcher stopped, stared at the German for a few seconds that seemed embarrassingly long, and then blurted out, “For Christ’s sake, Paul Bausser! What the hell are you doing here and in a Kraut uniform?”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Chapter 3
Brigadier Sir Stewart Graham Menzies, KCMG, CB, DSO, MC, Chief of MI-6, the British Secret Service, looked up as his secretary entered the office. Menzies was the successor to the late Admiral Sir Hugh Sinclair, who was instrumental in the intelligence coup of the century, capture of the secrets of the German Enigma coding machine. Menzies had been Sir Hugh’s deputy of MI-6, and had also headed the German Section of that organization.
Menzies’ secretary handed him a file folder marked, “Most Urgent.” The Brigadier opened it immediately. The memo inside was to the point, and came from a Squadron Leader who was one of the Brigadier’s principal staff members that monitored reports from British air units. The memo read:
Commander of RAF 277 Air-Sea Rescue Squadron at Stapleford Tawney reports POW named Hauptmann Wilhelm Branden, believed to be Commander of Gruppe III, JG-26. MI-6 files shows that this POW is probably Prince Wilhelm-Karl of Brandenburg, a member of the German royal family, grand-nephew of Kaiser Wilhelm II, great, great grandson of HRH Victoria, and a distant Cousin of HRH George VI. He is presently ranked by our records as the 13th or 14th leading German ace with over 59 victories obtained mostly on the Eastern Front. He was shot down over the North Sea on 15 September by an American fighter plane, and picked up by British air-sea rescue. He is reportedly wearing the Knights Cross to the Iron Cross.
Frederick W. Winterbotham
Squadron Leader
“Good god,” was the only expression from Brigadier Menzies as he read the report. His secretary stood silent awaiting his orders that she knew would be coming quickly. The orders came fast and cryptic, and from long experience, the secretary was prepared with pencil and paper.
“Staff meeting for,” and Menzies glanced at the clock on the wall, “thirty minutes from now, 1100 hours. Mimeograph this report for everyone. Get the name of that RAF commander referred to in the message, and then get him on the phone immediately. That’s all!”
It was only a moment later the secretary’s voice said over the intercom, “Brigadier, I have Squadron Leader Anthony Smythe on the telephone.”
Brigadier Menzies picked up the telephone without acknowledgement and said, “Smythe? This is Brigadier Menzies of the War Department in London.” He would not reveal his intelligence role, although it was generally known in the military services.
Anthony Smythe, aristocrat that he was, recognized the name immediately, although he had been warned by his secretary that the Brigadier was coming on the line. The Brigadier continued. “We better go to scramble. Are you ready?” Smythe acknowledged and Menzies said, “All right, scramble.” Both parties pushed their scrambler buttons. Their conversation was now secure from eavesdropping.
Menzies quickly continued as if every second lost was a major catastrophe. “I understand you have a POW by the name of Branden?”
Squadron Leader Smythe, Lieutenant Hatcher and Flight Lieutenant Wingate had only been in Smythe’s office for a few minutes when Menzies’ call came through. “That’s correct, Sir.” He didn’t volunteer any further information because of the people with him in the office, and wasn’t certain as to what to do. Smythe was astounded at how quickly the London people were informed including Brigadier Menzies himself!
“Sir, I have several chaps in my office. Would you please excuse me one minute while I ask them to wait outside?” As he spoke he nodded to Wingate to take the group out. They went to the Air Intelligence Officer’s office.
“I’m free to talk now, Brigadier Menzies. Hauptmann Branden and members of my staff were in the office. They’ve gone.”
“I surmised as much,” the Brigadier responded. “Now tell me, have you interrogated him yet?”
“Only a preliminary interrogation, Sir. It was rather late yesterday when my people brought him in, and the first thing we did was to have him examined by our medics. He seemed no worse for the wear. A little cold and wet. We got him out the water within seven minutes after he dropped in. A few more minutes in that frigid sea might have caused a different story.”
“Good. I assume all you got was name, rank and serial number, right?”
“Correct, sir.”
Smythe paused as he remembered Lieutenant Hatcher, and the question raced through his mind as to whether he should mention the German’s request and Hatcher’s strange response. He decided it best to tell the Brigadier, a wise decision as it turned out.
He continued, “However, he did ask my AIO, Flight Lieutenant Wingate, who speaks jolly good German, if he could meet the American pilot that shot him down.”
Menzies interrupted in disgust, “Such Boche arrogance!”
“Yes, sir, I agree, but Wingate suggested that if we arranged the meeting it might encourage the prisoner to reveal useful information. As you know, Brigadier, these Jerry pilots have a quirk about rank. We were able to get the American pilot to come here. He was located at the American base in Debden, not far from here, and had just arrived when you called. But, Brigadier, something very strange happened when the American saw Hauptmann Branden.”
This revelation pricked the interest of Menzies. “And what was that, Smythe?”
“Lieutenant Hatcher at first thought he knew the German. He called him Paul Bausser, apparently a classmate of the American pilot in flight school.” Smythe realized he had not mentioned the American pilot’s name before, and added, “That is the American’s name,” which Menzies had already presumed.
Smythe continued. “As I was saying, Lieutenant Hatcher said that Hauptmann Branden bore a strong resemblance to his friend. He mentioned that the only difference seemed to be the hair. Hauptmann Branden’s hair is longer and lighter. Apparently this Bausser chap’s hair is short, what the Americans call a ‘butch’ or ‘crew cut,’ you know, Sir, a brush cut. Hatcher also said there was a scar on the German’s chin that the American did not have. Other than that, he thought the resemblance remarkable.”
“Smythe, old boy, I want you to do a personal favor for me. Mind you, it is very important to the government and especially to the War Department.”
Menzies chose he words carefully because he had learned never to reveal more than what was absolutely necessary to anyone, not even to the Prime Minister or the King! “You see, Hauptmann Branden is one of us,” Menzies said in a tone evoking confidence.
Smythe was not certain that the “us” referred to the intelligence community or to the aristocracy, even though he was not aware of the prisoner’s royal standing. Menzies wanted him to be unsure, and Menzies’ confidential tone was flattering. Smythe was not about to seek clarification.
“Anything you want, Brigadier.” I would be honored to be of assistance.”
“Smashing!” Menzies responded. “Now here is what I want you to do. Transport the prisoner to the Joint Services Interrogation Center here in London. We call it ‘The London Cage.’ It’s located at Number 8 Kensington Palace Gardens. I’ll make arrangements. Have Lieutenant Wingate escort the prisoner, and be certain the prisoner is well-guarded. But please, Smythe, do not let any of your people bind the German officer in any manner. He should be given the courtesy of his rank.
“And by the way, Smythe, is Lieutenant Wingate’s first name Andrew?”
“Why, yes, it is, Brigadier.”
“I thought it might be. I know his father quite well, Sir Ronald. In fact, we work together on occasion.” Sir Ronald Wingate was a member of the London Controlling Section, an organization devoted to military deception, but of course, Brigadier Menzies would not reveal that to Smythe.
Getting back to the business-at-hand, Menzies continued, “Could you have Hauptmann Branden and Wingate on the road quickly? If they leave within the hour, they could be in London before tea time. And, oh yes, you might tell Wingate to plan a few nights here if necessary, with your approval, of course.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll send them in my own staff car as soon as they can be ready, and I would be grateful, Brigadier, if you would get me off-the-hook with my headquarters. They are rather fussy about things like this, you know.”
“Righto, Smythe. I’ll take care of it promptly. Give the necessary information to Rose, my secretary, and Smythe . . .
“Yes sir?”
“I wouldn’t think it necessary to question Hauptmann Branden any more.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“And one other thing. Make some excuse to the American and send him back to his base without revealing our interest in the prisoner.”
“I’ll handle it discreetly, Brigadier.”
Smythe liked business conducted on a gentleman-to-gentleman basis, and the Brigadier’s tone and words were like a password into the special world of British gentlemen.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming on such short notice. Something has developed that we need to consider immediately.” Brigadier Menzies’ words had the intended effect of getting attention, although the rush meeting notice had done that already.
Around the table were Menzies’ key staff: Squadron Leader Frederick C. Winterbotham, Chief of Air Intelligence; Deputy Chief of Air Intelligence, Squadron Leader George Harcourt, Baron Derwent; Captain Reginald Colby, Chief of Naval Intelligence; Colonel Sir Harold Armstrong-Leigh, Chief of Army Intelligence; and, Lieutenant Philip Amory, Aide-de-Camp to Brigadier Menzies. The Brigadier brought the staff up-to-date about Hauptmann Branden, his royal connection, and the fact the prisoner would be on his way to the London Cage within minutes.
“Our immediate concern,” Menzies continued, “is to inform the Prime Minister of the situation so that he can tell the King. I have no idea if the King will wish to make any special allowances for the German Prince or not.” He paused as if to give time for the words to register.
“Our most important interest, however, is not the royal status of Hauptmann Branden, but the fact that his father, Lieutenant General Prince Ludwig-Otto was a strong outspoken critic of Adolph Hitler. Prince Ludwig died in 1934 at the age of 44, apparently of a heart attack, but at a time and under circumstances that still remain a mystery to us.
“The question that arises for us is, ‘How much help Prince Wilhelm can be or would want to be to British Intelligence?’ We are certain that he is not a member of the Nazi Party. Now whether he is a member of the dissident group we have heard rumors about is not known, but I intend that we should do everything we can to gain the Prince’s cooperation. I will tell the PM of our plans in this regard. Now, do you gentlemen have any suggestions or questions?”
Colonel Armstong-Leigh spoke. “Sir, isn’t it a little strange to have a prince flying combat, and also to be a group commander? We had a report that Hitler had ordered all members of royal houses out of combat after one of the Hohenzollerns was killed a few years ago. Also, we had heard that he excluded members of princely houses from military command positions. Are we certain of Hauptmann Branden’s identification?”
“Yes we are certain of the identification,” Menzies responded, “and the Hohenzollern prince you referred to was another Prince Wilhelm, the eldest son of Crown Prince Wilhelm. He was killed in 1940 during the French campaign. The Germans also lost another Hohenzollern, the Crown Prince’s brother, Prince Eitel-Friedrich of Prussia, second son of the Kaiser, killed in 1942 as I recall. It was after this last death that Hitler issued his edict.”
“Obviously Hitler must have made an exception for the Luftwaffe. And even Hitler would be hard-pressed to replace all of his Army hierarchy that were from noble houses. Winterbotham tells me there are two other princes that are German fighter aces. Is that right, Freddie?” he asked his intelligence aide, a Royal Air Force officer.
“That’s correct, Sir. I made a note of it while I was researching Prince Wilhelm’s file. There is Prince Egmont of Lippe-Wessenfeld, and Danish-born Prince Heinrich of Sayn-Wittgenstein. Our last report was that they were both in night fighters. As far as we know, they are still active.
“Of course I believe Hitler’s order pertained only to the former ruling royal house, the Hohenzollerns. At last count there were fifteen or sixteen of them. If that is the case, our Prince must be an exception because he is of the German royal house, although somewhat removed from the direct line. You may recall, Sir, that his full name is Wilhelm-Karl Joachim Albert Hohenzollern-Hohenbranden. There is quite a story that goes with that name.”
“I remember something about that from my school days,” Menzies injected. “Had to do with the Hohenzollerns taking over the Elector of Brandenburg’s land back in the 14th or 15th Century.”
“True. The Hohenzollerns were originally named ‘Zollern’ and gave themselves the lofty addition of ‘Hohenzollern’ from the German word for “high,” or in this case, ‘exalted.’ The Zollerns left their small kingdom in southern Germany for the large state of Brandenburg in the early 15th Century. They literally took over the seat of the Branden family, who were the Electorates, or rulers, and as a consolation prize raised the name of Branden to Hohenbranden. There are a few others I believe that were also so honored. Hohenlobe is one that comes to mind.”
“I have a question, Brigadier,” requested Navy Captain Colby.
“Yes, Reggie?”
“What if anything is the significance of the American pilot’s observation that Prince Wilhelm had a resemblance to some friend of the Yank’s?”
“I’m not certain there is any significance. Do you have some thoughts about it?”
“Well, Sir, I certainly have had only a few moments to think about it, but the more I do the more intriguing it becomes. Look-alikes have been around for a long time. Hollywood is always having a look-alike contest. Who looks like Clark Gable, or W. C. Fields, or Carole Lombard. I once heard that everyone on earth has someone, somewhere that looks like them.
“I don’t know, Brigadier, but I guess I just put the title “prince” together with the Yank’s reaction to the German, and my mind thought of that American Mark Twain’s book, ‘The Prince and the Pauper.’ The idea seems pregnant with possibilities as they say.”
“Hmmm,” the Brigadier pondered, stroking his chin with his left hand, “I presume you are leading to the possibility that we could capitalize on this look-alike situation, eh?”
It was a rhetorical question, so Menzies continued, “If you are thinking we might be able to substitute the American pilot for the Prince, don’t forget, in Twain’s book, both the Prince and Pauper spoke English, and it would be a big stretch of coincidence to find that this American look-alike also spoke fluent German. I’m afraid that is the stuff of fiction stories. In our dark world of espionage and spies, as all of you know well, it is pure, hard, tedious and often boring slogging. If there are any ‘coincidences,’ we usually create them.”
“You are absolutely correct, sir,” Captain Colby diplomatically replied, then added the most used word in the English language to indicate disagreement, “but, suppose for a moment that the American did speak German. Think of the possibilities! I am only suggesting that it would be a small effort to look into this, and I only suggest it, Sir, because you did say that the American look-alike’s name was reported to be Paul Bausser. That is a German name.”
“Reggie, I can let my mind run loose with all your ‘pregnant possibilities,’ but I still believe it is an exercise in futility, not fertility.” The group smiled at Menzies’ try for humor. He continued, “My immediate concern, as I said, is to talk to the PM about a prisoner who happens to be related to His Majesty. The cloak and dagger business can come later.”
Menzies did not want to discourage initiative, and he had to admit to himself that Colby’s thoughts raised intriguing possibilities, if far fetched. Still, it would not be too difficult to check it out.
“I tell you what, Reggie, I’ll call David Bruce and ask him to get a rundown on this Bausser chap, and although I am not a sporting sort, I’ll wager you a quid that the only foreign language the look-alike speaks is American slang!
Colby smiled broadly as did the others and he replied, “You’re on, Brigadier, and thank you.”
“Now that we’ve taken care of the romantic in the group,” and there were renewed smiles because Menzies was not famous for his humor, “let’s get on with the business at hand. Are there any further questions or comments?”
There was no response, so Menzies continued. “One of the primary reasons I called this meeting is to ask each of you to develop a list of the main subjects we want our interrogator to cover when we do question the Prince. I would like to have them before I see the PM.
“As for who will do the interrogation, I suppose we will all have a hand in it from time-to-time. We’ll decide later as not all of you speak German. Now, if there are no questions, we can adjourn. The Prince will arrive here before 1600 hours, and I could be called to the PM’s office at anytime before that. In the meantime, we should prepare to keep the German in London overnight if necessary, maybe longer. Freddie, you handle the arrangements. Good day, gentlemen.”
After the staff had left, Menzies flicked the button on his intercom an said, “Rose, see if you can get David Bruce on the telephone.” Bruce was forty-five year old American Colonel David Kirkpatrick Este Bruce, head of the London office of the U. S. Office of Strategic Services, the OSS, and characteristic of the type of individual initially recruited by Brigadier General Bill Donovan when setting-up the organization.
Bruce was a member of the Establishment, married to Andrew Mellon’s daughter. He was a lawyer, politician and diplomat before the war, and destined to become Ambassador to Britain, France, Germany and China after the war, as well as a member of the House of Delegates in Maryland and Virginia, and for a time, Under Secretary of State in President Truman’s Administration. Bruce was an American aristocrat, and a perfect choice by Donovan for the London office.
The British intelligence community, which had considerable disdain for the American intelligence effort, nevertheless felt like David Bruce was “one of them.” Even his name was very “English,” his manners impeccable, and he was highly regarded by General Donovan, who, after all, was a confidant of both Roosevelt and Churchill
“Colonel Bruce is on the phone, Brigadier,” Rose Thorne’s voice announced from the speaker.
“Hello, David, so glad that I caught you in. How have you been?”
“Good morning, Brigadier. Except for a little ache in my tennis shoulder from this damp weather, I’m doing quite well, thank you - and I hope you are well. What can I do for you today?”
The British intelligence community had been difficult for the Americans to penetrate, even though Roosevelt and Churchill had agreed they would work closely together. Bruce had found himself being given only lip-service to the agreement. He was seldom called into meetings by Menzies, nor had there been any effort as yet to co-locate the two staffs. The phone call from Menzies was rare.
On the other hand, Bruce knew that the British Secret Intelligence Service, MI-6, had a long history and was markedly superior to that of the American’s, who had dismantled what little capability they had after the First World War. Now the British staff for the most part considered the Americans a nuisance at best and bunglers at worst, and didn’t quite trust them to keep a secret. Thus, Brigadier Menzies’ telephone call took on added significance, and Bruce was eager to exploit the accommodation. As a good lawyer he did not reveal his emotions in his voice.
“David, I have quite a sticky wicket on my hands and thought you might, perhaps, be able to give me a hand.”
The Brigadier was using his best, “old boy” tone and manner.
Bruce recognized the ploy. It was a game played by just about anyone who wanted a favor. It was also the first time the Brigadier had asked him for anything, and he was delighted for this possible ice-breaker.
“Brigadier, I would be most happy to accommodate you if possible. What did you have in mind?”
“Frankly, David, I cannot discuss it over this telephone, and it would be easier to explain in person.” Menzies checked the clock on the wall and noted it was 11:05 A.M.
“I know it is terribly short notice, but could you possibly have lunch with me, say 1300 hours?”
“I did have plans, but nothing that cannot be changed. Where would you like to meet?”
“I hope this isn’t putting you out too much, David,” Menzies said in a not-too-convincing voice, “but this matter is very important, and I wanted to talk to you before reporting to the Prime Minister. Shall we say the Guards Club then at 1300?”
Mention of the Prime Minister did impress Colonel Bruce and he said, “Guards club at 1300. See you then.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“So what you are saying, Stewart, is that of the three German princes you know about that are fighter pilots, the one you took prisoner is the only one related to the King.” David Bruce and Stewart Menzies were sitting at a cloth-covered table in a small private area of the dining room. Menzies had told Bruce the whole story without emphasizing his concern about being a relative of the King as a prisoner. He attempted to give the impression that the look-alike possibility was his primary interest, although he felt little enthusiasm for pursuing the subject.
Bruce was immediately enthralled by the possibilities, not that it made any sense because of the long-shot potential, but because he was professionally starved for some means to get the OSS directly involved in the European war front. He was acutely aware that Allen Dulles, Donovan’s man in Bern, and many years later to head the Central Intelligence Agency, was having some success in penetrating the Third Reich. There was a little professional jealousy, at least enough for Bruce to grab at a straw - even a thin one.
I agree, Brigadier, it seems very unlikely that this American pilot, Paul Bausser, would be a good candidate for a spy, and I presume that is what your people had in mind just on the basis he may resemble the Prince. You’re right. That may be a great scenario for Hollywood, but things just don’t happen that easily in real life.
“Just think about it, there is not only a probable language barrier, but a cultural one as well, not to mention a lack of details about the Prince and his personal life, friends and a thousand other details that make this idea implausible. Perhaps it is all these negatives on the other hand that makes it an intriguing idea. Maybe coincidences don’t always happen just in Hollywood. At least it will take little effort on our part to find out about Paul Bausser.”
“Truthfully, David, I am quite skeptical about the whole thing. I only agreed to make the effort because my staff seemed desperate for something to happen in our favor. We have had some very bad luck lately in trying to penetrate Germany. The French Resistance gives us plenty of sources there, but the few German nationals that we have enlisted usually turn out to have some personal vendetta or are common criminals. And it’s true your man in Bern, Dulles, has had a stroke of luck of late. He’s running a fairly well-placed dissident by the name of Gisevius, but otherwise, it has been a dry well as you Americans might say.
“My boys are willing to pursue any lead at this point, and to top it all, we are getting some hefty pressure to get someone into Germany in conjunction with Neptune. I know this one is a real long shot, but we’ve taken them before.”
Bruce was aware that Neptune was the code name for the invasion of the Normandy coast of France planned for early 1944.
Menzies continued. “We’re training an agent now, code name Casper, for Plan Cockney, our little bit of devilishness to find out how much the Germans know about Neptune. I have my doubts about Casper’s ability to do the job. However, we have alternatives, which makes this bloody show a bit risky at best.”
“All right, Brigadier, we’ll give it our best shot. I know that you probably want something ‘yesterday,’ so I’ll give it top priority. Since you will want a picture of this Bausser fellow, we will have to handle this by courier, unless you will accept a facsimile transmission. A courier means three or four days. We can do better by radio and facsimile, assuming we can find a photo quickly and that Bausser is not dead, or lost somewhere on the scrap heap of history.”
“Facsimile and radio is fine, David, and if Bausser is dead or a piece of ‘scrap,’ so be it, and so will the idea be scrap. Nothing lost but a little time, and of course, Paul Bausser!
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
As it turned out, Prime Minister Churchill’s schedule did not permit a quick meeting with his intelligence chief, so the Prime Minister telephoned Brigadier Menzies and received the information about the German prisoner. He agreed with the action being taken by Menzies, particularly waiting to brief the King before any intense interrogation began. Churchill promised to inform the King at the earliest opportunity. In the meantime, the Prince was to be accommodated in London at the Cage.
The next day, the 17th of September, at 2:25 PM, Churchill called Menzies and said, “Have Hauptmann Branden ready for an audience with the King at 1000 hours tomorrow at Buckingham. We will have only a few minutes with His Majesty. And Stewart, I’m just as surprised about the King wanting to see him as you probably are, but it seems that the King has met the Prince before. I’ll meet you at the King’s private office. You know where.” And as an afterthought he added, “It seems that blood may be thicker than water after all, eh Stewart?”
Yes Sir, it would appear that way, but then that is what war is all about, isn’t it Prime Minister?
“What is that?” asked Churchill.
“Blood, Sir - blood!
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Chapter 4
The German officer standing in front of Brigadier Sir Stewart Graham Menzies was the model of the Prussian aristocrat. Slender, slightly over six-feet tall with no hint of delicacy of build, but with the slimness of youth. His oval face was set in a serious cast normal for this young man who preferred the privacy of his own company to others. His brown long hair capped a high forehead that already was showing the lines of stress and the aging of youth when confronted each day with life and death, and often with the decision of whose life and whose death.
His hairline ran straight across this forehead providing an effective frame for the deep-set eyes that were the trademark of the successful German fighter pilot. The blue of his eyes seemed to vary from a darkness that was almost black when he was concentrating intently to an azure during his few times of relaxation, something he had almost forgotten how to do.
The Prince had the high cheekbone structure common in the Hohenzollerns, but also enjoyed the family trait of not having an angular face; his was softer and less forbidding than Hollywood portrayals of the German bad guys.
The one-inch scar on the right side of his chin was his permanent reminder of his first plane crash two years before on the Russian front.
The Prince had an astonishing sixth sense, a valuable asset for survival in the air. He was a perfectionist, self-disciplined, and satisfied the American impression of the rigid Prussian officer. He was an instinctive leader.
There was soon little doubt when meeting the Prince that he was an aristocrat. He carried an air of superiority in his walk, his mannerisms and his speech. His bearing did not invite informality or familiarity.
He was not well-liked by his fellow officers because they mistook his preference for privacy as a sign of aloofness. There was also resentment of the German commoner towards the privileged aristocracy, even in Hitler’s Germany. German royalty never commanded the love and respect from the people as did the British Crown.
Strangely, the Prince preferred to be a farmer. He enjoyed physical hard labor, but his long slender hands were deceiving in this regard. He was physically strong, and enjoyed swimming and skiing, the loner sports.
Hauptmann Wilhelm Branden was quite handsome in his new uniform courtesy of MI-5’s well-supplied warehouse of enemy uniforms and paraphernalia. MI-5 was responsible for counter-intelligence and had a vast array of foreign uniforms and clothing for every occasion. Outfitting in a new uniform was not routine for a German prisoner, but this one was to see the King.
The German officer now wore the popular Fliegerbluse. the Luftwaffe officer’s jacket and riding breeches with black, highly-glossed boots. His Knights Cross was around his throat. The Iron Cross, First Class was on his left lower chest. The German carried his Schirmütze, the German peaked hat, under his left arm. He did not look like the typical prisoner-of-war.
Hauptmann Branden was ushered into Brigadier Menzies’ office. He had not been informed of his pending appointment with the King, nor with Menzies. It was standard practice to keep newly acquired POWs completely ignorant of what was to happen to them creating a psychological situation conducive to a successful interrogation - fear of the unknown. The Nazi’s were masters of the art.
In the case of Branden, he had not been subjected to the subtleties practiced on other POWs. To the contrary, since arriving in London two days earlier he had been treated like a VIP, a very important person.
Menzies had elected not to see the Prince when he first arrived in London. It was at the London Cage in Kensington Palace Gardens that Squadron Leader Harcourt, speaking German, began interrogating the Prince.
When Hauptmann Branden saw the British Brigadier behind the desk, he stiffened to attention with a click of the heels that only a German officer knows how to do with flair, and immediately gave a stiff military salute. He said nothing, although taken by surprise, but did not show it by even a twitch in the eye.
Menzies was seated and did not rise. He did not return the salute, which in his position was not expected, but spoke to the prisoner in German. Menzies was a proficient linguist. “Ah, Hauptmann Branden, or would I be more correct in saying, Prince Wilhelm?”
The greeting caught the German by surprise, but his mind was quick. He assumed the role that had been thrust upon him, a royal prince, and replied in a tone of a superior to someone of lessor position, and with a slight tone of sarcasm. “Perhaps, Brigadier, you would prefer the term “Durchlaucht,” and he was using the untranslatable term that generally means, “your most high and serene,” an exaggerated version of “Your royal highness,” to which Prince Hohenbranden-Hohenzollern was entitled. The nuance was not lost on Menzies.
The gracious host never wavered his smile and said, “Perhaps we should just settle for Hauptmann Branden,” immediately putting the German back into his place as a captured German officer standing in front of his superior officer. Menzies did not offer the German to sit or to relax his stiff stance at attention. So much for airs of superiority.
Menzies turned to Squadron Leader George Harcourt and said, “So, George, you have been elected to be our visitor’s mentor and presumably interrogator? I see the sly hand of Freddie in this someplace.”
Harcourt smiled, “Yes Sir, on both counts. Freddie thought my German proficiency was best, and besides, he’s my boss!”
“So you and our prisoner have had some interesting discussions in the past day or two I presume?”
“True, Brigadier. Branden and I have had some wonderful one-way conversations,” referring to the fact that the German officer held true to his preference to remain silent beyond name, rank and serial number.
George Harcourt, the Third Baron Derwent, a Lord of the Realm, was a pleasant looking man, almost handsome. He was five feet ten inches tall, and had thinning dark brown hair that topped a pleasant round face. The Baron was 46 years old, and already a widower, having been married to Countess Sabina Ozaykowska, daughter of the Chief of Staff of the Romanian Army. She died childless in 1941.
Baron Derwent had inherited his title and his estate from an uncle. The estate, about seven miles outside the coastal city of Scarborough in Stainton Dale, set between the North York Moors and the Yorkshire Wolds, consisted of 15,000 acres including several small villages and a movie-set-like, 18th Century manor home named “Hackness Hall.”
Since the war began, Lord Derwent, who his friends called, George, seldom visited his estate. Half of the house had been rented by the government as an intelligence and communications school. But heating the 99 room mansion was clearly an expensive proposition as it had no central heat and relied upon fireplaces in every major room. War rationing made it impossible to get sufficient fuel to heat more than a few rooms at a time.
George Harcourt had been given a direct commission in the RAF in 1940, and was immediately assigned to the British Intelligence Service because of his linguistic fluency and previous diplomatic service around Europe. He spoke German, French, Romanian, Italian and a passable Spanish.
Menzies turned to the German Prince and said in German, “I hope Hauptmann that you have found your quarters satisfactory. I am sure that under the circumstances, you understand we are unable to provide more suitable arrangements. As a POW, you will be treated as an officer under the Geneva Conventions. That is all I can promise. Despite the prestigious location of the London Cage, Hauptmann Branden’s room was the same as all prisoners’ rooms, bare except for a military cot and minimal cheap furniture. No private bathroom.
Branden answered in his usual sarcasm, “No complaints, Brigadier,” and then added, “After all, I am next to a palace!”
Menzies, always the gentleman, again ignored the sarcasm and said, “‘Good. Now I suspect that you wonder why we have been so helpful in getting you dressed-up for today, something that you can appreciate is not the usual routine for captured enemy officers despite their princely background.”
There was just the slightest hint of a smile on Branden’s face, the closest he had come to a real smile in recent years. “Well, yes, Brigadier, but then I thought that perhaps you were preparing me to accept a British surrender from Winston Churchill!”
This time there was more humor than sarcasm in the German’s voice, and his response brought slight smiles to the German proficient audience, except from Menzies. The Brigadier did not choose to contribute to the levity, and once again ignored the flippant rejoinder.
“His majesty has asked that you come to his office this morning, and I’m certain that you have no objections.” Not waiting for the German to replay, Menzies continued, “Neither the Prime Minister nor I have the foggiest why the King wants to see you, even though you are distantly related, so we cannot advise you what to expect. The King has only a few minutes before he is off on some trip or another, so we will not be long. Lord Derwent will accompany us and act as interpreter. His German is more fluent than mine as you can appreciate. We will meet the Prime Minister at Buckingham Palace. Do you have any questions before we depart?”
This was the first time the Prince had heard Squadron Leader Harcourt referred to as “Lord,” and he thought to himself that he should have recognized aristocracy when he heard Harcourt speak. But to see the King, now that was an even a bigger surprise than meeting a British Brigadier!
This series of events tended to confuse the young Prince as his mind filled with possibilities. At home, being a member of a royal house commanded little respect from the Nazi regime, and not much more from the populace. The German throne had been dissolved by the Treaty of Versailles after World War I, and the many members of princely houses were faced with economic ruin as much of their land holdings were either confiscated, broken-up or sold to pay debts. Many of the populace blamed the aristocracy for the downfall of the German Empire.
Immediately after World War I, some members of Prussian houses, like the Prince’s father, were able to remain in the new Wehrmacht, literally the Defense Force permitted by the treaty. This provided them with a more consistent source of income than rent from impoverished tenants on their lands. The Austrian peasant, Adolph Hitler, hated the aristocracy, yet still stood in a certain awe of them, and needed them to fight his wars.
Although Prince Wilhelm was impressed at the opportunity to see the King, he was the only one in the room that knew the truth.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
King George VI was standing in his office dressed in the uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet. He was to depart in a few minutes for the commissioning ceremonies of His Majesty’s Ship, King George V, a battleship of the latest design mounting nine 16-inch guns, and the pride of the British fleet, named after his father. The King was talking to an aide when the Prime Minister, Brigadier Menzies, Lord Derwent, and the German prisoner were ushered into his private office.
“Your Majesty,” said the Prime Minister, “may I present Hauptmann Prince Wilhelm-Karl of Brandenburg.”
The King looked at the Prince for a moment and then said in English, “Wilhelm, you really haven’t changed much in looks since we met last, although that must have been nearly ten years ago, and you were rather a young man.”
The Prince had made a heel-clicking salute again, and before George Harcourt could translate the King’s remarks, Prince Wilhelm said in accent-free, American English, “Your Majesty is generous to remember our meeting. I was only thirteen at the time, and I hope that I have changed a little.”