“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.