“A windsock indicates to the pilot how the wind is blowing,” von Wachtstein explained.
“I suspect that this will not be the last time we will meet on a windy beach,” Cranz said. “Have a windsock the next time.”
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer. I assure you that omission will not happen again,” Schmidt said.
“See that it doesn’t,” Cranz said. He then smiled and asked, “I hope you did give some thought to our lunch?”
Schmidt pointed to an area behind the trucks, where von Wachtstein saw a tent fly had been erected over a folding wooden table.
“It is not much, Herr Standartenführer, but it will stave off starvation.”
It turned out to be sort of an Argo-German picnic lunch, served from insulated containers whose markings made it clear they belonged to the Argentine army. They were painted a dark olive drab, showed signs of frequent and hard use, and had serial numbers stenciled on them in white.
They contained empanadas, knockwurst and sauerkraut, leberwurst, butter and condiments, kaiser rolls, and loaves of rye bread of a kind von Wachtstein hadn’t seen since leaving Germany. It was all served on a white tablecloth by a young man in blue workman’s coveralls.
Von Wachtstein refused both beer and wine, saying he had to fly.
When lunch was over and the table cleared, another map was produced.
“Be so good as to explain to Major von Wachtstein his role in the operation, ” Cranz ordered.
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer,” Schmidt said. He used a pencil to point at the map. “The U-405 is here, Herr Major, just outside Argentine waters. In other words, twenty-one kilometers; twenty to comply with maritime law, plus one kilometer as a safety factor. Our last communication with it—”
“The Kriegsmarine would say ‘her,’ ” Cranz corrected.
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer,” Schmidt replied, then went on: “The last communication with her was early this morning. There be will no other radio communication with her unless there is an emergency of some sort. Now that we have the airplane, that won’t be necessary. U-405 currently is submerged. At sixteen-thirty, she will come to the surface, where she will hope to see you, Herr Major, in your Storch. That will—”
“Presumably, von Wachtstein,” Cranz interrupted, “you will be able to find U-405, now that you know where she is?”
“If she’s where the Herr Oberst indicated, I can, Herr Standartenführer.”
“Why did you refer to Herr Schmidt as ‘Herr Oberst,’ von Wachtstein? And don’t tell me that it’s because all obersts recognize one another.”
Because my old friend the oberfeldwebel addressed him as such, you arrogant prick.
“It was a slip of the tongue, Herr Standartenführer. I can’t imagine that Herr Schmidt would be an Argentine coronel.”
“Of course not,” Cranz said.
They all smiled at each other.
Schmidt continued: “Seeing the Storch will be the signal for the U-405 that everything is going according to plan. She will acknowledge seeing you by some means. Will you be low enough to see someone waving a flag?”
“I can fly low enough to see someone smiling at me, Herr Schmidt,” von Wachtstein said, and they all smiled at each other again.
“The U-405 will then submerge,” Schmidt resumed, “and head toward the beach, to this, the fifty-fathom line. At ten knots, she should be there in under an hour—”
“By which time,” Cranz interrupted again, “Sturmbannführer Raschner and Fregattenkapitän Boltitz will be here.”
What the hell is Raschner doing with Boltitz?
I know he said they were driving here in an American Packard, but why?
“Yes, sir?”
“At seventeen forty-five,” Cranz explained, "U-405 will rise to periscope depth and look for a signal which Fregattenkapitän Boltitz will transmit with a signal lamp. On receipt of that signal, she will surface and come closer to the beach. . . .”
Cranz gestured somewhat imperiously at Schmidt to pick up the story. “This is the ten-fathom line,” Schmidt said, pointing to the map with the pencil. “It is, as you can see, about five hundred meters from the beach.”
“Yes, sir,” von Wachtstein said.
“During this period, we will have communication with the U-405 with the signal lamp,” Schmidt went on. “When she is in position, she will launch rubber boats to bring the special cargo ashore. As soon as it is ashore, the U-405 will move to the fifty-fathom line, submerge, and return to the high seas.”
“And while all this is going on, von Wachtstein,” Cranz said, “you will be flying overhead the shoreline to make sure that Herr Schmidt’s plans to make sure no one happens to come up the beach have been as good as he assures me they will be. And as soon as you see the rubber boats heading for the beach, you will land in case something has come up that will require your aviation skills.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have any questions, von Wachtstein?”
“No, sir. But I think I had best see about refueling the Storch.”
“Can Schmidt’s men handle that?”
“I’d rather do it myself, sir.”
“Speaking of Schmidt, is there any reason Schmidt could not go with you when you go to signal the U-405?”
Afraid you might get your feet wet, Herr Standartenführer?
“No, sir.”
“I think his splendid work setting this up has earned him that privilege,” Cranz said.
“Yes, sir. So do I.”
[FOUR]
38 Degrees 26 Minutes South Latitude 58 Degrees 59 Minutes West Longitude Off Necochea, Buenos Aires Province, Argentina 1625 23 July 1943
Herr Erich Schmidt had become visibly nervous when he could no longer look over his shoulder and see the landmass that was Argentina, but not nearly as nervous as Standartenführer Karl Cranz had looked when von Wachtstein had descended rapidly on their way to Necochea.
Von Wachtstein almost regretted telling him, “No, sir. There are no life preservers on the aircraft. When the standartenführer told me we were not going to fly over the River Plate, I removed them.”
And Cranz saw me take them out.
Which is more than likely—likely, hell!—OBVIOUSLY the reason he rewarded Schmidt with the privilege of going out to meet the U-405.
Right after takeoff, von Wachtstein had done the navigation in his head.
Course: Due east. Altitude: 1,000 meters should do it. Length of flight: Winds off the ocean at probably 20 kilometers, indicated airspeed of 150, so that’s 150 minus the 20-kph headwind, or 130. And 130 into 21 kilometers is—what?—hell, call it a fifth of an hour.
Twelve minutes into the flight by the elapsed-time clock mounted above the windscreen, he started to examine the surface of the ocean.
No whitecaps, just rolling seas.
Wait, there’s a whitecap . . . no, that’s not a whitecap.
The rushing wave he’d spotted grew larger and whiter, then turned into a pole racing across the sea.
A sub periscope.
Goddamn! There she is, Lindbergh!
You get the Luftwaffe Prize For Dumb Luck Dead-Reckoning Navigation.
"There she is, sir,” von Wachtstein said, banking the Storch to give Schmidt a better look.
The periscope was now visibly atop a submarine’s conning tower. Then a deck-mounted cannon broke through the waves. People appeared in the conning tower. One of them pointed at the Storch. Another ran aft of the conning tower to a sort of iron-pipe railed platform.
Von Wachtstein saw a flag appear as the U-405 came completely to the surface.