The Volsung Project

By Robert F. Corwin and M.D.

In September 1944, 10-year-old George Ames sees something impossible a German U-Boat surfacing off the coast of Long Island, New York. As the lone witness, George convinces himself that his imagination is to blame, and quickly puts the memory of the event behind him. Ten years later, George crosses paths with one of the men who surfaced in that U-Boat, proving that what he saw years ago wasn t just his imagination. This chance encounter eventually serves as the catalyst to a 30-year investigation, where George and his associates will discover a horrifying and insidious truth many members of The Third Reich refused to allow their cause to be vanquished even a fter Germany s defeat in WWII. With a fascinating mix of historical fact and fiction, The Volsung Project captivates with twisted and suspenseful intrigue and espionage, leaving a lingering What if? long a fter the last page is turned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781634130813

Book preview

stolen.

Chapter 1

My name is George Ames. I was born April 25, 1933, in Coatesville, Pennsylvania. In September of 1944, I was 10¹/2 years old, and I lived in Berkshire Valley, New Jersey. My father was a Captain in the United States Army Medical Corps, stationed at the Army installation, Picatinny Arsenal, in northern New Jersey. Immediately adjacent to Picatinny Arsenal and separated by only a chain link fence and a gate is the Lake Denmark Naval Air Rocket Test Station (NARTS.) Both facilities were engaged cooperatively in research, development, and testing of solid and liquid propellants for rocket propulsion. My father was one of half a dozen general medical officers stationed there. Base housing was only available for field grade officers or above, so my parents and I lived on the first floor of a two-story house just a few miles from the Arsenal.

My best friend was Dick Becker. His father was a Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Army assigned to Picatinny Arsenal. Colonel Charles Becker wore the insignia of the chemical corps—crossed retorts—on the lapels of his uniform. He was one of the top research chemists at the Arsenal. Since his dad was a field grade officer, Dick lived on post with his older brother, Bill, and his parents. They occupied one of the large, white two-story homes that lined both sides of the residential esplanade on the post and were reserved for colonels and generals. Dick and I enjoyed roaming the woods and ponds that surrounded the Arsenal’s 18-hole golf course. We played at being commandos on secret missions.

The fall term at school had just started, and Dick had invited me to spend Saturday, September 16, with him. That weekend my parents had to make a trip to Carlisle Barracks in Pennsylvania. They planned to leave on Saturday, as soon as Dick’s mother picked me up. On Friday afternoon there was a slight change of plans. Dick’s brother, Bill, came down with acute appendicitis, and he and his mother went to the hospital. Dick’s dad had to make an overnight trip to Long Island on Saturday, and since there was no one to leave us with at the last minute, he decided to invite both of us to go with him. Needless to say, my parents consented as they were anxious for a day without me. I packed my army musette bag with a toothbrush, dental powder, one change of clothes, and, of course, my favorite game.

The Aircraft Spotter game consisted of a set of WWII aircraft identification cards. The set contained 60 cards measuring four inches square. Each card had three views of an Allied or Axis airplane in silhouette on the front side. Printed on the reverse side of each card were the plane’s vital statistics including armament, top speed, type of engine, horsepower, range, maximum altitude, and country of origin. The winner of the game was the player who could identify the most planes correctly and accurately recall the most vital statistics.

Now at this point, the reader needs to keep in mind that I possess a vivid and overactive imagination, coupled with an almost eidetic memory. I don’t forget what I see or hear. So, if this tale appears a little melodramatic or, for that matter, far-fetched, remember the character of the people we were dealing with at that time in history and also my age at the time of this initial incident. Obviously, with a war going on, kids my age were steeped in Allied propaganda. We were all enthralled with our heroes. One of my favorites was Lieutenant Colonel Jimmy Doolittle, who on April 18, 1942, led a flight of sixteen B-25 Mitchell bombers from the deck of the aircraft carrier Hornet to bomb Tokyo, Japan. More recently, another hero of mine was General Dwight D. Eisenhower who was the overall commander of the D-Day operation, the invasion of Fortress Europe. On June 6, 1944, Allied forces landed on the beaches of Normandy on the coast of France and were moving through France toward Germany. Kids in those days listened to the radio serials that were all slanted to the war effort as well. I recall The FBI in Peace and War, Hop Harrigan, America’s Ace of the Airways, and Terry and the Pirates with the Dragon Lady—an Allied spy. My generation was thrilled with movie serials like Don Winslow of the Navy which was a weekly cliffhanger, and Jack Armstrong, The All American Boy. We are all aware of the enemy radio propaganda broadcasts directed toward our troops in the field. Axis Sally broadcast to the troops in Europe. Tokyo Rose sent her message to the men in the Pacific Theater. Their rhetoric was reported on American radio. We all played at war in those days and had our heroes and villains.

Colonel Becker and Dick picked me up promptly at 9:30 a.m. He was driving the family’s 1939 gray Pontiac, which sported a black A gas sticker on the lower left corner of the windshield. I recall the car had the little Indian on the dash that turned red when the bright lights went on. We started the trip on Route 46, which was the main artery into New York. For the first twenty miles, we only passed through a few small villages and towns. Names like Denville, Mountain Lakes, and Whippany come to mind. The first point of interest to me on the trip was the Curtis-Wright Aircraft factory near Little Falls, New Jersey. As we drove by, one could barely see over the high, camouflaged security fences. Peeking over the top of the fences, we could see the distinctive tail assemblies of the Curtis-Wright P-40 Warhawks. Claire Chennault and his Flying Tigers in China had used some of these from 1937 to 1941. We could also see the twin tails of the Mitchell B-25 medium bombers that took Doolittle’s Raiders from the deck of the aircraft carrier Hornet to Tokyo. It felt good to be an American. We were winning the war. The rest of the ride for me consisted of trying to name more planes correctly and reciting the statistics more accurately than Dick. We didn’t see much of the countryside, and, for that matter, we missed seeing the Hudson River while traveling over the George Washington Bridge, the trip through Manhattan, and the East River as we went over the Tri-Borough Bridge. When we did look up to observe our surroundings we were out on Long Island somewhere. At noon we stopped at a diner for lunch and gobbled up bowls of bean soup with bread and margarine. Then we stretched our legs with a jog around the diner parking lot. Despite the blackouts at night, and the fact that there was a war going on, all the beaches including those on the Atlantic side of Long Island had been in use during the summer. Labor Day traditionally marked the end of the summer season on the east coast. Shortly thereafter all the beach houses were closed and boarded up for the winter. September 16 was the second Saturday after Labor Day. As we drove, the beaches were empty and the beach houses were shuttered for the season.

Colonel Becker continued to drive, and we resumed playing our game. We arrived at a beach house in the late afternoon. As we entered the house, I noticed that it had not been boarded up yet for the winter. We took our packs upstairs and, after a brief reconnaissance, staked out a front bedroom with two beds that had a great view of the beach and the ocean. The shore couldn’t have been more than 30 or 40 yards away. We could bunk in together and continue to play after lights out. Since there was time before dinner, we went out to the deserted beach and amused ourselves looking for shells. Dick’s dad called to us a little later to come in for dinner, which consisted of franks and beans. What more could a kid want in life? After dinner, Dick and I helped with the dishes and went upstairs to get ready for bed. As kids will do, we poked around the room looking in drawers and closets. What I found was a treasure! Hanging in the closet was a pair of Bausch and Lomb 8 x 50 naval binoculars. Although Dick was my best friend, he was little short on imagination. I suggested we take turns looking for enemy submarines that might be trying to land Nazi spies. After all, this was a perfect opportunity for the enemy, since all the beaches were deserted now. Dick enthusiastically agreed. We took turns keeping watch at about ten-minute intervals using my Mickey Mouse watch to keep time. The sun had set, and there was only a sliver of a moon and a few clouds. The remaining light allowed us to see the ocean and differentiate the sea from the sky on the horizon. Dick didn’t have much staying power and was falling asleep. Due to my overactive imagination, I still had too much adrenaline pumping in my veins to sleep, so we agreed that if a submarine showed up, I would wake him. I took over the watch. There was no waking Dick once he fell asleep. A bomb couldn’t wake him. Despite my fruitless endeavor as a coast watcher, I was about to run out of gas myself. My lids were getting heavy, but I decided to make the supreme effort as they say in England, For King and Country. I took one last look.

What seemed to appear all of a sudden on the horizon required a second look. There was something that hadn’t been there a few moments earlier. I adjusted the focus back and forth. Then, there it was—a submarine! I couldn’t see a deck gun, but I could make out a distinct conning tower. Her decks, fore and aft, were barely above water. I had no idea of the distance from the shore to the sub. I saw two quick flashes of light, a pause and then one flash from the conning tower. There was motion on the deck in front of the conning tower. I tried to wake Dick up but to no avail. Now the juices were pumping, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the action. I looked up and down the beach and saw no sign of motion. Then I heard the door downstairs close, and a moment later I saw Colonel Becker heading toward the water’s edge. I looked back out toward the submarine and saw what appeared to be a small boat or raft. As it came in toward the beach, I saw two men paddling in the raft. What happened next is still hard to believe. When they reached the beach, both men got out of the raft. One man carried a large item that looked like an oversized thermos jug. The man with the jug wore what appeared to be an American officer’s uniform. Then the second man got out of the raft. He was carrying a small suitcase. He appeared to be wearing a dark sweater. Colonel Becker met them at the water’s edge. While the man wearing the sweater and Colonel Becker were involved in a rather animated discussion, the man in the uniform put down the container he was carrying. Then he moved behind the man arguing with Colonel Becker and pulled a gun with a long bulbous tube on the end of the barrel that I assumed was a silencer. I saw two spurts of flame and then a third spurt as the man fell to the sand. The man in the uniform and Colonel Becker picked him up and put him back into the raft. The man in the uniform opened the little suitcase and seemed to be doing something to it. Then he closed the suitcase, threw it into the raft, and started to push it out to sea. As he did this, the Colonel seemed to be punching holes in the raft with a knife. As it started to drift out with the tide, the raft began to sink slowly. I looked to the submarine and then back to the men on the beach. I didn’t see a signal from the men on the beach, but I saw one from the submarine—one flash, a pause, and then two flashes. I couldn’t believe what I had just seen and wasn’t really sure I had seen it. Since I was the only witness, I decided to keep my mouth shut for once, but my heart was racing a mile a minute. The two men on the beach turned toward the house, and I decided I needed to be asleep in bed and pronto. I pulled the covers back, took off my clothes, and was about to hop into the sack before they got to the house in case they decided to check up on us. But, I couldn’t resist one last look at the submarine. I popped out of bed, ran to the window, and as I focused in on the sub she seemed to be underway moving slowly and effortlessly. Then, while I was watching, a blinding flash of light occurred followed by a noise that sounded like crump! When my vision cleared, which took a few moments, the sub was no longer there. I quickly hung the binoculars up in the closet, jumped into the sack, and lay motionless. So far so good. I heard the door open downstairs. Now every one of my senses was on hyper-alert. My heart was pounding. I distinctly heard the Colonel say, From now on, speak English. I had no idea what had just happened, but the men were American officers and there was a war going on so everything must be in order. But I asked myself, Why would you have to tell another American to speak English? Were they spies? And, if so, for which side? My overactive imagination was now in high gear, but my adrenaline was running out and fatigue finally won over. I kept saying to myself, They were the good guys.

I fell asleep thinking about the activities of the night and awoke to the smell of Spam frying. Spam and eggs, hot dog! Dick and I dressed, brushed our teeth, and headed down to breakfast. On the way, Dick asked what happened after he fell asleep. I replied, Nothing—so I went to sleep, too. Neither of us mentioned the binoculars. In the kitchen, Colonel Becker introduced Dick and me, by our first names only, to the new arrival. As you will see later, this turned out to be a stroke of good fortune. Sitting across from me at the table was a young United States Army Air Corps Major with pilot’s wings, a chest full of ribbons, and an 8th Air Force shoulder patch. A very faint hairline scar ran across his left cheek to his jaw at a slight angle. We assumed it was a result of combat. But what was quite distinctive was the streak of white hair on the left side of an otherwise sandy brown head of short hair. He was introduced to us as Major John Wolfe. He said he few B-17s.

In the corner of the kitchen rested what appeared to me to be a giant thermos jug. Colonel Becker asked the Major how much longer the liquid nitrogen would last in the thermos. The Major said it would last about another 12 to 14 hours. He explained that was the safety margin, but he would like to get it recharged in about 10 hours if at all possible. In military time that would be about 1800 hours, and we should have time to spare. With that, we all cleaned up quickly, and Colonel Becker told us to strip the beds, bring the sheets down to the laundry room, and to pack our gear on the double. In less than ten minutes we had it done. The Colonel locked the door, and we hit the road.

We left the house about 9:30 a.m. by my ever-faithful Mickey Mouse watch. In those days the speed limit was 45 mph. The roads were rough that far out on the Island. In view of the fact that the Island was closed for the season, and all the part-time cops were gone, we sometimes hit the glorious speed of nearly 55 mph on the occasional stretch of open road. I recall that those roads had no shoulders. If you left the pavement, you got stuck in the sand. With the Island almost totally deserted, remaining on the pavement was the order of the day.

When we were just short of New Your City, we stopped for a bite of lunch. It was after 1 p.m. All the way into the city Dick and I continued to play the Aircraft Spotter game, and, occasionally, Major Wolfe would jump in with an answer. Although Dick didn’t seem to notice, it appeared to me that the Major was a little too quick on the Messerschmitt Bf-109 and Focke-Wulf Fw-190.

Of course he knew the B-17 inside and out. He also seemed quite knowledgeable about Dornier and Heinkle bombers as well. Maybe that was to be expected. After Colonel Becker’s warning last night to Wolfe to speak English, my imagination was still in high gear. Wolfe seemed to know the P-40 and the Spitfire. What he didn’t seem to have in his grasp was the newer versions of the P-51 Mustang and P-47 Thunderbolt with drop tanks and the improved bubble canopy on both. That struck me as unusual since this was 1944 and the P-51s equipped with the new drop tanks were escorting the B-17s all the way to targets deep in Germany and back home now. The P-47 with their new drop tanks now had the added range to wreak havoc on the enemy infantry and armor while supporting our ground troops. The other thing that struck me as odd was the fact that the Major kept checking the time and asking how far we were from our destination. He seemed very concerned that the liquid nitrogen supply in the thermos would be exhausted before we arrived. Colonel Becker kept assuring him that we were on schedule. Whatever he had in that container, it seemed to me, was an awfully valuable commodity.

When I arrived home, dinner was ready and on the table. After dinner, I tried to relate to my parents what had happened to me the night before. My mother listened as she puttered about in the kitchen clearing the dinner dishes. My father, still sitting at the table, seemed totally absorbed reading a sheaf of official-looking documents. When I stopped talking, they both politely responded simply, That’s a very interesting story, George. I gave up and headed for my room to read.

Chapter 2

In Europe, WWII came to an end in May 1945, and my father was discharged from the Army in the fall of that year. We had resided in Berkshire Valley during the two years that he had been stationed at the Arsenal. Mom and Dad now faced the prospect of deciding where to put down roots and where he had a reasonable chance of establishing a general medical practice. Faced with the fact that there would be hundreds of recently discharged medical officers coming home with the same objectives, they decided to remain in the area they new best and liked—Berkshire Valley.

Even though he had been discharged from the Army, my father had a membership to the Picatinny Golf Club and the Post Exchange as well. There were also a number of beautiful lakes that were good for recreation and, more importantly, two very good hospitals in the nearby communities of Dover and Morristown where my father already had privileges. Dad was always busy taking care of his patients, day and night. We moved to a two-story early 20th century white house with green trim. His office, like most of the GPs of that time in that part of the country, was on the first floor of the house. As busy as he was, he always seemed to have a few minutes for a good story. On Sunday afternoons, he would take me into the woods behind the house where there was a steep hill. We had made a little rifle range, and we would shoot our .22 rifle at cans. He was a good shot, and I took to guns like a duck to water. In my teens, I attended the new regional high school. I had both an interest and aptitude for the sciences and it appeared that I was headed for medical school. My friends started to call me Doc when I was a high school freshman. In the midst of all my academic endeavors and student government activities, I found time to participate on the school rifle team.

My family was aware of my interest in medicine and contacted one of my uncles who had graduated from North Carolina State University. On his suggestion, I investigated the major colleges in North Carolina. His reasoning was quite sound and practical. New Jersey had a long-standing anti-vivisection law. Therefore, the state couldn’t have a medical school. On the other hand, North Carolina had three. After visiting a few of the recommended colleges there, I chose to attend North Carolina State. It proved to be a good choice for me. I joined the ROTC and, as a freshman, made the rifle team. At this time in my life I developed an intense interest in American history. The American Revolution, the War Between the States, and the weapons of those periods were of special interest to me. While attending college, I also found time to attend a number of antique gun shows. By the time I finished college I had acquired two Civil War cap and ball pistols. One was an 1860 Army model, and the other was an 1849 pocket pistol. They were both Colts. In addition, I purchased a few books to learn about them. My college years flew by, and I was fortunate to have been accepted to medical school at the University of North Carolina in the fall of my junior year. What a lucky break! I had my summer free!

Good summer jobs were always at a premium. During spring break, I returned home to look for summer employment. I applied and obtained a position as a lifeguard and swimming instructor at a day camp. The idea of being a lifeguard sounds more glamorous than it really is. I did a lot of pool cleaning, but the salary was good. I was given permission to teach private swimming lessons to a few kids after hours, and I had the weekends off to play golf and go sailing at nearby Lake Hopatcong.

It was during those halcyon days of the summer in 1953 that I first met Garnett Hill. He was a new patient in my father’s practice. In the process of obtaining a complete and detailed medical history, my father always included a social history as well. During this affable discourse, Hill’s military service came to light. Apparently, in spite of the fact that they had never met before, my father and his new patient, who had been a Colonel, explored the common bond all military officers share. A casual remark about firearms by either the Colonel or my dad led to a brief discussion about Civil War weapons, and that’s where I got involved. The Colonel, through my dad, offered me an invitation to visit him and shoot some of his Civil War muskets and rifles. It seems he had accumulated quite a collection that he had started as a youth in Virginia. When I arrived home on the evening of the Colonel’s appointment, my dad told of the events of the day and handed me a piece of paper with his phone number on it. I made the call before supper. After a short phone visit, we made plans to meet on the weekend to do a little shooting.

Chapter 3

Colonel Hill lived near the village of Chester, New Jersey. His home was conveniently located near an abandoned quarry in a wooded area outside of town. When I arrived, he took me to his den where he introduced me to his display of fine European dueling pistols. I was totally awed. The Colonel promised one day he would tell me how he had acquired them. Then he led me to his basement. There, against the wall in vertical racks, were at least 20 or more percussion muskets, carbines, and rifles, all of Civil War vintage. They were