Codename Vengeance

By David Wright

When an American pilot on loan to the RAF shoots down three British spitfires in his own squadron, and then crash-lands at a German airbase in Holland, the Nazi SS have more than a few questions about his identity. Who is this American? A deserter? A traitor? A maniac? Or truly a German spy as he claims to be? Before they can interrogate him to find the answers, Henrik escapes the airbase and travels on foot to Amsterdam for mysterious reasons of his own. Apparently, he has returned from America, not to deliver top secret plans of the atomic bomb, but to smuggle his former fiancé, Esther Jacobs, out of German occupied Holland in a hidden submarine. There is only one problem with his plan. What if she doesn’t want to go? Before he can convince her to come with him, Esther and her family are evacuated to a Jewish concentration camp in the Harz Mountains. Now Henrik must choose between his tainted loyalty to an evil regime or his forbidden love for a Jewish woman. Will he continue to work on Hitler’s dreaded Vengeance weapons with the secrets he has brought with him from America, or will he set out on a doomed mission deep into the heart of the Third Reich to save Esther and her family? Whatever his decision, only the fate of the civilized world hangs in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scribl
• Release date: Oct 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781476207896

David Wright

DAVID M. WRIGHT, president and owner of Wright Financial Group, CLU, ChFC®, is a thirty-plus-year veteran in the financial services industry, working with individuals, families, and businesses in many different financial areas. He is Series 65-licensed, specializing in working with those nearing or in retirement. He has helped hundreds of people maximize the utility of their money with non-stock market, income-generating financial products. David currently resides in Sylvania, Ohio, with his wife, Marcia. He has two sons and two beautiful grandchildren, Olivia, Jacob and Ethan. In his downtime, he enjoys singing at his church, playing golf, and relaxing with his family.

Book preview

Prologue: Betrayal!

________________

The American was a good two inches taller than the tallest Brit in the squadron. Spitfire cockpits were small and required small pilots, but the American wasn’t flying a British Spitfire. He had an experimental airplane that had been shipped over from the new world, a faster, more durable fighter with a big engine that roared like a tiger. And the American was here to put it through its paces in real combat.

But it was more than just his hot American airplane and his lanky American height that distinguished this Yank. It was something about the way the Marlboro cigarette dangled from his dry lips, the way he lit a match with the flick of his thumbnail. It was the way the wind teased the ends of his wavy brown hair and the way he looked right through you with his brazen, blue eyes. Or perhaps it was just the way he leaned up against the fuselage of his Mustang as if he were a cowboy at a rodeo and not an air force pilot being sent off to die.

Who’s the Yank? Sergeant Smythe sized up the stranger from a distance with a mixture of jealousy and disdain. It was an unspoken axiom that RAF pilots despised their American Allies, especially the ones who volunteered to join the battle for Europe, not because they thought them cowardly for joining the war late or greedy for making a fortune off the manufacture and sale of weapons.

Certainly they thought these things, but that’s not what made them jealous. It was the vulgar manner in which those tall, good-looking hotshots spread their dough around at the local pub, buying up all the best beer and stealing all the prettiest girls. The British ladies flocked to the foreign pilots like hummingbirds to honey. At only three shillings a day, the average RAF pilot just couldn’t compete.

That’s all we need—another guts and glory Yank who wants to add a few more crosses to his engine cowling. He’ll get us all killed.

Stow it, Smythe.

Smythe turned abruptly to see Major Harris standing behind him. He saluted sharply and then gave his wingman an evil glare. The wingman just shrugged. He was a Canadian himself and hated Smythe’s snobbery more than he hated Yanks, maybe even more than Jerries, but he wouldn’t admit that out loud.

Take a good look at that man’s aircraft, Sergeant. Do you see how many crosses he already has on the side of that monster? You’re looking at one of the few pilots to get off the ground at Pearl Harbor. He’s been flying ops over the Japs heads for the past six months and now he’s come to help us fight the Hun. Do you have a problem with that? Smythe shook his head and Major Harris picked up a Mae West off the field and slammed it into Smythe’s narrow chest. How about you go and introduce yourself, William? He’s your new wing commander and you’re darn lucky to have him.

Smythe cringed.

Two miles over the North Sea, Eagle Squadron encountered heavy resistance from ground-based antiaircraft fire. They lost two Spitfires in the English Channel before breaking through the coastal defenses and into enemy airspace. Their mission was simple, but risky. They were to locate the Luftwaffe’s new airbase in Holland and make it back alive to relay the vital information to the bombers. If only it were that easy . . .

Stay frosty, Eagles. Keep your tails clean and your eyes peeled for that airbase. Major Harris scanned the green fields as he spoke into his radio transmitter. He saw a small patch of darkness, like the shadow of a bird, race across the field and into the trees, and then he heard gunfire.

He’s gone crazy. He’s after me. I can’t shake him.

Harris heard the frantic voice over the radio and looked up just as a flaming aircraft crossed his path. He banked suddenly to the right and the airplane crashed into the trees and exploded in a brilliant fireball that singed the trim lines on Harris’ tail. What was that? he exclaimed. Was it one of ours?

It was Sergeant Smythe, Harris’ wingman answered over the radio. Harris scanned the horizon in all directions, but there was nothing, no sign of another plane anywhere.

Delta Wing, do you read me? Come in, Delta Wing.

Static answered.

Harris felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck and his hands begin to perspire. Wing Commander Douglas, report your position.

It’s that blasted Yank. Harris’ wingman cursed. Harris couldn’t believe it. Lieutenant Douglas may have been an American, but he was a celebrated war hero. It couldn’t be him. But if it was . . .

Harris looked up. A black shape was forming in the center of the sun. It grew larger, sprouted wings and then belched fire. Harris screamed as the cannon shells ripped through his cockpit and turned his unprotected body into mincemeat. There was enough left of his dead hand to rest on the joystick and send his Spitfire careening wildly into his startled wingman. Both planes exploded on impact and then plunged into the green fields of Holland.

One mile away, Field Marshal Schmitt watched the explosions through his field glasses. Will the British never learn how to fly? He gloated with more than a little arrogance. The rumble of the explosions was still echoing over the airbase. Gunners had been alerted, but no British squadron arrived to meet them. The old general listened for the distinctive purr of the Spitfire’s Rolls Royce engines, but he heard nothing like that. There was the sound of an approaching engine, but it was muffled and soft as if it were coming from only one plane.

Sir, I’m receiving a message. The radio operator tried to get the field marshal’s attention but his ear was still tuned to the sound of the approaching aircraft.

Yes. What is it? he said testily.

He says, Stop, don’t shoot.

Is this a joke? The sound was growing louder, just beyond the trees–a single prop fighter flying very low. It’s a trick. Ready the gunners.

But field marshal, the message is in German.

A solitary airplane appeared over the treetops. It wagged its square wings up and down with comic exaggeration.

The radio operator looked up at the general. His German is very good. I think he’s from the Brandenburg region around Berlin. My father was from Brandenburg and he spoke—

I know where Brandenburg is, you idiot. I was born there. What does he want?

He wants to land. He has important information for Reich Command. He says he’s a German operative, codename Vengeance.

Field Marshal Schmitt hesitated. He didn’t know the name but he knew there were German spies in the West and it would be a black mark on his illustrious career if he shot one down before he had a chance to deliver his message to high command. If he let him land, however, he could always kill him later. A single fighter plane couldn’t do much damage to his new airbase, not without a very large bomb attached to it, and fighters couldn’t carry large bombs. The marshal, who was never a quick thinker at the best of times, was just about to make up his mind when he heard the tower machine gun battery come alive with a resounding ack ack.

Cease fire! Schmitt bellowed angrily, but the damage had already been done. The slowly approaching target had been almost impossible to miss. Schmitt watched helplessly as the fighter plane’s single engine burst into flames. In seconds, the aircraft was fully encompassed in thick, black smoke. The marshal heard the engines stutter. He could no longer see the aircraft, but a moment later he heard the crash and saw the tell-tail signs of smoke rising over the trees. Schmitt felt a heavy weight deep in the pit of his stomach.

#

Deep in the heart of Germany two men raised their shotguns and fired. The first man missed. The second did not. Caught in the chest with an ounce of buckshot, the pheasant folded up its brown feathery wings and plunged into the leafy undergrowth where it would be retrieved a minute later by a yelping English setter.

Fine shot, admiral. You are an amazing sportsman for a man of your age. Heydrich put an extra emphasis on the last few words, but Canaris appeared not to notice.

Stepping down from his magnificent white gelding, he broke open his shotgun and emptied the spent shell.

Admiral Canaris was an older man with gray hair and wrinkles deep in his forehead, but his eyesight was still sharp and he rode like a true gentleman. Obergruppenfuhrer Heydrich wasn’t particularly jealous of the admiral’s hunting abilities. He could shoot and ride just as well as the next man and some day he was sure to surpass his old master, if not today. But if there was a particular talent that worried Heydrich, it was the admiral’s sinister brand of intelligence, his uncanny way of knowing things he should not and speaking and acting in polar antithesis. If he ever became an enemy, Admiral Canaris would be a truly dangerous opponent.

You flatter me, Herr Heydrich. I am lucky. That is all. Canaris took the morning’s catch from his enthusiastic canine companion. It was a good-sized bird and would make a lovely dinner. I do wish you would reconsider. My Nora makes a lovely raisin strudel, my cellar is fully stocked and I can’t possibly finish this buxom bird all by myself. He held up the dead pheasant to prove his point. We can while away the end of spring in warm fellowship, good food and even better wine.

Heydrich waved away the suggestion as if it were a troublesome fly. That may be all right for a retired admiral such as yourself, but I have a country to run.

I understand. He lowered the bird sadly. I heard you were recently promoted to Reichsprotektor of Bohemia and Moravia. Congratulations. It must be a great honor, especially to a man so young.

Yes, admiral, it is. Heydrich eyed Canaris for a moment, trying to see past the polite words. Just then Heydrich’s chauffeur appeared through the trees, running awkwardly down the narrow forest trail in his heavy black boots.

See what I mean, admiral. My job is never done. If you’ll excuse me.

Of course.

Heydrich urged his horse down the trail to meet the beleaguered soldier who then handed him a message. Heydrich read it quickly and his eyes widened.

Codename Vengeance? he asked with surprise.

Yes. I don’t know what it means, but that’s what the marshal said on the telephone.

The sergeant may not have known the codename, but Heydrich did. After three years, Germany’s top spy in America had finally come home. But who was he and why had he returned? And why Amsterdam? Heydrich looked back over his shoulder at Canaris who was busy loading the dead bird into his satchel. He must know something, but he would never tell, that wily old fox. Heydrich would have to move quickly if he wanted to out-spy the spymaster.

He turned back to his chauffeur. Wake Colonel Hausenberg. Tell him to purge the ghetto.

Sir? The sergeant looked stunned. But there are thousands of Jews still in Amsterdam. The camps are not ready.

Call in the Wolf Corps. Get it done.

Yes sir.

But first I want you and Klein to go on ahead. See to this other matter personally. And Schliemann, no mistakes this time. Heydrich stared at the old sergeant sternly.

Heil Hitler! Schliemann answered with a stiff salute and then hobbled off down the forest path. Heydrich glanced back at Canaris who was waiting patiently on his beautiful white horse.

Nothing urgent, I hope, the retired admiral called over the fifty-foot patch of trail between the two men. A flock of pheasant scattered into the air between them, startled by the admiral’s prowling bird dog. Neither man aimed raised his gun.

Trouble in Bohemia.

Pardon me!

I said trouble in Bohemia. I’m afraid I will have to decline your invitation and head back immediately.

What a shame.

Heydrich laughed to himself. He was confident that the old admiral had heard none of what was said to the sergeant nor did he know anything yet about his recent bit of news. There was a time when nothing of interest to the Third Reich could have occurred in Europe, or in the rest of the world for that matter, without Canaris somehow knowing about it. But the old man’s cunning intuition was failing him at last, just as his hearing had failed him years ago. His days as the vaunted spymaster of Germany were numbered, and Heydrich was poised and ready to take his place.

But the over-confident Reichsprotektor of Bohemia and Moravia, and head of Germany’s ever expanding National Security Department, the SD, was forgetting one important detail. He had been so focused on the old admiral’s failing hearing that he had completely forgotten about his sharp eyesight and keen ability to read lips. Canaris may not have been able to hear the words spoken between Heydrich and his SS goon, but he could see them. And one word was of particularly interest to him, a word he had not seen or heard spoken for a very long time.

The codename Vengeance.

#

In the dead of night, the SS Wolf Corps arrived, their black leather flack jackets sparkling in the rain and their high-necked boots sending shivers down the marshal’s spine. The marshal had been a German soldier for twenty-seven years. He was a kingmaker from the Prussian school, complete with pointed helmet, silver cross and monocle. He had seen German dictators come and go, but there was something especially unnerving about the Schutzstaffel, the SS as they were called throughout Europe. And the SS Wolf Corps were the worst. A secretive organization outside of the normal chain of Wehrmacht army command, they answered to no one but Reichsfuhrer Himmler, and that made them dangerous . . . even to true-blooded Germans like General Schmitt.

The marshal might have felt more confident meeting the SS in his best uniform with his shiny bronze medals giving testament to his courage and loyalty to the Fatherland. But, alas, his jacket had gone inexplicably missing in the night. He was certain he had worn it today. Where could it have gone? Perhaps some overly enthusiastic corporal had taken it to be dry-cleaned. Perhaps he was at this moment polishing the shiny bronze medals with dreams of promotion dancing in his thick head. The marshal was not a man to suffer fools gladly. Somebody was going to pay for this mistake with a quick trip to the Russian front.

The SS colonel removed his wet, leather gloves and slapped them onto his hand like a whip. Where is the traitor?

Right this way, Commandant. The marshal walked quickly toward the infirmary, but spoke even quicker. Despite his age and reputation as an honorable soldier, he could not restrain his nervousness. I don’t believe he is a traitor. I personally witnessed his attack on an entire Spitfire squadron less than a mile away from the base. He says he is a German spy from America.

I will be the judge of that, the SS officer snapped. His name was Colonel Hausenberg. He did not introduce himself, but the marshal knew him by reputation—one off Himmler’s many SS lapdogs, although this one was more like a trained pit fighter, hungry for blood.

There was a time when Marshal Schmitt might have received some recognition for making such a catch—a pat on the back or a polite luncheon with the Fuhrer. As little as a year ago, the marshal would have looked upon such an incident as perhaps a stepping stone to further advancement. But nowadays, with the SS stomping all over the Third Reich, it was just too dangerous. What if this were a British trick? The marshal could be blamed for it. He might even be brought up on charges or whisked off to some horrible dungeon in the middle of the night. Stranger things had happened.

Schmitt stopped in front of the infirmary doors and waited for the sentry to unlock them. The SS officer was looking at his watch impatiently and the marshal felt compelled to voice his concerns.

I hope, Colonel, that if this information proves useful, you might remember me to high command. I would so much like to return to Berlin. This Holland rain and bourgeois food are giving me gout. The sentry fumbled with the wrong key and Schmitt continued talking nervously. I wish I could tell you more about this mysterious pilot, but he was badly injured. He was lucky to survive the landing.

Oh yes, marshal. How did he receive such damage to his engine?

The marshal froze. As I told you in the report, he took on a whole Spitfire squadron single-handedly. He must have received the damage from them.

A mile away? It was a miracle that he could make it to the runway.

Schmitt squirmed under the colonel’s steely gaze and then the sentry thankfully found the right key and opened the infirmary doors.

You may wait here, marshal, the colonel ordered. The SS officer and his two Wolf Corps troopers marched confidently into the infirmary and Schmitt sighed with relief. It was a feeling that wouldn’t last. A moment later, an icy voice was calling to him from the other side of the infirmary doors.

Oh marshal, you may come in now.

Schmitt felt a wave of apprehension. He entered the dim infirmary and his heart sank. I can’t understand it.

I assure you, marshal, neither can I.

But he was right here. There has been a sentry at the door all night.

The SS officer turned to the sentry who was now literally shaking in his boots. Has anyone been in or out of this room since the traitor was brought in? The sentry looked at the marshal questioningly. Speak up, soldier.

No one, sir.

You are absolutely positive?

The sentry seemed to waver, his boyish eyelashes flickering with moisture. No one except the marshal, sir.

What do you mean? Marshal Schmitt demanded.

The sentry turned to the marshal pleadingly. No one has come or gone from this room except you, sir.

Of course. I brought the pilot into the infirmary, the marshal explained to the SS officers. I was here when they bandaged his head and sponged his burns. But then I left with the doctor.

And then you left again, sir. The moisture in the sentry’s eyes was threatening to become full fledged tears at any moment.

What are you talking about? Have you lost your mind?

No, sir. A solitary tear, large and round, finally forced its way out of the young private’s left eye and onto his cheek. He couldn’t have been a day over seventeen. I thought you had gone with the doctor, but then an hour later, I heard a knock from inside the infirmary. I unlocked the door and there you were.

Schmitt looked at the SS officer and shook his head in utter bewilderment, but the sentry, having once found his tongue, would not be silenced.

You said the pilot was sleeping and not to be disturbed. It was dark. You had turned out the lights, but I knew it was you, marshal, because of your voice and because you were wearing your parade jacket with all the medals.

Schmitt gasped. The SS officer turned to him for an explanation, but he had none, or at least none that he was willing to share.

Chapter 1: Amsterdam

________________

Henrik Kessler arrived in Amsterdam just after eight. He had been traveling all night across German occupied Holland and his feet were killing him. Thankfully the marshal had big feet. Better a shoe that was two sizes too big than two sizes too small. The rest of the marshal’s uniform was equally useful and he had very little trouble convincing the local Gestapo that he was a man of great importance that must not be delayed. His jacket had more medals on it than most divisions would receive in a year. Henrik almost felt guilty for having stolen it. The old general had obviously been a brave and honorable man at one time despite what he had become.

Papers? asked the gate warden without looking up. Henrik’s subsequent silence forced the warden to lift his head and then his eyes widened with sudden apprehension. He stood immediately and saluted. Oh, I’m sorry, general.

Nonsense. You were just doing your duty. Henrik feigned the heavy drawl and deep jowl of the marshal’s voice that effectively added ten years to his appearance. It was a fun accent, not unlike his father’s Prussian growl. He took a step and the warden coughed nervously.

Your papers, sir? the warden asked again meekly. So the young warden was not to be put off by a fancy uniform. He had a job to do, and he was going to do it.

Of course, son. Henrik smiled and reached under his jacket. It had been a stroke of good luck that the old marshal had left his parade jacket in the infirmary. After listening to Henrik’s wondrous tales of international intrigue and high adventure for several hours, the enraptured general had grown hot, removed his jacket and not noticed when Henrik had covered it with his bed covers.

But a jacket and a convincing accent could only get him so far—just past the sentry in fact. Henrik knew he had a long distance to travel that night and so he’d taken the time to break into the marshal’s office and pick up a few things—the marshal’s shoes, for instance, and his Luger pistol. Even now as he reached under the marshal’s heavy jacket, he felt the comforting cold steel of the pistol against his fingertips. It might come in handy yet, but not now.

He released the gun. Fortunately for the city gate warden, Henrik had also found a set of old travel papers, which he now handed over with great confidence. They were out of date, but Henrik was able to fix that problem with a few well-placed smudges. The warden gave the papers a cursory glance and then handed them back.

Everything is in order, marshal. You are free to go.

Why thank you, lieutenant. Keep up the good work. The Fatherland is counting on your vigilance.

The warden smiled shyly and Henrik walked past him through the gate.

Amsterdam had changed a lot since he’d seen it last. The beautiful spring tulips and geraniums that once decorated every windowsill, doorway and sidewalk café, were conspicuously absent. The sound of children playing, the smell of fresh baked pastries, the call of the milkman making his daily rounds from the local dairy—all gone. There was still business, but it was sedate and joyless under the ever watchful eye of armed German soldiers.

In the back of his mind, Henrik had hoped that the German occupation of Holland would have been more peaceful, more of a political change rather than a social one. He had hoped that the American newspapers were simply exaggerating the effects of the German invasion as part of the propaganda campaign against Hitler and the Third Reich. But there was no denying his senses. The evidence of martial law was everywhere. The Dutch were an oppressed people under an intolerant military regime.

Despite his private meditations, Henrik continued to maintain his cover. He marched down the Prince’s Canal with the confident stride of a proud German officer, his nose stuck in the air, an impatient and arrogant look in his eye, until he reached the Jewish quarter,