Doenitz Blows Cool When Giant, Uber-secret Flying Boats Show Up in Flensburg

Rather than drive directly back to the Marineschule, Cremer drove to a hillside overlooking the tiny harbor. There must have been a hundred ships and boats crammed in there; U-boats, destroyers, freighters and tankers, along with dozens of tugs, gunboats, patrol craft and minesweepers. None flew flags. Floating on the glistening water, in the bright morning light, they looked colorless, except for streaks of red oxide and rust.

“Let me show you something,” said Cremer, pointing to the far corner of the harbor. Ziggy looked and to his utter shock, saw that there was a scattering of seaplanes and behind them, three monstrous four-engine flying boats bobbing in the water. He couldn’t believe it. Until now, the only flying boats he’d ever seen had been much smaller British Catalinas. Early in the war, there had been a lot of enthusiastic talk about some getting built for the German Navy. But since, as the saying went, everything that flew belonged to fat Hermann Goering, a man with a pronounced antagonism towards naval affairs, the matter was apparently shelved. But now, here, a few hundred meters from him, three of them floated like a fact of life.

“My God,” exclaimed Ziggy, “I didn’t even know we had any!”

“Neither did the Grand Admiral,” said Cremer giving a bitter smirk. “Needless to say he flew into a rage when they suddenly appeared the other day. They’re special operations stuff. Flew in two days ago from Bornholm, right when the Russians were moving in. They’re part of something called KG200, a top secret unit no one has ever heard of, not Jodl, not Keitel, not even anyone from the Luftwaffe High Command. Officially they’re Luftwaffe, but under SS command. Of course your friend Westerby seemed to know all about them. Apparently he believes Himmler ordered them here for his getaway.”

“Do you think it’s true?”

“It could be. It’s just that the SS has vanished once they found out that the British were looking for them. Nobody has seen neither hide nor hair of Himmler in days. We heard he was up at Field Marshall Busch’s headquarters for a while, but then Busch withdrew his hospitality and no one knows where he is now.

“So why are the flying boats here?”

“That is the big mystery,” mused Cremer. They just showed up here one morning, like a flock of snow geese. Doenitz had the pilots brought in and demanded they tell him who ordered them to come here. They say they don’t know, that it all comes from a secret source.”

“So what did they claim they’d been using those boats for?”

“Supplying weather stations in Spitzbergen and Greenland.”

“What a waste!” sighed Ziggy. “Think how many U-boat crews we might have saved if we’d had access to them.”

“That’s what the Old Man said."

For a minute, neither of them said anything as they continued to stare at the huge, floating aircraft.

“So how is everything here?” asked Ziggy. “Are things calming down at all?”

“Oh sure, a little,” answered Cremer. “The night the surrender got announced, there was a lot of howling. A mob of U-boat officers stormed into the Old Man’s offices demanding to speak to him. It was about three in the morning. Ludde Neurath sent them all away. He told them the Grand Admiral was sleeping, that they had their orders and they were to follow them and keep their mouths shut. It was really quite a performance. I never imagined Ludde Neurath had it in him. Half of those guys were senior to him. But at the moment, yeah, things are quiet. I don’t know how long that will last. Anything could set it off.”
(An abbreviated version of this chapter appears in Germania, Simon & Schuster, 2008; Kindle download available here).

Albert Speer Dreams of Greenland

To just fly away.

What a thought! To separate oneself from all the details and involvements and get away to a place where life was down to its essentials. He could leave all this behind. Why not? They could take off in a flying boat in the middle of the night and by sunrise they’d be halfway to Greenland.

At least that was how it seemed to Albert Speer while he sat through another morning cabinet meeting. Doenitz sat at the head of the table, correct and steely-eyed as always. Today’s topic was housing. Some bright boy from the transportation ministry was explaining how to mass produce worker housing. It would mean organizing construction into separate phases; one crew putting down piping followed by a concrete bed, the next crew would do the framing, another prefabricated side panels, another a roof and then a finishing crew would put in the electrical wiring and the interior. He argued that with a force of two hundred workers, operating in teams, they could build thirty single-family cottages in a week. The idea was that they could quickly supply semi-permanent family housing for areas where there were high priority factories and industrial sites, but a shortage of usable dwelling space. Speer watched Doenitz nod as he listened to the young man describe the processes and the breakdown of logistics, as though he agreed that under the right circumstances it might actually work. But as it was, they still had not gotten a single go-ahead from the Allied

Control Commission on any of their proposals. They hadn’t even gotten an acknowledgement that the proposals had gone anywhere besides the bottom of a desk drawer.

Eventually the subject switched to renewed Allied demands that the Doenitz Government hand over Reichsfuhrer SS Heinrich Himmler. “I’ve told them again and again that Himmler is beyond my control and that I haven’t seen him since I turned down his request to be in my government,” Doenitz told them. “Now they are claiming to have spotted him inside Flensburg the night before last. I intend to respond that I don’t know anything about it. But please, if any of you hear anything, even just a rumor, bring it to my attention immediately. Anything positive we can tell them would probably help.”

While he listened, Speer began absentmindedly making doodles on the sheet of paper he had for making notes. He started with a small circle, then he began surrounding it with smaller circles, until it resembled a daisy. After that, he started putting down vertical lines, then horizontal ones, and then, almost without realizing it, he began sketching a house.

He started with the front door, making it wide and curved at the top. Then he drew the windows: a square one on the right and a long rectangular one on the left, both the same height, with shutters on the ends. After that, he drew in flowerboxes. He then put in vertical lines, one on each end, to mark out the sides of the house. He followed these with horizontal lines; one to mark the top of the roof and the other the bottom. But no sooner had he drawn them than he realized it had been a mistake. The roof was too low. He wanted to put in a second story, one with a balcony and a long bank of windows and a door. He took out a small gum eraser and began carefully removing the top horizontal lines. Looking up, he saw Doenitz glowering at him. Speer put down more lines. Staring at it, he realized how much more he preferred small-scale to large-scale. Yes, small-scale suited him better. In school, his building designs were all for small-scale structures. That was where the original Speer was, but would anybody bother looking at his designs and trying to figure out where Hitler’s gargantuan influence left off and Speer’s more reasonable, intimate sensibility took over? Was there a chance that someday someone of rare talent and understanding might declare ‘Here! You see! This element is pure Speer! See how the simple, elegant lines emerge!’ A nice thought, but that might take centuries.

Abandoning his straight lines for the moment, Speer’s pencil began making squiggly lines and shapes on the paper to represent the irregular outlines of icebergs. Speer stared at the paper and imagined watching the sunrise from high above the shimmering north Atlantic. Flying west, he’d probably have to leave the cockpit and go aft to find a window he could observe it from. He thought of listening to the heavy drone of the aircraft’s six engines with his hands on the cold metal bulkhead and his nose pressed against the glass and seeing the first rays of light spread across the dark surface of the water, then filling in to reveal the waves’ white foam.

Back in his office, Speer stared out the window and suddenly realized the giant flying boats were gone from the harbor. For a moment he felt a rush of panic as it occurred to him that Baumbach might have flown away without him.
(An excerpt from Germania, first published by Simon & Schuster in 2008, now also available on Kindle here).

Albert Speer, Juggling Fool!

"If the image of Albert Speer, a prominent Nazi, juggling rubber balls as a way to relieve stress in the waning days of the Third Reich doesn't make you sit up and say, "Mein Gott, vas is los?" then Brendan McNally's debut novel, Germania, might not be for you. On the other hand, if rollicking adventures of Jews masquerading as Nazis, secret wartime shipments of gold, SS officers dreaming of hunting walrus in Greenland, and the tense emotional dynamics of theatrical families intrigue you, then Germania will fit the bill quite nicely." (from a review by David Abrams for Barnes and Noble)

Germania by Brendan McNally was first published by Simon &  Schuster in 2008. Now it is also available as a Kindle ebook here.