The Hess Cross (8 page)

When the flurry of orders ended, Sackville-West rose and walked around the desk, indicating the meeting was over. He put his hand on Crown's elbow and said, "I'll walk you downstairs," meaning he had further instructions out of Smithson's hearing. As Crown left the room, he saw Smithson busily sweeping tobacco crumbs from the desk just vacated by the Priest. Smithson carefully dropped them into the wastepaper basket.

As they slowly descended the stairs, Sackville-West said, "I was a little hard on Smithson back there. Don't underestimate his value. He's in charge of our entire Midwest effort. And for some reason which escapes me, he's very good at it. The Germans are busy in the U.S., but Chicago has less instances of so-called accidental power blackouts, explosions, and missing personnel than any other area in the country. Smithson knows his job."

"What about Miguel's killer?"

"You don't have time to look for him. Stay away from that. That's an order."

"I want him dead." Crown could not keep the fever out of his voice.

Sackville-West said in a softer voice, "John, the importance of your assignment can't be overstated. The stakes
are enormous. Your job is to escort Hess from London to Chicago. Miguel is gone, and you've got to forget him for a while."

Not very likely, Crown thought. Not very likely at all.

IV

I
RON
M
IKE
WAS MADE TO CARRY BOMBS,
not passengers. The huge Flying Fortress, official USAF designation B17D, was the most sophisticated bomber in the world.

Boeing engineers in Seattle had been given three short guidelines: speed, payload, and protection of the crew. They produced a bomber that soon became the backbone of the Allied air forces. Speed: the B17D was powered by four 1,200-horsepower Wright Cyclone turbo-supercharged engines capable of propelling the plane at 325 miles per hour at 20,000 feet. Payload: over eight tons of bombs. Protection of the nine crewmen: three machine guns forward, two amidships, and two in a bulge beneath the fuselage.

The most distinctive feature of the B17D was its glass nose, in which the bombardier was stationed. This greenhouse was also one of the most vulnerable targets on the plane. The pilot and copilot sat side by side in the cockpit above the fuselage just ahead of the leading edge of the wing. Above the cockpit was an astro-hatch lookout post,
resembling a bubble, where a crewman watched for diving enemy fighters.

Iron Mike
was RAF Wing Commander Thomas Stratton's Fortress. He had flown it from the Boeing plant in Seattle to Wichita, where the oxygen system, automatic pilot, homing equipment, and machine guns were installed. Then on to London's Croyden Airport, where it had been assigned to the RAF's Hell Fire Fifteenth Squadron.

Stratton had personally painted
"IRON MIKE"
on the plane's nose behind the bombardier's greenhouse. The fierce cartoon boilermaker raised a steel mallet above his head for another blow at the black anvil he stood behind. Below the cartoon was the inscription
"IRON MIKE—ONE MORE STRIKE,"
followed by fourteen bomb decals, each representing a mission over Germany.

On Monday, November 16, Stratton received orders to remove
Iron Mike's
bomb racks and install nine wicker seats. He protested loudly to Group Captain Benchley that his Fortress was a bomber, not a bus, but was told only that
Iron Mike
was being assigned to an extremely important mission that would only last several weeks. Stratton was not placated. His crew was enraged. Waist gunner Jimmy Toland threatened to reverse his .30-caliber machine gun so its barrel pointed at the passengers. Bombardier Lou Budwig promised to drop the nine passengers and their bloody wicker seats through the bomb bay somewhere over the freezing channel.

Despite the complaints, the bomb racks were removed with the alacrity which naturally follows an order given to an RAF group captain from an air chief marshal. Benchley had been sworn to secrecy by Air Chief Marshal Hilling. Neither the group captain's superior nor his superior's superior was to know of the work on
Iron Mike
. For security reasons, Stratton and his boiling crew were confined to quarters for the three days until the mission. Profits at the Goat's Head Pub near the airfield plummeted.

John Crown's safety harness strapped him tightly to the wicker seat. He was wearing a leather flight coat, and he was cold. The Fortress's cabin was not heated. And because it was not pressurized,
Iron Mike
could not climb above the weather. Adding to Crown's discomfort was the tough little waist gunner who sat on the bicycle seat near his machine gun, glowering at him.

Many times during the flight Crown questioned his choice of the B17 over a conventional passenger plane, say, a Boeing Stratoliner. The Stratoliner had padded seats, a heated and pressurized cabin, hot meals, and even bunks. But the drawbacks to the passenger plane were substantial and dangerous. It had a range of only 1,750 miles, which would have required a fueling stop at the RAF airfield in Greenland, one of the most hazardous fields in the world. And a more dangerous factor: scheduled passenger service between Croyden and New York's La Guardia had been suspended due to the heavy German air raids on London. A passenger plane would have been highly conspicuous. Crown didn't want a curious Luftwaffe fighter pilot investigating an unarmed Stratoliner.

A Fortress crossing the North Atlantic was routine. Hundreds of them flew from the U.S. to England as the States became increasingly involved in arming the British. Many of the B17s returned from England to Wichita to be re-outfitted and refurbished. To make
Iron Mike
look as if it needed repair, Wing Commander Stratton had been ordered to paint strings of black spots on the plane's wings and fuselage to resemble bullet holes and to blacken one of the engine encasements to appear as if it had been on fire. Enraged bombardier Budwig greased and regreased the bomb bay doors.

Wing Commander Stratton climbed down from the cockpit and squeezed through the short aisle between seats toward Crown, who wondered how the 25-year-old Britisher had risen to the rank of wing commander at such a young
age. Air Chief Marshal Hilling had promised him the best pilot available. Crown was an inexperienced flier, so his only gauge of Stratton's competence was the obvious high regard his crew had for him. Even the surly waist gunner straightened up as Stratton walked past.

"We're just over Lake Michigan, sir. We'll be arriving at Midway in thirty minutes or so," the wing commander said, just loud enough to be heard over the engine rumble. "The runway is clear, and the fog has let up, so there'll be no problem."

"Thanks, Commander," answered Crown. "Have you contacted our ground escort?"

"Yes, sir. They're in place and ready."

"Did the Hurricanes have any problem?" Crown asked, referring to the twelve RAF fighters that had accompanied the Fortress until it was out of the war zone. An hour after
Iron Mike
lifted off from Croyden, Crown had climbed into the observer's bubble atop the cockpit to view the escort. The shark-nosed fighters were flying in two six-plane V formations, one two miles off the bomber's starboard wing and the other at ten o'clock off the port wing. The formations had been ordered to maintain a substantial distance from the bomber to reduce the possibility an enemy spotter would see the entire procession and attach significance to it.

"No. They turned back two hundred and fifty miles out, and they're all back at Croyden. And the Greenland fighter escort returned to base in good shape, too."

Only during the last few hours of the transatlantic flight, when the plane had been well beyond the range of any German fighter, had
Iron Mike
been unescorted. It touched down at La Guardia for fueling. No one had been allowed to leave the plane.

"Good. Say, Commander, I understand your crew wasn't very enthusiastic about this flight."

"No, they weren't. Neither was I. No one would tell me who we were going to transport, but I took a look at the bloke when he boarded
Mike
, and I placed him." The commander bent closer and said, "This is one very important cargo."

"That's right. I toyed with the idea of confining you and your crew during our stay in Chicago, which may last several weeks. But I've got enough problems without a mutiny. So I want you to impress upon the crew that this flight and anything they may have seen on it must be kept an absolute secret. If I get wind of any leaks—and believe me, I will—everyone will be put into a barracks with a twenty-four-hour guard until the court-martial. That sounds harsh, Commander, but secrecy is vital here."

"There'll be no problem with the men. My engineer is an RAF volunteer from Chicago. He's been salivating ever since I told him our destination. He and the others don't want barracks duty."

As Stratton wove his way back to the cockpit ladder, Josef Ludendorf, sitting in the seat of Crown's left, leaned toward Crown and asked in a voice fraught with tension, "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, of course. The commander just told me we'd be landing in Chicago shortly."

Ludendorf had been nervous throughout the flight. He had not tried to hide it, and told Crown that he had flown only twice before. Both prior flights had been accompanied by heaving sickness. He had managed to contain himself thus far. The EDC chief was a slight man, perhaps five feet, five inches tall. He was losing his hair, and he slicked down long strands on the side of his head over the bald spot. He wore rimless spectacles and constantly shoved them back on his nose. A small red spot glowed from both sides of his nose where the ill-fitting glasses kept the skin perpetually raw. His mouth was small and pinched. At first Crown
attributed the constant cringe on Ludendorf's face to his fear of flying, but later, as the bomber left the turbulent air of the North Atlantic and the ride became smooth, Crown realized the fearful expression was chronic.

Ludendorf was a bifurcated man. Crown's first impression of a hesitant, retiring, and anemic individual was dispelled soon after their conversation about Hess's interrogation began. Somewhere over the North Atlantic, Ludendorf had launched himself into the briefing, happy to be diverted from grim thoughts of the flight. Ludendorf's cracking voice firmed. His presentation had been systematic and complete. And he had made what could have been a weary account of Hess's medical condition fascinating.

Crown now saw that Ludendorf was beginning to lose himself to the terror of the approaching landing. The EDC chief sucked on his lower lip and gripped the chair arms as if he were visiting a dentist. Crown attempted to shift Ludendorf's thoughts by asking, "You say you're convinced Hess isn't insane?"

Ludendorf wheeled in his seat to Crown, his eyes wide and his left hand ready to gesture for a conversation that would not require gestures. He pitched into a speech. "Yes. Yes. I'm told by the psychiatrists that although he shows symptoms of several mental disorders, most of the time he is lucid." Ludendorf spoke with the soft German accent of one who has spent years trying to overcome that last vestige of his origin. "I did not have trouble communicating with him. That is to say, he had no difficulty complaining to me about various things. It was often hard keeping his mind on the subject at hand. . . ."

To slow Ludendorf down, Crown interjected, "What did Hess complain about?"

"Numerous grievances. His most frequent was that secret agents were trying to poison his food. He would not
specify whether they were German or British agents, but he mumbled things like Himmler was out to get him. He began losing weight, so one of the guards agreed to sample Hess's food before Hess ate it. This quieted him a little, but even when he dined with us, he was very suspicious. If the food was served from a common tray, he would select a portion, but never one nearest him. He also accused the jailers of plotting to destroy his sanity by pumping the sounds of motorcycles, airplanes, and machine guns into his cell. These sounds were hallucinations. Then he complained that his cell was electronically bugged. We could not convince him otherwise."

"Was it?" asked Crown.

"Of course. But it should not have concerned him." Ludendorf managed a weak smile. He knew why Crown had asked the same questions he had answered hours before. He was grateful for it.

"Hess's favorite topic is Hitler," the professor continued. "He often recounts that when he first heard Hitler speak he had a vision that Hitler could lead Germany to greatness. Hess enjoys telling how he became a fervent worker in the Nazi party. He regards Hitler as a god, the only man who can save Germany. In his cell, Hess gave speeches to the guards or psychiatrists about the glorious Hitler. Have you read the excerpts from his speeches made before the flight?"

"I read as far as I could."

"Well, these talks in his cell were similar to them. In fact, so similar they sounded memorized. We began looking more closely at this drivel and discovered that most of it
was
memorized. Hess gave almost the identical speech day after day. None of it was spontaneous. Hess was not searching for new and increasingly eloquent statements about Hitler, as a true flatterer will. So we began digging a little
deeper into Hess's true feelings." Ludendorf released his grip on the chair and used both hands to animate his lecture.

"We discovered that Hess was bitter and frustrated during his last year or two in Germany. He felt he was being pushed aside, manipulated out of favor by people he considers upstarts in the party. People like Martin Bormann, who took over Hess's positions and titles after Hess flew to Scotland. Hess found himself doing less and less decision-making and more and more ceremonial appearances. He began to feel he was just a legitimate front for less-than-desirable elements that were rising to power in the Nazi party. He resented that his enormous popularity with the German people was being exploited by these people, whom Hess occasionally calls criminals."

Rudolf Hess rose from his seat in the row ahead of Crown. Hess had stared stonily at the seat in front of him during the entire trip. The only thing he had said since boarding was to request to use the makeshift lavatory at the back of the cabin, to which he walked now. He carried his leather shaving kit under his arm. It was filled with pill bottles. Ever since the British doctors had told him the pills were useless, Hess had been sheepish about taking them in public. He still took about forty pills a day, but now only when he thought he was not being watched. As Hess walked past Crown and Ludendorf, a guard stood and followed him. The guard was one of five crack commandos sitting near Hess. This man, a burly six-footer dressed in street clothes and a heavy overcoat, had the unpleasant task of watching Hess through the peephole in the lavatory door while Hess relieved himself and swallowed his pills. At no time, day or night, during Hess's seventeen months in England had he not been watched.