ESCAPE FROM THE 


The 
Escape 
of Adolf 
Hitler & 
Martin 



Bormann 


from the 
Fiihrer 
Bunker 
as Told by 
Nari Spy 
Don Angel 




EDITED & COMPILED BY 

HARRY COOPER 










T his book is the faithful transcription of a 1984 letter from a man I knew through my 
organization Sharkhunters which focuses on the authentic history of WWII submarines 
and their captains and crews from all nations in KTB magazine. This fellow wrote me a 
letter one day teling me a fanciful story of his experience as a World War II spy and 
"Nazi smuggler." He had a code name and everything. 

He claimed he was a Spaniard and that his name was Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco. He 
claimed he smuggled Hitler's "second," Martin Bormann, out of the Berlin bunker and got him 
safely to South America. He claimed that in 1953 he met a man those around him called "the 
Fuhrer." The man bore an uncanny likeness to an aging Adolf Hitler. 

Don Angel said he knew all the details of Hitler's escape from Berlin: Hitler had been drugged 
and secreted away by agents chosen for the task. The "dead Hitler" was nothing more than a 
double. 

After that his adventures with Bormann began. The claims were so fantastic—but so 
fascinating— I checked him out through the many surviving WWII contacts I still have who 
are members of Sharkhunters. 

He was who he said he was. And his story was quite plausible. The more I read the manuscript— 
spending hours with other experts trying to poke holes in the story—the more I realized there 
was a very good chance this man was telling me the truth. Now I know he was. Here is Don 
Angel's story. 

—Harry Cooper Founder of 
SHARKHUNTERS 



About the Editor 

Born and raised in Chicago and the western suburbs, Harry 
Cooper joined the United States Air Force right out of Proviso 
High School. After six months intensive training in special 
weapons at Lowry Air Force Base (Denver) he was mis-assigned 
to Chanute Air Force Base, only 100 miles from his home. To his 
very good luck, he was assigned to the base swimming pool as a 
lifeguard, working one day on and one day off, making it easy to 
go home every second day. When the summer ended, Harry 
requested a transfer to an active base and was assigned (possibly 
sentenced is a better word) to the 98th Bomb Wing at Lincoln Air 
Force Base just outside Lincoln, Nebraska. 

After spending two and a half years working with special weapons, and since he 
always wanted to be a fighter pilot, he applied for Officer's Candidate School as he neared 
his 21st birthday. He was the only one of me 30 who passed the tough two-day long 
battery of tests, and he was assigned to an O.C.S. class. His pilot's physical gave him a 
clean slate to fly, but luck was not with him. The Air Force was so overloaded with pilots 
from World War II and Korea that Air Cadets had been shut down. Hairy could be an 
officer, but not a fighter pilot. 

He was then honorably discharged from the Air Force and went to college where he 
earned his BS in Business Administration and began his career in the Chicago area. 
Since he could not enter into aerial combat, he chose the next best thing—he went into 
auto racing. He first tried his hand at drag racing and while driving for a friend, he was 
Class Champion 11 weeks out of 22—pretty good. But the following year, he drove his 
own car and out of the next 26 weeks, he was Class Champion 26 times and Little Stock 
Eliminator four times, setting some national records along the way. 

Then his heart turned to the oval tracks and after three successful years at the short 
tracks around Chicago, where he also gave the racing news on the "Motorsports 
International" television show, he moved up to the big tracks & raced against A. J. Foyt, 
the Unser Brothers, Johnny Rutherford and other great racers. He was a Feature Editor at 
Stock Car Racing Magazine during his racing years doing 'behind the wheel' racing 
reports as well as writing monthly columns for major American and Australian racing 
magazines. He was an executive for a Chicago based firm as well. 

Things changed drastically in 1976. His crew chief left for a job in the normal 
world, his assistant crew chief quit to open his own auto parts store and his best crew 
member quit to join the Air Force. While running the 1976 Texas 500 in the lead pack 
with A. J. Foyt, Johnny Rutherford, A1 Unser, Bobby Unser, Gordy Johncock and 
Johnnie Rutherford - his engine blew! On the way back to Chicago, the engine in the 
transporter truck blew. It was not a good sign. The final straw was when he got to work 
the next day and found that his superior had left the company and his new boss was a 
corporate executive for whom Harry had no respect. It was time for a major change! 

Harry sold everything he owned, bought a 30-foot sailing yacht (he knew nothing 
about sailing) and went to live the quiet life in the Florida Keys and the Bahamas. This 
was to change his life and in fact, the history of the War at Sea itself. It was there that 
he became 




interested in the U-Bootwaffe. 

While cruising in the southern Bahamas, Harry stopped at a strange island that had 
been a working plantation during the war. There were the ruins of a mansion atop a 
hill, the remains of a barracks building and a radio shack nearby. The old caretaker told him 
a few German U-Boats had stopped there for fresh water and food during the war. That 
put the hook in Harry and once he returned to Chicago, he began to research the U-Boat 
portion of WWII and has since become the preeminent expert in the world on the 
subject. 

Returning eventually to the business world, he became Regional Vice President 
for a major company in Chicago, but founded Sharkhunters in 1983. By mid-1987, he 
realized that it would be impossible to keep a regular job and then spend all the time 
necessary to contact the veterans, dig in the files, visit the veterans to interview them 
and all the other tasks necessary to preserving this history honestly. He made a tough 
decision. 

On Friday, July 31, 1987, he turned in the keys to his 12 offices around Illinois and 
quit his high-paying executive job, just two weeks after getting a nice raise in salary. 
His wife of just two years was most surprised with this decision and even more 
surprised (maybe shocked) to learn that they were going to move to Florida to do this 
research hill time and at no salary. She was not convinced at all, since they were to 
have then first child in less than four months and now there was no insurance and no 
security, but this had to be done! 

Fortunately, it succeeded and Sharkhunters has the great distinction of being the 
preeminent source for the history of the WWII U-Bootwaffe. See 
www. sharkhunters .com. 

Harry belonged to the Adventurer's Club in Chicago (Editor of the Club newsletter), 
member of the Chicago Press Club and the International Press Club. He wrote 
"Sponsorship" as a guide for motor racers to get sponsorship and also "1001 Things to 
do in Florida for Free." He's listed in "Who's Who in America" and also "Who's Who 
of American Business Leaders" and in 2006 was nominated as "Man of the Year" by 
the American Biographical Institute. He also spent ten years with the United States 
Coast Guard (Aux.) achieving the final position of Flotilla Commander with a rank 
similar to full Lieutenant. In conjunction with this research, Harry has met and become 
friends with most of the U-Boat skippers, many of the crewmen, the American 
submarine skippers and crewmen as well as many world leaders. See more at 
www.sharkhunters.com 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 


FOREWORD: My Friend, the Spy by FlARRY COOPER .i 

PART ONE: Waltzing Matilda.1 

PART TWO: Nazi Espionage.9 

PART TFIREE: ETitler's Mistress. 19 

PART FOUR: Escape from Germany.30 

PART FIVE: Bormann the Prophet.41 

PART SIX: Bormann's Lessons.53 

PART SEVEN: Half-Buried Hatreds.65 

AFTERWORD: Who to Believe? by WILLIS A. CARTO.77 

PHOTO SECTION.79 














HULTON ARCHIVE/GETTY IMAGES 



FOREWORD 


My Friend the Spy 


I n this book, we exa min e probably the biggest mystery of the 20th 
Century - did Adolf Hitler commit suicide in the bunker or not? The 
world wanted to know the fates of the three leaders of the Axis powers 
when the war ended. There was no doubt about the fate of Italian 
leader "II Duce" Benito Mussolini. He and his mistress were caught 
by Italian communists, brutally butchered and their bodies hung by the heels 
in a gas station. The world also knew that Japanese war leader Hideki Tojo 
had shot himself as the Americans closed in on him , but failed in his suicide 
attempt. He was nursed back to health then tried, found guilty and 
hanged. But Hitler - only the Soviets were on the scene and they were 
sadly lacking in the sciences and refused to communicate with the West. 
So what really did happen to Hitler? This book will tell you exactly what 
happened. 

Sharkhunters was only two years old when Don Angel Alcazar de 
Velasco became a Member in 1985. Over the next several years, we 
became more friendly and trusting, and he told us his story. His back¬ 
ground has been thoroughly checked and he was indeed, who he said he 
was - and he was a spy for the Axis, first the Japanese then Germany. 

He began early on working for the Japanese 'TO" Ring. 'TO" means 
"eastern" and he was working for them much of the war. Later, he went to 
work for the Germans. We have confirmed all this with existing records 
and by confirmation from men who were agents for Germany and also 
American agents. 

At Sharkhunters in the middle to late 1980's, we were digging deeply 
into the rumors of the "Black Boats" and "Black Ships" that were taking 
escaping Germans to Argentina. We learned that the little town of Villa 
Garcia, about 30 kilometers from Vigo, Spain was a main jumping off point 



ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


for former Abwehr and Party officials as well as high ranking SS officers. 
The existence of the "Black Boats" was co nfi rmed factually by two other 
Sharkhunters Members - one was an officer and the other an enlisted man, 
both men served on different "Black Boats" that went to Argentina well 
after the reported suicide of Adolf Hitler in April of 1945 and the German 
surrender in May 1945. 

Our intensive research showed that at least three German U-Boats were 
on the high seas in the central Atlantic at the time of the surrender. U-530, 
commanded by Sharkhunters Member Otto Wermuth, surrendered at the 
Argentine Navy submarine base at Mar del Platte in July, more than two 
months after the surrender order was given. More than a week later, U-977 
under command of Heinz Schaeffer surrendered at the same submarine 
base at the other end of the world. Both commanders said they had no 
knowledge that the other boat was at sea or that they were going to surren¬ 
der at that very same far flung place. When each Skipper was asked, sep¬ 
arately and in private why they chose la Plata to surrender, their replies 
were exactly the same - they wanted to surrender their men at a place 
where they would be treated with dignity . . . and they each claimed that 
they knew nothing of the other's plans. 

While U-530, a long range Type IX-C submarine, had the "legs" to 
reach Argentina, the Type VII-C submarine U-977 poses a real enigma. 
According to Schaeffer's own report, they departed their base in Norway 
with only 3/4 of a fuel load and went to their assigned patrol station off the 
British Isles. Then came the surrender order and Schaeffer headed back to 
their Norwegian base to offload the married men and with a short-handed 
crew of the unmarried men but no additional fuel, set out for Argentina, 
arriving there nearly three months later. Even with a full fuel load, a Type 
VII-C boat would have a tough time making that vast distance - but despite 
Schaeffer's own reports of short fuel, U-977 made it. It was Schaeffer's 
claim that he was able to make this long distance by remaining submerged 
and running on just one engine while snorkeling. That makes no sense. It 
would have been much more difficult to push the submerged boat through 
the water, as opposed to running surfaced, thereby using more fuel. 

When we received this very long letter from Don Angel, I just couldn't 
believe it. Hitler died by his own hand - that was published history and I 
told him so, but he insisted that his story was hue. Some of his claims were 
easy to verify while others remained only shadows. Then, the unimaginable 
happened - the Soviet Union evaporated. When that happened, we 



FOREWORD: mV FRIEND THE SPY 


iii 


were able to get into many small archives that had previously been be hin d 
the "Iron Curtain" and the pieces began to fall into place. 

We learned about such shadowy things as "Basis Nord" and 
"Feuerland." "Basis Nord" (Northern Bases) referred to an agreement 
between Germany and the Soviet Union for the Kriegsmarine (German 
Navy) to use secret bases on the northern coast of Russia. This included 
maintenance, repair and fuel facilities of the most rudimentary kind and the 
fuel was more or less unusable for the Kriegsmarine ships. It was a short 
lived operation anyhow and once Germany invaded the Soviet Union with 
Operation BARBAROSSA, all agreements between the two nations ceased to 
exist. 

"Feuerland" was an entirely different situation - that German word 
means "Land of Fire" and in Spanish, it is called Tierra del Fuego and 
refers to the southernmost part of South America. In 1914, the German 
light cruiser NURNBERG made her way through the Straits of Magellan 
at the southern tip of South America. On board was a young Leutnant 
named Wilhelm Canaris and it was his job to scout out "U-Platze" or hidden 
places. He was looking for hidden harbors where ships could safely anchor 
and not be spotted by enemy forces. In 1938, the aging battleship 
SCHLESIEN retraced the route, making more detailed notes to those of 
Canaris of 1914. By this time, young Leutnant Canaris was Admiral 
Canaris in command of the Abwehr, Germany's Secret Service. These har¬ 
bors had no facilities, no docks ... nothing at all. They were merely places 
to hide, and personnel aboard SCHLESIEN produced extremely detailed 
specifications on each hidden harbor, including the proximity to steamer 
lanes, to civilization and gave the prevailing wind directions, bottom char¬ 
acteristics, how many ships could remain in each harbor, maximum height of 
the masts to be concealed by trees and much more. 

Example: #1 Island Clarance 54° 103'S x 71° 45'W A long channel, 
begin after Dunellon. Bay is 20 miles from Cockbum Channel, then a 
great bay thirty meters deep. 

Back to the bunker: The bloodstains on the sofa where Hitler allegedly 
shot himself were not the same blood type as Hitler. The only person still 
living into the 21st Century was his aide, Otto Gunsche, who swore that it 
was indeed Hitler who shot himself - but we know how devoted the 
German Officers were to any oath they took, including a possible false 
story. Gunsche was a Sharkhunters Member until his death, and he stead¬ 
fastly refused to talk to us about that one incident in world history. That 



ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


silence speaks volumes.... 

Hitler himself was not a coward nor did he believe in giving in. Suicide 
was completely out of character. After he had heard of the suicide of the 
Mayor of Leipzig with his entire family, he condemned suicide as cowardly 
and unbecoming to a National Socialist. His personal pilot initially stated 
that on the first of May 1945, he flew Hitler and Bormann to an airfield in 
Norway where they transferred to another aircraft and flew onward. He later 
retracted this story and backed the suicide story. German forces in Norway 
held out longer than anywhere else and we know that Leon Degrelle, a 
Sharkhunters Member until his death, did indeed arrive in Norway aboard 
a minesweeper out of Copenhagen, thence aboard a plane to Spain where 
he lived out his life. Norway was indeed a key. 

The body was found by the Soviets, and the West was not allowed to 
inspect the body. Their level of forensic science at that time was sorely 
lacking indeed and the body they found was badly burned. Stalin wanted 
Hitler dead in the worst way, so God help the poor Soviet officer who 
would tell "Uncle Joe" that Hitler had given them the slip. It was in the 
best interest for a long life that the officers tell Stalin that Hitler was dead. 

However, mere hours after the discovery of the body, one sharp eyed 
Russian officer noticed that the body was wearing socks that had been 
mended. It was decided that surely the real Hitler would wear only new 
socks, socks without holes in them. Many years after the war, some Soviet 
officer based in Magdeburg in what was then East Germany, laughingly 
reported that they had Hitler's body buried at their headquarters. Baloney! If 
they really did have the body of Hitler, Stalin would have been using his 
skull as an ash tray. The hatred between these two men was that intense. 

Further proof- as late as July 1945, two months after the German sur¬ 
render and finding what they claimed was Hitler's body in the Chancellery 
garden, Stalin publicly stated that Hitler was still alive and he demanded 
that the Am ericans and the British find him and turn him over. For years, 
Stalin feared that Hitler would reappear with more legions and begin the 
assault on the Soviet Union all over again. 

Shortly after we received the letter from Don Angel, we received a visit 
from another Sharkhunters Member, Captain Bob Thew, USN (Retired). 
Bob was a graduate of the Naval Academy and spent his Navy career in 
Naval Intelligence. After he retired from the Navy, he went into America's 
most secret agency, the NSA. Bob visited us in 1988 and I asked him if he 
had ever heard of Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco. He smiled and said that 



FOREWORD. MY FRIEND THE SPY 


v 


Don Angel certainly was the spy he claimed to be - but that he was such a 
bad spy that everyone in the spook world knew that he was a spy. 

I told Bob of the letter Don Angel sent here and said that the guy must 
be nuts! Don Angel said Martin Bormann and also Hitler did not die in 
Berlin. I said everyone knows that Hitler killed himself in the bunker. I 
remember Bob's reply as if it were yesterday. He sat on our sofa and as 
quietly as if he were asking for another cup of coffee, he said: 

"We knew Hitler wasn't dead in Berlin." 

I asked him who he meant when he said "we" knew Hitler wasn't dead, 
and he said: 

"The Intelligence agencies. Every time we tracked down a high-ranking 
Party official, an SS officer or Abwehr agent in the 1940s or early 1950s, 
the first thing we grilled him on was - where is Hitler?" 

If Hitler killed himself in Berlin as the official history tells us, then why 
were the world's spy services still looking for him into the middle 1950s? 
Why did Stalin continue to claim that Hitler did not die in Berlin? Could it 
be that the story of the suicide was made up to cover the failure of the 
Soviets to find Hitler? There is another possibility why this was kept from 
the public. There was no doubt of the fates of Mussolini and Tojo, but 
Hitler escaped. Two out of three would earn a massive contract for a major 
league ball player, but in this case the history writers had to account for all 
three, no matter what. 

We must remember that official government sources state definitely 
that Hitler committed suicide in the bunker and that the body found not far 
from the Chancellery was indeed that of Martin Bormann. One must wonder 
that with the tens of thousands of bodies that remained in Berlin, why 
anyone would even t hin k to check if that body or any other body in Berlin, 
was that of Martin Bormann, unless they needed to put an end to any spec¬ 
ulation. The bodies all looked alike by the time this one was discovered 
and it was decided that it was Bormann. Naturally, we must believe what 
the governments tell us, like John F. Kennedy was shot by one madman 
using a worthless rifle when nobody with any sense buys that story except 



VI 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


the Warren Commi s sion. Former President Ford was on that Commission, 
and someone once said of Ford that he could not chew gun and urinate at 
the same time. But it is the official government finding. Don't forget the 
Gulf of Tonkin incident in which an American warship was fired upon by 
two gunboats, thereby pushing the United States into the Vietnam War only 
to leam years later, that this was a contrived fictional event that didn't hap¬ 
pen. The list of lies by the world's governments could by themselves, fill a 
major size book but you already know that. 

Did Hitler die in the bunker ? Did he escape to South America? After 
you've read this book, many of your questions will be answered. 



PART I 


Waltzing Matilda 


I n January 1945, Germany was crumbling and the brains guiding the 
floundering Nazi war machine were flocking to Hitler's side in the 
subterranean stronghold under the Reich Chancellery in battle- 
scarred Berlin. I was one of those summoned to the German 
capital to serve on Hitler's staff in the terrible spring of 1945, and 
became the only non-German to actually work within the Fuhrer's 
personal headquarters in the bunker. 

I will describe for you the incredible days I spent in the Fuhrer- 
bunker, cut off from the outside world, as Adolf Hitler raved against his 
generals, his armies, his own people—and the enemy who was then 
preparing the death thrust into the heart of the much-vaunted Thousand 
Year Reich. 

We lived in the constant shadow of a deranged genius in a chaotic 
world of our own, out of which have grown a thousand theories and a 
mass of conflicting stories purporting to tell the fate of Hitler and the 
elite of the Nazi Party. But I was there, and I can tell you the truth, as I 
lived it, of those fantastic days. 

I know the truth about the reported suicide of Hitler and Eva Braun. I 
shall tell you of my flight from Berlin under fire from the Russians and my 
final escape from Germany. And how, after my return to Spain, I assisted 
in the flight of Adolf Eichmann from Europe after finding him in a Swiss 
monastery two years after the war ended. Perhaps most important of all, 1 
can now reveal the fate of Martin Bormann, that shadowy eminence who 
was Hitler's top lieutenant in the halcyon days of the Nazi regime. 

How do I know these things? Because I was chosen by the under¬ 
ground party movement to escort Hitler's top deputy when he made his 



2 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


dramatic dash for freedom beneath the Atlantic in a U-Boat in May 1946. 
Many years had passed since I first entered the service of the Nazis. They 
considered me one of their most trusted agents with access to their closely 
guarded plans for re-emergence as a world power. 

I know the power of these men and their underground organization. 1 
have seen the determination with which they plotted their return to 
power, and have helped with the formation of secret action groups in two 
continents. They are well organized. The High Command still exists and 
meets each year in western Germany, where they do not lack support. 

This then, is my story. 1 had been head of the Nazi espionage ring in 
Spain throughout the war and as such, was one of their most trusted 
agents, but it was not until January of 1945 when British, American and 
Russian armies were smashing their way across the borders of the 
Fatherland, that I was called to the Fuhrer's side. 

On January 15th, Hitler returned to Berlin from Bad Nauheim, where 
he had been directing the ill-fated Ardennes Offensive, the last drive of 
the smashed and demoralized Wehrmacht. After gambling away the 
remains of the once-invincible Panzer armies, the Fuhrer retreated in a 
towering rage to the Fuhrerbunker beneath the Reich Chancellery. It was in 
almost total defeat that Hitler, his enemies closing in from all sides, his 
defenses overrun and his armies outnumbered, returned to his blitzed and 
ruined capital. 

On the day he returned, I had been working in SS Intelligence 
Headquarters, close to the old Reichstag. I had then been in Germany for 
seven months, directing the activities of certain foreign agents abroad. 

The following day I was informed by SS Commander Willie 
Oberbeil—at that time, my immediate superior in the Intelligence 
Service—that we had been ordered to Hitler's bunker, where we would be 
responsible for passing our agents' reports directly to the Fuhrer him s elf. 

That night, Berlin was subjected to a heavy air raid, and smoke hung 
over the city as Oberbeil and myself picked our way through streets lit¬ 
tered with rubble and broken glass to the Reich Chancellery. 

This vast mausoleum-like building, which Hitler had designed himself 
with the puipose of overawing ambassadors and foreign heads of state 
who came to pay homage to him in his days of power, was now almost 
completely destroyed. All that remained was a blackened shell. The great 
marble walls had collapsed, and the heavily carved doors and 



WALTZING MATILDA 


3 


costly fittings were scattered about the floors in crazy disorder. At the 
head of the steps leading into the building, our passes were inspected by a 
steel-helmeted SS guard, who directed us to a part of the building that was 
still intact. Another guard ushered us down a narrow staircase leading to a 
small pantry. We found ourselves led down a second, steeper, flight of 
steps at the bottom of which was a thick steel door. This was the entrance 
to the bunker. 

It was part of a steel and concrete bulkhead—airtight, watertight, and 
blast-proof—which, when closed, effectively shut off the fifty-foot-deep 
underground shelter from the outside world. Our passes were again 
inspected by a black-uniformed SS sergeant before we were allowed to 
pass through. The doorway was so narrow we were forced to pass 
through sideways. 

We entered into a brightly lit, low-roofed corridor with a second larger 
bulkhead midway along on our left. This door opened into the upper 
bunker which contained kitchens and servant's quarters. A central corri¬ 
dor, twelve feet wide, was furnished with tables and chairs, and was used 
as a dining room by the Fiihrer's staff. At the far end of this corridor, a 
curved concrete stair descended to a second and larger bunker, where 
Hitler had his offices and command headquarters. 

Oberbeil and I followed the armed guard to the foot of the stairs, 
which opened into another wide corridor, at the far right of which was a 
wooden partition and a door guarded by two more SS men. Beyond the 
door, I discovered, were Hitler's private apartments. 

As we entered the Fuhrerbunker, a slim, gray-suited man rose from 
the armchairs lining the walls of the corridor and came towards us. 

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said, in a piping, well-educated 
voice. I assumed Willie Oberbeil already knew him for, turning to me, he 
continued, 

"I am Colonel Wagner. I am in charge of SS Intelligence down here." 
He clicked his heels, bowed, and with a thin smile said, "You gentlemen 
are my staff." 

He led us through one of two doors leading off to the right into a 
small room, where two secretaries were busy typing. On the right, 
behind the door, a third typist was working in a small partitioned 
cubicle. 



4 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


Finally, Wagner ushered us into our own office. This room had been 
ordered created by erecting a floor-to-ceiling partition at the far end of 
the typists' room. It had been put up following Hitler's decision to have a 
permanent intelligence staff operating within his defense headquarters. 
The concrete walls of the office had been sprayed with a watery gray 
paint which did nothing to lessen the dismal appearance of the room, 
which was cramped and airless. A brand new radio transmitter and 
receiver, and a decoding machine, had been set against the wall to the 
right, and there was barely room to move between the desk, filing cabi¬ 
nets and chairs which had been crammed into the eight-foot-by-ten-foot 
cubicle. 

I didn't relish the idea of spending long in this place. It was clear that, 
should we ever become shut up for any length of time, the lack of space, 
the stuffy atmosphere, and the strain of working on top of one another 
would be intolerable. On top of this was the maddening throb which pen¬ 
etrated to every comer of the bunker. I had become aware of it the 
moment I had entered, but now, in this office, it was so intense that the 
wooden partition actually vibrated. 

Wagner sensed my discomfort. 

"Do not let the noise upset you. What you hear is the diesel engine 
in the next room, on which we depend for our lights and air." 

In time, I got used to the noise and the cramped conditions and the 
ever-burning lights, but never the lack of fresh air. 

There were at least two other large bunkers beneath the Chancellery 
and a series of smaller ancillary shelters, used as dormitories by the 
bunker personnel. Willie Oberbeil and myself were assigned to one of 
these cement-walled dormitories, which we shared with sixteen others. It 
was about fifteen feet below the Chancellery cellars, immediately above 
the main bunker. 

We nicknamed this depressing tomb the "LAGER," the German word 
for camp. The lager was badly ventilated, and all eighteen of us who 
slept there were constantly complaining about the claustrophobic effect it 
had on us. 

This unnatural life would have been unbearable had we not been occu¬ 
pied by working 16 hours a day. Living like moles, not knowing day from 
night, and in the bunker itself, subjected twenty-four hours a day, to the 



WALTZING MATILDA 


5 


unblinking glare of harsh electric lights—one lived an automatic routine. 
The absurdity of this existence was illustrated by a little pantomime 
devised by Hitler to regiment our lives. Each day at noon, a unifoimed 
guard would enter our office, snap rigidly to attention and formally 
announce: 

"Today is the 23rd of February" 

—or whatever the date happened to be. Then he would salute, turn 
sharply around and stamp out. It was laughable—or would have been if 
laughter, like every other normal show of emotion, had not been a 
stranger in that place. 

The bunker resembled a giant ant-heap and at times, the hurried coming 
and going of messengers, officials, officers and their staffs made it difficult 
to move about inside. There was a universal lack of space. The High 
Command, with its staff of many hundreds pressed together in this 
labyrinth of burrows, had, with the usual lack of foresight, failed to provide 
adequately for such elementary human needs as space to move and breathe. 

Many nights I woke on my bunk bed in the lager, half suffocating, 
and groping my way, afraid, to the roofless Chancellery above. I sucked 
in great lungfuls of cold night air and longed for the cool breezes of my 
native Spain. It seemed a lifetime ago that I had last seen my home. 

It had been six months since I had left Madrid where, for four years, I 
had organized the activities of a German espionage ring, unhindered 
either by the Spanish government or the many Allied agents operating in 
my neutral country. 

But in June of 1944,1 narrowly escaped death at the hands of British 
and American secret service agents in Madrid, who were attempting to 
abduct me to England for interrogation. 

I had been betrayed by a certain Conrado Blanco, a man whom I had 
called my friend. He telephoned me in the middle of the night and said that 
he had a group of highly important men "waiting" for me at his house. 

. . . "Waiting" for me was the right expression! 

The door of Blanco's house was ajar when I arrived, and all was 
silent. I found him in his study. He seemed slightly embarrassed. In that 
instant, my long experience made me sense that something was wrong. 



6 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


My fears were confirmed by a quiet English voice from behind me. 

"How good of you to come, Mr. Velasco." 

I spun around and there behind me, with a smile on his face, was my 
old foe, the English secret service agent John Fulton. He was joined by 
two other men I knew to be Allied agents—one American and the other 
Canadian. Outwardly friendly, they offered me a glass of whiskey which 1 
took. It was while we stood drinking that Fulton announced that he 
would be taking me back to England. My only comfort was the .32 
revolver I had slipped into my jacket pocket before leaving my home. 
Now was the time to use it. 

I pulled the pistol from my pocket and fired two shots blindly as I 
dived for the French windows. I heard them stumbling after me in the 
darkness as I raced down the garden and scaled the rear wall. I was lucky 
and found a taxi a few streets away. 

Although outwardly friendly, I knew Fulton was deadly serious in his 
plan to abduct me. Every moment I stayed in Madrid, I knew, my life 
would be in danger. I might not be so lucky the next time. I paused at my 
home long enough to snatch up a few clothes and papers, and put a call 
through to my Second-in-Command in Madrid. 

Explanations weren't necessary. I merely mentioned the code name 
"MATILDA." He knew what to do. "MATILDA" was a code word in 
our ring for an emergency exit from Spain. 

Within an hour after leaving Blanco's house in the Colonia del Viso 
district of Madrid, I was being driven in a fast car towards the northwest 
coast of Spain. Throughout the war, German U-Boats had been 
patrolling the Gallegian coast. Now members of my organization had 
sent a radio message and arranged a rendezvous. 

After a twenty hour journey, I arrived exhausted in the fishing village of 
Villagarcia. Waiting for me was a powerful diesel launch. I tumbled from 
the car and jumped aboard, and immediately I was being taken out to sea. 
A few minutes after 0400, the conning tower hatch on the U-Boat clanged 
shut behind me. I was on my way to Germany. Our destination was 
Hamburg. During our trip past England, we dived deeply with the crew 
at battle stations. The U-Boat Captain explained that the area was alive 
with ships, and we guessed that this must be the assembly point for a huge 
Atlantic convoy. 



WALTZING MATILDA 


7 


I experienced the usual depression which grips me on a U-Boat. It 
was forbidden for men of my profession to mix with members of the 
armed forces under all but the most exceptional circumstances. And so 
on a submarine, it was customary for an agent to eat alone, sleep alone 
and avoid all contact with the officers and crew. 

It was therefore with a feeling of great relief that I stepped onto the 
jetty of one of the huge U-Boat pens in Hamburg docks—a feeling 
which soon evaporated when I saw the shattered state of the city. The 
night and day pounding by Allied bombers had taken its toll. I saw signs 
of their marksmanship along every street. That is, where it was still pos¬ 
sible to make out where streets had been. For in places, whole blocks had 
been flattened, roads obliterated and all that remained were piles of rub¬ 
ble where once had been houses, shops, churches. 

News of my arrival was radioed ahead. I was contacted by local intel¬ 
ligence and ordered to report to Berlin. I arrived in the capital, having 
ridden in the guard's van of a troop train, packed with soldiers heading 
for the Eastern Front. 

In Berlin, I was driven to the old Reichstag in a staff car. My orders 
had been to report to an SS Intelligence unit stationed there. But when I 
arrived, the whole place was in pandemonium! The officer who was to 
deal with my case was in a state of great agitation. 

"What is all the panic?" I asked him. 

He looked at me incredulously. 

"Haven't you heard?" he said, shaking his head in wonder. "The 
Allies have landed in Normandy." 

I thought immediately of the huge armada of ships we passed during 
the journey from Spain. 

Within a couple of days, when I was set to work with SS Intelligence, I 
was to handle hundreds of top-secret telegrams from the front. It 
became clear to me that our ar mi es in France had been taken completely 
by surprise. Despite that, Field Marshall von Runstedt, Commander-in- 
Chief in the West, reported the landings were not of major importance. 
Our Intelligence Service was hourly receiving what claimed to be 
authentic reports that he was powerless to prevent the full-scale invasion 



ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


which would surely take place in the next few days. If the much-praised 
Atlantic Wall had collapsed so easily, it boded ill for Germany's more 
pregnable fronts farther east. 

NOTE—if the handwriting was already on the wall at this stage of the 
war, do you thi nk it just possible that some of those in positions of great 
power just might think about putting an escape route into effect? Just 
maybe?—Ed. 

About the middle of June, I was directed to Munchen, where I was to 
work in the Foreign section of SS Intelligence and so, equipped with a 
new passport proclaiming me to be Dr. Juan Gomez, a Spanish doctor of 
medicine, I caught the train south. 

Unfortunately, my stay in Munchen was curtailed as the Royal Air 
Force started to devote their attentions to that city. 

Every morning, I noticed a change in the skyline as seen from my 
hotel window. I was therefore not surprised one morning to learn that a 
blockbuster had demolished the Intelligence Department offices and, 
after two days of confusion, I was ordered to Koln and our Central 
Headquarters. 

I was met in Koln by SS Commander Willie Oberbeil. He was a man in 
his early forties, of medium height and with a short crop of receding 
brown hair. He wore thick, steel rimmed glasses. He took me into his 
office on the fifth floor of the headquarters building and he told me some¬ 
thing of what had been decided for my future. The Nazi Party he said, 
were satisfied with the work I had been doing and now that it was no 
longer possible for me personally to supervise my organization in Spain, I 
had been chosen to assist him in his work at Intelligence HQ. I was to 
work in his office and be responsible for editing a mass of reports that 
came in daily from agents throughout the world. From me, these reports 
would be wired direct to the Fuhrer. As Oberbeil outlined my duties, I 
grasped the significance of what he was saying. I was soon to be given a 
complete panorama of the work of the Nazi espionage service. 

Perhaps had I then known what effect this was going to have on my 
later life, I would have refused this job and walked out on my Nazi masters 
there and then. But I was flattered by Oberbeil's verbal pat on the back 
and by the knowledge that the Nazi High Command considered me 
valuable enough to be entrusted with a position of such responsibility. 



PART II 


Nazi Espionage 


M y work in Germany showed me the tremendous complexity 
of their intelligence service, with its spies in every comer of 
the world. It also showed me for the first time, some of its 
appalling inefficiencies. I must explain that at this time, the 
Nazi espionage service was in the process of 
reorganization. Formerly under the direction of Admiral Wilhelm 
Canaris, the service had become so hopelessly unreliable that the whole 
works was taken over by the SS. 

NOTE—After the bomb attempt on Hitler's life in the WOLF'S 
LAIR, Canaris was arrested and held in Flossenberg Prisoner Camp until 
just before the camp was taken by Allied troops. Canaris was hanged by a 
thin piece of piano wire, actually strangling to death. 

It was generally accepted that Canaris was anti-Nazi and anti-Hitler, 
but it remains to be learned if he was also a traitor to Germany and in 
the pocket of the Soviets, as one rumor states.—Ld. 

A laughable instance of the unreliability of the Intelligence Service 
under the Abwehr, I discovered for myself, when checking a file referring 
to Casablanca in Africa, which is the most top secret category. I had been 
looking for information on President Roosevelt's residence in Washington 
and was amazed to find several handfuls of papers reporting the activities 
of Arab sympathizers. The mix-up was obvious. Reports on both subjects 
had come in Spanish, and Casablanca literally translated means "WHITE 
HOUSE" but no one had troubled to question that there might not be 
Arabs on Roosevelt's Washington staff! 

I settled down to work in Koln but before long, round-the-clock air 



10 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


raids made it almost impossible to carry on. In fact, there wasn't a win¬ 
dow left in our office when Willie Oberbeil told me: 

"Good news, Juan. We 're getting out of this hellhole. We've both 
been ordered to Berlin." And he waved a coded telegram jubilantly in 
front of my face. 

But I did not share Willy's joy. From what I had seen of the capital a 
couple of months earlier, I fancied that Berlin would be no more pleasant 
than Koln—and I was right. I worked out the last months of 1944 in a 
drafty, comfortless room behind the old Reichstag in Berlin. I cannot 
remember clearly Christmas Day 1944; except that everyone drank a little 
too much. The Fuhrer's name was toasted in a wave of optimism, fol¬ 
lowing the early success of the Ardennes offensive, which he promised 
would drive the Allies back to the sea. 

Instead, it drove him back to Berlin, and Oberbeil and myself found 
ourselves summoned back to the Bu nk er. 

Within a few days of arriving in the Bunker with Oberbeil, I was to be 
called into that HOLY OF HOLIES, Hitler's private office, to be 
questioned by the Fuhrer himself. All through my stay in Germany, I had 
been receiving a trickle of reports from our men in the United States and 
South America of a new American secret weapon. Although no details 
were forthcoming, the reports hinted at an entirely new type of bomb of 
devastating destructive power. At the same time, I understood that the 
Nazi scientists were working desperately to design a workable nuclear 
warhead for our V-2 rockets. However, our hopes were crushed after 
Allied bombers totally destroyed German atomic research laboratories in 
Norway and Prussia. It was becoming obvious that the Americans would 
win the race to perfect this hideous weapon; the first atomic bomb. It was 
in connection with one of our reports from the United States that the 
Fiihrer sent for me. 

One morning in the last week of January, Oberbeil burst into our 
office, highly excited and spoke to me so rapidly in German that I had 
difficulty catching what he said. When he finally ran out of breath, I 
asked him to repeat his message. 

"You are ordered to report to Hitler immediately," he said. "He wishes 
to question you personally regarding the reliability of one of our 



NAZI ESPIONAGE 


11 


agents. Now come and follow me, quickly." 

This was not the first time I had seen Hitler face to face. Eighteen 
months earlier I had stood at rigid attention while he decorated me—a 
Spanish subject—with the IRON CROSS for my services to the Nazi 
cause. Yet, as I followed Oberbeil in the direction of Hitler's office, 1 
found myself unconsciously straightening my tie and smoothing my hair 
into place. 

Entering this inner sanctum (Hitler's private office and apartments in 
the Fuhrerbunker) was a complicated business. One had to have an 
express order, signed by the Fuhrer himself personally, to get in. This 
was examined by an SS sergeant of the Fuhrer's personal bodyguard 
before one could be admitted beyond the partitioned wall of the main 
conference corridor. 

The fact that Oberbeil was an officer of the SS made no difference; 
only someone personally referred to in the Fuhrer's signed order could 
pass.Having satisfied this guard, we went through into a passage where 
there was a large wooden table with some 15 or 18 chairs arranged 
around its sides. To the left, three doors opened off the corridor. 

The middle one was blocked by a huge SS guard. He too scrutinized 
our passes. He told us to sit down and wait, and disappeared into the 
room at his back. He came back a moment later and announced: 

"The Fuhrer will see you immediately." 

When I crossed the threshold of his map room, Adolf Hitler was sitting 
at his desk. He looked shrunken and indescribably aged. His light brown 
uniform jacket—the Nazi party dress he almost always wore— hung 
from his shoulders like a shroud. Such was the power and personality of 
this man that one always expected to see someone of giant proportions, 
but in this setting his smallness was emphasized by the size of the desk at 
which he sat. It was an enormous piece of furniture, littered with trays, 
each stacked with bundles of papers. Four telephones, all of them black, 
clustered within easy reach of his right hand. The walls to the left and 
right of the door were lined by slanting tables covered with maps. 

Three high-ranking Wehrmacht officers were working on them, fixing 
brightly colored pins according to the instructions contained in mil- 



12 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


itary directives to which they referred from time to time. These men did 
not even glance up as Oberbeil and myself entered. Two chairs had been 
placed facing Hitler's desk and the Fuhrer motioned me to sit down 
while Oberbeil remained standing just inside the door. 

I studied Hitler—fascinated. His head did not seem to be fixed firmly 
on his shoulders but wobbled alarmingly as he talked. He appeared to 
have little control over its movement. His left arm, which rested on the 
side of his leather chair throughout the interview, did not move once the 
whole time 1 was there. But his right hand and arm trembled violently. 
Compared to the A-bomb, our new weapons, the flying bombs and rock¬ 
ets, seemed like nursery toys. 

Hitler revealed no clue to his thoughts, but he studied the report again 
for a full minute before he asked: 

"You are quite sure that if this information had not been correct, then 
our agent would not have transmitted?" 

"Yes, absolutely, my Fuhrer," I replied. 

Until that moment, his speech had been slow and without emotion; 
the hesitant throaty voice of an exhausted man. But now, having thought a 
few moments longer, he seemed to come to a decision. His manner 
changed abruptly. Staring wildly at me, his eyes bulging horribly from 
their sockets, he rasped: 

"You will contact this man immediately. Find out the date of the first 
full-scale tests and the place where they will occur." 

His voice rising with each word, he went on: 

"I want to know how many of these devices the enemy possesses. 
How am I expected to make decisions without knowing the facts?" 

As he spoke, the fingers of his right hand beat a sharp tattoo on the 
desktop. I tried to answer calmly, but my heart was beating so hard 
against my ribs that I thought he must surely detect my fear of him. 


1 am not sure how soon I can get this information," I told him.'T 



NAZI ESPIONAGE 


13 


realize the urgency, my Fuhrer, but even so it might take our agent sev¬ 
eral weeks to procure this kind of information." 

Even as I spoke, I wondered if I might have provoked him into one of 
hi s fits of screaming and abuse, which were the horror of anyone called 
in to see him. But I was fortunate. Hitler stopped his finger tapping 
abruptly as if making an effort to control himself. When he answered, 
his voice had sunk to its former low-pitched level. 

"I appreciate the difficulties in carrying out my order, Doktor 
Gomez," he said flatly. "But I cannot stress too highly the importance of 
receiving this information quickly. I am sure our friends in America will 
realize this too." 

He nodded and became absorbed in other documents on his deck. I 
felt a tap on my shoulder and half turning in my chair, saw Oberbeil 
standing beside me. He beckoned and walked towards the door. I stood 
up, saluted the bowed figure behind the desk, received a slight jerk of his 
right hand in acknowledgment—the interview was over. 1 turned on my 
heel and followed Oberbeil into the corridor. 

I left that office with mixed emotions; frightened and for the first 
time, unsure of my leader. I was at the same time, filled with such a great 
feeling of affection and loyalty as not to know which of my emotions to 
trust. What was it about this man, I thought, which made otherwise 
strong-willed men follow him blindly? I think it was the power of his 
eyes. There was something uncanny about them. He could inspire confi¬ 
dence in his followers and turn enemies into friends, merely, it seemed, 
by looking at them. 

He was not tall, of muscular build, or even handsome. Although he 
could, when he chose, be charming, he was for the most part unneces¬ 
sarily rude to those around him and was possessed of a cruel streak and 
delighted in wanton destruction when he thought it necessary—which 
was often. Yet when it came to his own self-destruction, Hitler failed, as 
only a handful of people, including myself, know. 

I was glad to get out of his office without inadvertently rousing him to 
one of his screaming tantrums, which were always liable to erupt— with 
little provocation. 1 have known brave men utterly demolished by one of 
these maniacal diatribes, though I have never witnessed one 



14 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


myself. 

But I shall never forget the day when Colonel SS Rudolf Wagner, my 
Intelligence Chief in the Bunker, staggered into our office, pale and 
shaking, after attending one of the Fuhrer's stormy conferences. 

Wagner's face was grey with shock. He leaned on the half open door, 
his eyes closed—"God help us all," he gasped. "Hitler is mad. We are 
in the hands of a homicidal maniac." 

The man standing before me sobbed out the words over and over 
again and then sank, tears streaming down his cheeks, into a chair in 
front of my desk. Colonel SS Wagner, Chief of the Intelligence 
Department in the Berlin Bunker, had just returned from one of Hitler's 
daily conferences. 

It was March 1945.1 had been in the Fuhrerbunker beneath the Berlin 
Reich Chancellery for just eight weeks, having been forced to flee my 
native Spain. In my own country, I had been Chief of the Nazi espionage 
ring, but left hurriedly when enemy agents tried to kidnap me. In the 
eight weeks I'd been in the Reich Capital, I had been reduced to a shadow 
of my former self, my nerves in shreds, irritable and jumpy. The 
ceaseless pounding of bombs on the city fifty feet above our heads, the 
fear that the rapidly advancing Russian Army might, at any moment, 
over-run us, and the knowledge that I was closeted in the bunker with a 
madman had undermined my physical and mental health to such an 
extent that I was no longer able even to sleep. 

Wagner was in even worse shape. Looking at him now, slumped across 
my desk with his head buried in his hands, I knew that he had reached his 
li mi t. I glanced across at Willie Oberbeil, the SS Commander, who was the 
third member of our team. The sight of Wagner had obviously upset him, 
and he crouched over his desk, nervously biting the backs of his knuckles. 
Our eyes met for a moment before he glanced away. 

I waited, sick and embarrassed, until Wagner pulled himself together 
sufficiently to tell us what had happened in the Fiihrer's conference. 
Puffing nervously on the cigarette I had lit for him, Wagner told us simply, 
"Hitler has ordered the complete destruction of Germany and the German 
people. He claims the nation has proved itself weak and therefore does 
not deserve to survive." 


So this was it. Hitler had finally recognized that our position was 



NAZI ESPIONAGE 


15 


hopeless. He had accepted defeat. And now, with this "scorched earth" 
policy, he meant to ensure that nothing of any value would be left to the 
armies now gathering for their final thrusts into the Third Reich. 

"There is no need,' the Fuhrer had said, 'to consider the basis of even a 
most primitive existence any longer." 

I could not believe that any German would take this spiteful, lunatic 
order seriously. To me, as to Wagner, it seemed like the final proof that 
Hitler was mad. 

In fact, this order was never totally carried out, thanks to the sanity of 
men like Albert Speer, the Reich Industrial Minister. Even though he had 
served the Nazi cause since the beginnings of theft power, he clearly saw 
the catastrophic possibilities of "scorched earth." 

But from the babel of orders and counter-orders which flowed in and 
out of the bunker in those last desperate days, it was clear that there was 
one man at least who was determined to put the Fuhrer's policy into 
action—Martin Bormann! 

Early in my days in the bunker, I'd become fascinated by this man. 
He seemed to move almost unnoticed among the strutting Nazi hierarchy. 
He was a quiet man, not given to powerful speeches or death-defying 
slogans like the bunker's other powerful occupant, Josef Goebbels. And 
yet, there was no doubting his tremendous power. Here was Hitler's most 
faithful lieutenant, his most adamant supporter—the grey eminence behind 
the throne. 

His quietness was deceptive. Although almost unknown outside the 
immediate circle of Nazi rule, he had succeeded in usurping the influence 
of men like Himmler and even Goring, now a discredited and untrusted 
buffoon. Bormann's secret of success seemed to be his constant 
presence. Hitler could hardly have turned around in those days without 
finding the attentive Bormann at his elbow. And such ready attention was 
to pay off for Martin Bormann. Before the end, he was to take charge, 
even over his old master. 

When Hitler unleashed his "scorched earth" policy, it was Bormann 
who reinforced it with a series of dreadful orders. 

On March 23, he decreed that the whole population of Germany— 
men, women, children, slave laborers and prisoners of war—were to be 
rounded up and force-marched to Berlin. 

Had that order been carried out, the result would have been mass star- 



16 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


vation. He must have been aware that millions would have died. But 
knowing Martin Bormann as I do, I doubt whether any such appeals on 
the grounds of humanity would have affected him. 

I came into contact with this shadowy man only rarely while in the 
bunker. Yet on the few occasions when I did see him, I was struck by his 
apparent determination, his power and his dedication to the Fiihrer. Even 
then it crossed my mind that if there was one man who might keep the 
flag of Nazism flying even after defeat in war, that man would be Martin 
Bormann. And events proved me right. 

Now, as March slipped by, the military situation grew more and more 
desperate. The Red Army had smashed its way through Prussia, the 
British were thrusting into Northern Germany and the American armies 
were gathering for their thrust deep into the heart of the Reich. The mes¬ 
sages we handled were a catalogue of gloom, with only the occasional 
local success to revive our sinking spirits. Days and nights became 
meaningless, the atmosphere among the staff in the bunker alternated 
between resignation and fear, and visitors to the bunker dwindled to four 
or five a day. 

Always there was Bormann, with his own quarters and his own staff 
in a separate bunker under the Chancellery, but the impression I got was 
that fewer and fewer Nazi officials and Generals were risking a trip to 
Berlin and the ominous threat of the advancing Russians. They knew that 
above all, the Russians would exact awful retribution from the Nazis 
they so bitterly hated. And the hope that the remnants of our best PANZ¬ 
ER Divisions would be able to hold off the Red Army from seizing 
Berlin were now crumbling. 

One morning, I was sitting at my overcrowded desk talking to 
Wagner and Oberbeil when the teleprinter began to click. Wagner rose 
and went over to the machine. He ripped out a two-line message, which 
was in code and had to be fed into the deciphering unit. Then Wagner 
read it. He froze for a moment, then with a sudden burst of fury, he 
screwed the paper into a ball and threw it into the comer. 

"Oh, the bastards!" he snarled, smashing his fist down on the table. 
"The lousy bastards!" 

Oberbeil went over and picked the ball of paper off the floor and 
smoothed it out. "We shall have to communicate this to the Fuhrer, what- 



NAZI ESPIONAGE 


17 


ever it is," he said as he did so. 

Wagner rounded on him. "What are we to communicate? Everything is 
lost, you fool!" and he collapsed into a chair. Oberbeil showed me the 
message. It told us that our defenses had been smashed and the Red 
Army was fighting its way into Berlin. The news, although it had been 
expected, stunned the bunker. We could do little—except pray that the 
Russians did not take us prisoner. It was like living in a madhouse. By 
now I was thoroughly frightened. But it was nothing to be ashamed of— 
everyone else around me was frightened too 

Since the heavy bombardment of Berlin had begun in March, morale 
had sunk almost to zero. The whole bunker trembled continually. 
Bombing by aircraft was going on around the clock and had been for six 
weeks and now, as the Russians closed in, the perceptibly different noise 
of artillery shelling added to the general din. We could definitely tell the 
difference between the explosions of shells and bombs. 

The shells we heard - but the bombs we could feel. During really 
heavy raids, it became necessary when drinking coffee to hold the cup 
firmly with both hands to prevent its spilling. Now and again even our 
emergency supply of electricity would be cut, plunging us into total 
darkness. It was then the urge to scream out loud became really terrible. I 
can think of only one reason, in fact, why I didn't go raving mad in that 
bombarded rat hole. It was that we were all encouraged, often instructed, 
to take drugs in the form of pills which, it was claimed, would make us 
feel optimistic. No drug could have done that but the stimulant we took 
might have been the reason we carried on. 

They certainly worked on Wagner for short spells, but he took them in 
handfuls. Willie Oberbeil and myself were more wary. Even so, when I 
had to do without them after being interned in a Swiss refugee camp, I 
found my nerves in shreds and I quickly became depressed to the point of 
suicide. 

Perhaps the only message which brought any consolation to those in 
the bunker the last days, was the startling news we received on April 13. 
We learned that President Franklin Roosevelt had died. 

Oddly enough, Wagner was instructed to contact Intelligence head¬ 
quarters in the stronghold of Rottach am Egem in southern Germany, to 
ask if we had any hand in it. The answer came back: "No, it was a normal 
death." 

The news of the American leader's death was seized on in the bunker 



18 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


both as a sign of a change in our fortunes and as an event which would lead 
to our salvation, even at this eleventh hour. I heard that Dr. Goebbels con¬ 
fidently predicted that, with Roosevelt out of the way, the Allies would 
now wake up to the threat of Russia dominating Europe and would quickly 
end hostilities against Germany and join us in the fight against the Red 
hordes. According to reports which had come into the bunker earlier in the 
year from our agents in the United States, it was Roosevelt who snuffed 
any hopes the Nazis had that the Russians would be kept out of Berlin. 
Even then it was quite clear that, had they wanted to, the Americans and 
British could easily have won the race to the Reich capital. 

But Roosevelt, we were told, had already had secret ta lks with Stalin 
without the knowledge or approval of the British and French in which the 
Americans had agreed that the Russians take the capital. We were 
i nf ormed that, privately, the President regarded the Russians as the only 
people fit to do the dirty job of taking Berlin. The Russians, he said, were 
savages and he was perfectly happy to let them take Berlin. The Americans 
wanted no part of it. And he further agreed with the Russians, our agents 
said, just how Germany would be partitioned when hostilities ended. 

Accordingly, instructions were issued to the Allied Commander, 
General Eisenhower, direct from the White House, ordering him to slow 
the advance of the British and American armies into Germany. The 
Russians must be given time to take Berlin and do their "dirty work." 
Therefore, in contradiction of his Field Generals Patton and 
Montgomery, Eisenhower put on the brakes on the drive for Berlin. But 
now, with Roosevelt dead, Nazi hopes were rising that the Allies in the 
west would resume their push to the capital. Regrettably for Germany— 
and as it turned out, for the rest of the world—this never happened. One 
effect of this American failure was to make it easier for me to escape 
Germany. And not only for me, but for many Nazi leaders who fled 
across the borders to Switzerland. 

Had they seized their opportunities, the Allies might well have cap¬ 
tured the man who was destined to continue preaching our Nazi creed 
long after the war was over - Martin Bormann himself! But these con¬ 
siderations hardly worried us as we waited there in the besieged bunker in 
April 1945. On the 15th of that month, the bunker received one of its most 
interesting visitors. 



PART III 


Hitler’s Mistress 


E va Braun was as different from the popular image of a dictator's 
mistress as one could imagine. She came from a simple middle- 
class family . . . and she was a simple, middle-class person. Thi s 
woman, pretty rather than beautiful, had in her twelve years 
courtship spent little more than a few weeks alone with Hitler 
since their first meetings in a photographer's studio in 1933. And now, 
with the Fuhrer alternately raving at the break-up of his empire and 
directing impossible orders at the badly mauled armies, she found it no 
less difficult to have him to herself. It is difficult to say what she did with 
herself in the Fuhrerbunker. She came in with no luggage but carrying a 
fur coat, and disappeared beyond the door to Hitler's personal quarters. I 
saw her only once more. 

On April 16, Wagner ordered Oberbeil and myself to remove all the 
office records from their files. Box by box was carried them into an 
adjoining room where they were burned in a boiler. Even then, those 
reports which arrived during the following few days were destroyed as 
soon as they had been read by Hitler. On the 21st, we were finally 
ordered to evacuate the bunker. 

An hour before we were told, I had gone upstairs to the upper level of 
the bunker and I saw Martin Bormann arrive. His face was stem, his 
uniform had been tom and spattered with mud—which gave support to a 
rumor in the bunker that he had been personally directing rear guard action 
of our troops in Berlin. He entered the bunker in a hurry, ignoring the 
greetings of those Party officials standing, waiting for him in the entrance 
corridor. I followed him downstairs and, as I stopped to enter my own 
office, I saw him brush aside the SS guard outside the door to Hitler's 
quarters, and stride in. 



20 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


From the look of unsmiling resolve on his face, I got the impression 
that he had arrived at some important decision. But even this did nothing 
to sweeten the air of defeat which hung like a shroud around the bunker. A 
state of mind which was summed up in a phrase which 1 heard more and 
more often: 

"ALL IS LOST EXCEPT HONOR." 

Bormann was closeted with the Fuhrer when Wagner joined Oberbeil 
and myself in our office and announced: 

"Today will be our last day in the bunker, gentlemen." 

He sat on his deck and handed around cigarettes. Then, in a steady 
voice, more composed than he'd been for many weeks, he went on: 

"Our work here is finished. There is nothing left for us to do." 

"Nothing?" I queried. 

"No. At least, not here. I have been told that we are leaving for 
another part of the Reich. I imagine we shall continue our work there," 
Wagner replied. Then he strode out of the office and left us to our own 
thoughts. Mine turned around the problem of how we would ever get out of 
Berlin alive. I was technically a neutral citizen—but I had a strong 
suspicion that Russian shells did not respect neutrality and that if I were 
captured by Soviet troops, I would be shot anyway. But, however great 
the odds against living in that battleground upstairs, I was perfectly willing 
to take them; anything rather than die in this hole in the ground. 

I must have been in my office for some two hours after Wagner's 
announcement when I heard the sounds of unusual activity in the central 
corridor of the bunker. I went out and looked. I was in time to see Martin 
Bormann leaving Hitler's quarters in company with General 
Zimmermann and half a dozen other men, most of them out of uniform. 
Bormann seemed much more relaxed than he had on entering, and I even 
saw him smile weakly at some remark of Zimmermann's. 

From the other end of the corridor, a group of officers had entered 
and now stood in groups along both sides of the corridor. One group 



HITLER'S MISTRESS 


21 


stood within a yard of me and it was in front of these officers that 
Zimmermann stopped and spoke. He told them: 

"The war is not lost. Although the situation is both heavy and dan¬ 
gerous, I am convinced that the faith and courage of the Wehrmacht will 
enable us to make a last stand which will, I am sure, oblige the Allies to 
await negotiations." 

Despite the patriotic assurances of this SS general, the officers near 
me received his words with little enthusiasm. I could see from their faces 
they quite plainly did not believe a word he said. But Bormann seemed 
in a hurry to get away and took the General by the arm to lead him 
toward the stairs and the exit from the bunker. 

Another two hours passed—though to me, anxious to leave, it 
seemed like two years—before anything more happened. 

There was another commotion in the corridor outside and once more I 
went to investigate. This time I counted about thirty officers and officials 
standing in small groups along the corridor. Now and again, they glanced 
towards the door leading to Hitler's quarters, outside which the SS guard 
still stood, impassively, to attention. 

Somewhere, an unseen radio crackled an announcement. I caught 
only these words: "The Fuhrer . . ." before someone switched it off. I 
sensed that something big was about to happen. 

Moments later, the door of the Fuhrer's quarters opened and Eva 
Braun appeared. A fur coat was folded over her arm and in her right 
hand, she was holding a black vanity case. Behind her came two young 
girls in civilian clothes, and an elderly woman followed by three uni¬ 
formed SS officers carrying cases. 

Eva Braun had changed terribly in the few days since I had seen her. 
She seemed to be sleepwalking. Her hair was tangled and uncombed, 
and the rings beneath her eyes were dark and startling as if she had not 
slept for days. Her eyes were lifeless, as if all life had been drained from 
her. She walked slowly along the corridor, turning to murmur a vague 
"Goodbye" to some of the men who now lined the corridor and were 
looking at her incredulously. Her feet appeared to drag and scuff along 
the floor, as if walking was an effort. After nerve-wracking minutes, she 
reached the foot of the stairs where a young colonel stepped forward and 
took her arm. She gave him a quick, weak smile and leaning heavily on 



22 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


him, disappeared from sight. 

The last of my courage seemed to go with her and at that moment, 1 
felt like the greatest coward in the world. To me, this tragic figure was a 
living symbol of our defeat. 

Hardly had she disappeared when the door of the conference room 
opened again and Hitler himself appeared in the doorway. A group of gen¬ 
erals—Keitel and Jodi among them, and GrossAdmiral Donitz followed 
close behind him. The Fuhrer shuffled down the corridor, his left leg drag¬ 
ging slightly, shaking hands with every one of us assembled there. 

NOTE—At this point in DON ANGEL's letter, I thought we had caught him in 
a lie. We did not t hin k that Ad mir al Donitz could be in Berlin at that late stage of 
the war. 1 telephoned PETER-ERICH CREMER (Sharkhunters member 
number 114-1985). He was head of the personal guard of Donitz at Flensburg, 
and so should have personal knowledge. 

I did not give him any specific date—I only asked if Ad mir al Donitz was in 
Berlin anytime in March or April of 1945. He said very quickly that it was not 
possible for Donitz to be in Berlin in those months because he was in Flensburg, 
commanding the navy, and Berlin was under constant siege and nearly encircled 
by the Red Army. At this point, 1 believed that DON ANGEL was lying. I put his 
letter into a file and went on about my work 

Two days later, " AT I" CREMER called me back from his home in Germany. 
He said that he had looked at his personal notebook of the war years and he told 
me that GrossAd mir al Donitz WAS in the Fuhrcrbunkcr over 21 st April. I had not 
given him a date in my earlier question, only "March or ApriP and he told me 
t his precise date as claimed by DON ANGEL. 

I realized that the letter from DON ANGEL was not a lie, and I pulled it 
again from its dusty file.—Ed. 

Hitler's complete degeneration was there in every movement he 
made. He was like a puppet without strings, an empty shell of a man 
whose power alone prevented his complete collapse. Step by step he 
moved nearer—pausing in front of each of my companions for a hand¬ 
shake and a mumbled word. My eyes were glued on him; fascinated. I 
who had thrilled to his stirring oratory and responded to his call to war 
could hardly believe that this hobbling creature had come so close to rul¬ 
ing the world. 



HITLER'S MISTRESS 


23 


Yet when he came to me and I held his limp, thin hand in mine, I felt a 
great force—like an electric shock in my arm. It was as if all his distress 
and sickness were being passed into me. His eyes were downcast and 
when he spoke, his voice was so low I could hardly catch his words. I 
craned forward lest he had some vital message of hope and encourage¬ 
ment. But all he said was: 

"Where goes this man without a motive?" 

To this day, I don't know what he meant, but considering the situa¬ 
tion then, he could hardly have muttered more apt words. He turned 
away from me. He stumbled, and Keitel and Admiral Donitz leapt for¬ 
ward and took him under the armpits to stop him falling. But with a 
tremendous effort, Hitler shrugged them away and continued down the 
corridor without assistance. Throughout this funereal walk, he waved his 
right hand aimlessly. It was as if he was trying to say: 

"My dear friends, excuse me." 

I, and I imagine everyone else, had been expecting some kind of 
excuse or explanation ... some word to tell us what was to happen now. 
But there was nothing. 

Bormann had promised that the Fiihrer would find some way of 
pulling through, but now it was plain to us all that neither Hitler; a fin¬ 
ished and broken old man on the evidence of my own eyes; not 
Bormann; nor anyone else believed this promise any longer. Indeed 
Bormann, who for so long had diligently worked in Hitler's shadow 
night and day, was conspicuous by his absence. 

It was believed by some of the bunker staff that Bormann in collusion 
with Donitz was attempting to negotiate with the Russians. Wagner him¬ 
self told me this, adding: 

"It is probably the only way of getting free of this cemetery in which 
we are living." 

He did not seem to question the rights and wrongs of it. Survival was 
all that mattered. But I, who later heard Bormann condemn the 
Communists and all they stood for, could not accept that this fervent 




24 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


Nazi could betray us so easily to the enemy. As he told me himself, eight 
months after the War ended: 

"I was not concerned that day with making excuses for Adolf 
Hitler. I was only concerned with saving his life." 

And he told me then: 

"Our Fuhrer can still unify Germany and make it free from spiritual 
and geographical division." 

From what Bormann told me and from what I saw in those last hours in 
the bunker I have almost satisfied myself as to what actually happened to 
Hitler. I know that many people who remained in the bunker after 1 have 
left have given their own explanation of what took place there and their 
accounts are possibly more acceptable than mine. In fact, I do not attempt 
to discredit them. 

But on the evidence as I know it, this is my reconstruction. A few min¬ 
utes after Hitler had disappeared up the steps leading out of the 
Fuherbunker I saw for myself a man who bore a startling resemblance to 
Hitler in stature and facial features being escorted by three uniformed SS 
officers into the Fuhrer's private apartments. It was commonly accepted 
that there was on the Fiihrer's staff, a man who was said to be his double. 

In conversations with Bormann, he was insistent that Hitler had been 
removed from the bunker under the influence of drugs on April 21st— 
the day I shook hands with him in the bunker corridor. Bormann would 
not give me any explanation as to how many apparently reliable wit¬ 
nesses had claimed to have seen and spoken to Hitler in the bunker right 
up until his reported suicide on April 30th, except to say that as creator 
of the Hitler suicide myth he had seen to it that all participants had been 
carefully briefed. 

It is only left to me to believe that it was Hitler's double who, nine 
days after I left, was destined to play this most important role in the his¬ 
tory of Nazism. It was this man who was shot through the mouth and 
whose body, dressed in Hitler's uniform, was burned alongside that of 
Eva Braun in the Chancellery garden that same afternoon. 

I cannot swear to the truth of this story. I was not there. But seven 
years later I was to witness an incredible scene which was to reinforce 



HITLER'S MISTRESS 


25 


my view that Adolf Hitler did not die in Berlin in April 1945. 

Three hours after shaking hands with Adolf Hitler I left the Reich 
bunker and staggered up to ground level into a scene of the most appalling 
confusion and noise. Russian artillery was pounding Berlin to mins. The 
capital seemed on fire. The sky itself was dark but the jagged outlines of 
the battered city showed starkly against a red backcloth of fire. 

I lay close to a bomb shattered wall in the burnt out min of the 
Chancellery, waiting for a lull in the heavy shellfire from the Russian 
lines half a mile away. It didn't seem possible for one to live in this infer¬ 
no—but in a momentary lull, a voice yelled in my ear: "Come on! Run!" 
and I was jerked onto my feet. I recognized the voice of Colonel SS 
Wagner, Chief of Intelligence in Hitler's underground headquarters. 
With him was Commander SS Willie Oberbeil and together the three of 
us stumbled across the cratered ruins of the Chancellery garden. Wagner 
took the lead and we pounded after him. Staggering and occasionally 
sprawling, we scrambled over mounds of shattered masonry which lit¬ 
tered the darkened streets outside. I might have been running for three 
minutes or three hours. I was so frightened that afterwards I found I 
could not reckon in terms of time—only of terror. 

The streets of Berlin were full of dead and dying men and women, 
mbble and dirt and broken scaffolding. But around us the spattering of 
machine gun fire drove us on. I did not know how far I ran or where I 
was going. But suddenly the shadowy figure ahead of me stopped and 
seconds later, friendly hands were guiding me into the back seat of a 
large, black Mercedes. I fell into a deep leather seat, not knowing what 
was happening—only glad to be alive. 

I felt rather than saw Oberbeil slump into the seat by my side, fol¬ 
lowed by Wagner and a fourth man unknown to me. The steel-helmeted 
driver let in the clutch and the powerful car surged forward. The great 
exodus from Berlin had begun. Although the capital was lost, the brains of 
the Nazi party remained intact. 

Three hours earlier, I had watched Hitler shuffle his way out of the 
bunker, attended by his Generals and personal staff. My spirits could not 
have been lower. For me, this seemed the end. My Nazi masters were 
defeated and the cause which I had followed with so much enthusiasm 
seemed crushed beyond repair. 

After Hitler's strange behavior, I found the bunker even more oppres¬ 
sive than usual and was relieved when Wagner announced we were leav- 



26 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


ing. He told Oberbeil and me that by the morning everyone of importance 
would be gone. But at this time, there seemed to me little point in running 
away. The messages I had seen the previous week spelled only one 
thing—Germany had suffered total defeat. 

Yet here I was, being driven—apparently unhindered—out of Berlin. I 
had no idea where we were going, but the simple fact that there was still 
somewhere to go helped to repair my badly damaged faith. But we were 
far from safe. The Russians by this time had almost entirely surrounded 
Berlin. Only the southwestern sector was still in the hands of the 
Germans. Several platoons of our troops backed by Artur Axmann's 
Hitler Youth battalions—had succeeded in holding off the enemy long 
enough for us to make our escape 

No one spoke as we twisted and turned through the city's back 
streets. Anxiously we watched for signs of enemy troops who might yet 
end our bid for freedom. Many streets were partially blocked where 
blitzed buildings had collapsed. Three times we were forced to stop and 
claw a way through the rubble with our bare hands. Once our driver 
careened straight over a three foot mound of bricks and broken concrete. 
Once clear of the deserted suburbs, our driver stopped the car. He told us it 
would be safer to wait for the others before going on to Munich. Within ten 
minutes, headlights flashed on the road behind, illuminating a convoy of 
about eighteen other cars coming in our direction. 

NOTE—When the top brass said they would fight to the last man; do you 
t hin k they really meant they would fight to the last of eveiyone else while they 
and their families escaped? Keep reading—the defeat of Germany was 
anticipated more than a year before it finally ended and those at the top made 
sure that as many of them as possible could escape. Keep reading as this well- 
planned and well-executed escape operation becomes apparent.—Ed. 

The last I saw of Berlin was a smudgy glow on the skyline. The 
sound of gunfire had died to a distant rumble and with the immediate 
danger behind me, I took stock of my companions. At my side, little 
Oberbeil was complaining that he had lost his spectacles and could not 
see. Wagner was examining a deep gash in his right ankle—he had 
caught it on a half buried girder on our sprint from the bunker. And our 
other passenger, a round faced and pot bellied SS Colonel, his uniform 



HITLER'S MISTRESS 


27 


crumpled and stained, was still sprawled in the seat where he had fallen. 
Fear and unaccustomed physical exertion had left him exhausted. 

I found a half finished pack of cigarettes in my pocket and passed 
them around. Only when I came to light my own did I discover how 
badly I was shaking. 

We continued south throughout the night, and dawn found us rushing 
through the German countryside, fresh and pleasant in contrast to the 
hell we had left behind us in the night. Only now, in daylight, did 1 realize 
the extent of our getaway operation. We were the last car of a convoy of 
nearly two dozen vehicles. Practically all the key men who had staffed the 
bunker in those last desperate weeks were here. The nucleus of the Nazi 
High Command was moving en bloc to the last stronghold of the 
Thousand Year Reich. Many of them were destined to arrive. 

Death swooped from the clear blue sky in the shape of a British fighter 
patrol. In seconds, the air was full of exploding cannon shells. Our driver 
braked and swerved into a hedgerow as the leading car of the convoy 
vanished in an eruption of flame. 

I threw myself from the car and fought my way into the hedge. I was 
dimly conscious of the screams of the wounded above the roar of the air¬ 
craft engines, and saw a burst of fire from one of the planes above, cut a 
swath of death less than a yard in front of me. I didn't see what happened 
to the others—I hugged the ground with my belly, my head buried in my 
hands. In that kind of situation you don't worry about the others. The 
world ends with the person by your side; the rest cease to exist. 

It was all over in a minute; yet in that minute 23 people had died and at 
least a dozen others lay badly wounded along the roadside. Ten of the cars 
were destroyed completely. Some of the less badly wounded, we took in 
the remaining cars, but the rest we left behind, wrapped in blankets and 
greatcoats, hoping that our own ambulance service or the Allied Red Cross 
would discover and take care of them. 

For a time, we didn't feel like talking and once again I was thankful 
just to be alive. But soon my mind began to sort out the tremendous 
events I had witnessed in the past few days. Suddenly the SS Colonel, 
his name I believe was Lachner, broke into my thoughts and caught the 
attention of us all. 

"The Fuhrer wanted nothing more than to be left to die with his 
people," he shrilled "But Bormann wanted him out alive." 



28 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


I felt Wagner stiffen and Oberbeil peering intently at the Colonel. It 
was obvious he knew a lot more than we did about Hitler's fate. 

"Bormann had left orders that the Fuhrer was to be drugged, by force 
if necessary, and taken out of Berlin. That's what happened." 

Lachner, who had held a responsible position close to Bormann in 
the Party Chancellery, told us the full story of what had happened. 

When Bormann appeared at the bunker the last time, Hitler was still 
determined to stay and if necessary, prepared to die defending the capital 
with the phantom legions which, by then, existed only in his mind. But 
Bormann had already assumed command and gave orders that both Hitler 
and Eva Braun were to be evacuated from the bunker. They were both 
forcibly drugged with, it turned out, fatal results for Eva Braun. 

As Lachner spoke, I recalled Hitler's ashen grey face and his stutter 
which had been even more pronounced than usual. I had assumed his 
appearance had been due to the strong emotion he must have felt on leav¬ 
ing Berlin—but now it seemed more likely due to the side effects of the 
drugs he had been given. 

The knowledge that Bormann had countermanded the Fuhrer's last 
wish left us stunned. It seemed incredible that Martin Bormann, the man 
who had been Hitler's faithful lieutenant for twenty years, could perform 
such a "volte face." I had to wait almost a year to hear, from Bormann 
himself, the hue reason for this seeming piece of treachery. 

Our flight across Germany lasted almost twenty hours. I still have a 
vague picture of the shattered towns and the blank faced people we 
passed on the long drive south. As the hours dragged past, Lachner grew 
more and more voluble, chattering endlessly on and on about the back- 
stage intrigue at Hitler's court. Lachner was insistent that many of 
Hitler's worst blunders were due to the misguided advice he was given 
by a covey of astrologers whom he regularly consulted. 

Some years after the war, I myself discovered how the British Secret 
Service had managed to bribe the so-called prophets and gave them cer¬ 
tain information to pass on to the Fuhrer in the form of predictions. An 
English Secret Service agent told me that without their advice, Hitler 
would never have attacked Russia. If this were true, and I had no reason 
then or now to doubt it, then this can be considered as probably the 



HITLER'S MISTRESS 


29 


biggest single triumph in the long history of espionage. 

As dusk on the evening of April 22nd, our depleted convoy arrived at 
its destination—Rottach am Egem; Germany's natural redoubt in the 
Bavarian mountains. It was here the Nazis planned to make their last 
stand against the advancing Allies. And as we approached the heavily 
guarded mountain fortress, I recalled the words of General SS 
Zimmermann, that here we might yet win an honorable peace. 

Long queues of vehicles waited to pass through the checkpoints 
along the road. At each point, we were thoroughly scrutinized by SS 
guards, and stage by stage, we penetrated deeper and higher into the 
redoubt; each car directed to its different section according to the number 
hastily painted on the sides. We were told to follow a narrow rutted track 
which wound us up the steep incline from the foot of one of the 
mountains. The driver finally pulled up outside the entrance to a tunnel, 
guarded by more SS men with sub-machine guns. 

Without a word, a young lieutenant led us through a steel doored 
entrance into a miniature bunker—smaller but similar in layout to the 
Fuhrerbunker in Berlin. 

For the first time in two days, our small intelligence unit was alone 
again; Lachner having left us at the main banier of Rottach am Egem to 
rejoin his colleagues in another section. We had been allocated a tiny 
office near the bunker entrance, the new headquarters for Nazi 
Germany's espionage work. 

Wagner exploded when he saw our miserable quarters. Apart from a 
heavy wooden table and four hard backed chairs, the room was com¬ 
pletely bare. We were equipped neither with radio nor transmitter or 
files, code books and the necessary paraphernalia for our job, yet we 
were expected to cope, we discovered, with the escape plans of some of 
Nazi Germany's leading figures. 

NOTE—When some of the leaders said they would fight to the last 
man, perhaps they meant they would fight to the last Sergeant while they 
got out safely. Did they have a very elaborate safety net in place for the 
escape of themselves and their own families? Read on; see what you 
think.—Ed. 



PART IV 


Escape from Germany 


F ortunately, one of Wagner's angry outbursts brought quick 
results and 24 hours after our arrival, a powerful radio trans¬ 
mitter and receiver was set up in a comer of our office. In the 
week that followed we received and transmitted orders for the 
escape from Germany of dozens of top officials in the Nazi 
Party. Who most of them are, I shall never know. To me they were just 
code names on a piece of paper. But it was obvious that this mass escape 
had been planned a long time before. 

Our two main escape routes out of Germany led through the Swiss 
border towns of Feldkirch and Kempten. Of these, the latter was far the 
safest route as our agent there was a member of the local Communist 
Party—a Nazi who had been planted there during the war among our bit¬ 
terest enemies. It was one of the few pieces of foresight shown by the 
German Intelligence Service—probably one of the most inefficient 
organizations of its kind in the world. 

I had been in Rottach am Eggem for just a week when Wagner called 
me into his private office. He had been almost without sleep for a week 
and he looked like a man about to acknowledge final defeat. But he 
forced a smile as he told me: 

"My dear Gomez; I have good news for you. You have been ordered 
back to Madrid. There you are to contact members of your old organ¬ 
ization and prepare to receive a very special visitor." 

"Who is he?" I asked. 


'That I cannot tell you. What I can tell you is that if the Nazi Party 



ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 


31 


is to survive, then it is essential that this person gets safely out of the 
Reich and out of Europe. The job has been assigned to you. You will 
receive instructions in due course. They will be signed by the code 
name ZAPATO." 

I returned to my own quarters with mixed emotions. Glad to be getting 
back to Spain but intensely curious as to who it was Wagner considered 
so vital to the Nazi cause. 

On the 29th of April, 1945 I left the redoubt—the last fragments of 
the Nazi Empire which had spanned Europe only a year before.That 
morning, I said goodbye to Colonel Wagner and Willy Oberbeil. My last 
vision of them was of two tired and dispirited men, their once arrogant 
black uniforms now stained and creased. They answered my salute with a 
weary mumbled "HEIL ..." I turned and left the bunker. Outside an SS 
guard was waiting with a OKW car, topped up with fuel, and a pass to 
enable me to get out of the main gate. 

I drove past the checkpoint, still heavily manned, and took the road to 
Munchen where I had been given the address of a garage to refuel. 

I was still a long way from the advancing American Front but the evi¬ 
dence of war was all around me. The road to Munchen was littered with 
abandoned vehicles, a few intact but most of them partially or totally 
destroyed. Hastily arranged diversions set up by the Wehrmacht Police 
enabled me to avoid the worst sections and 1 was able to make good 
speed apart from a thirty minute holdup to allow a military convoy 
through. 1 met few civilians on the roads and the little traffic 1 encoun¬ 
tered was all military. 

SS Intelligence had supplied me with false papers, identifying me as a 
Spanish chef in the Hotel Deutsche Kaiser in Munchen. My papers were 
barely glanced at by the guards at the checkpoints I passed. It was hard to 
recognize in the bla nk faces of these guards, the proud army which had 
once goose-stepped its triumphant way across Europe with such arrogant 
ease. And had it not been for the rigid discipline of their officers, I felt 
sure that many of these men would have swollen the stream of deserters 
who were daily giving themselves up to the advancing Americans. 

But soon I had my own troubles. I had been assured that I would have 
no trouble getting fuel in Munchen. None of the filling stations along the 
road had been open but it had not worried me. However, when I went to 



32 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


the address I had been given and the garage owner refused to serve me 
with gasoline, I became concerned. I told him no one at this time could 
run a car unless he were on government business. But he refused to be 
persuaded. 

Just then, an SS detachment had turned into the street and were 
marching towards me. I waited until they drew abreast of me and I 
stepped out to speak with the sergeant in charge. I took the risk of con¬ 
fiding in him that I was on an extremely important secret mission which 
necessitated my traveling on forged papers. Had he not believed my 
story, I could have been thrown in prison and days might have passed, 
with communications as they were, before Wagner could have arranged 
my release. 

Fortunately, the man accepted my story and came with me into the 
garage owner's office. The sergeant, a huge crop-haired brute, threatened 
the cowering man with instant arrest unless he filled the tank of my car. 
The man did so; and I can't blame him. 

The farther towards Switzerland I traveled, the more obvious it 
became that the Third Reich was defeated. I began to meet groups of 
refugees—old men, women and children, trudging hopelessly away 
from the tide of battle. I questioned some of them, but they did not 
appear to know where they were going. They were just running away. 
The adults appeared thin and badly clothed, and I noticed that many of 
the children were without shoes. To one group, 1 tossed a few tins of 
meat and vegetables which had been stacked in the back of my car. They 
snatched them greedily without a word of thanks. 

I stopped at a small roadside inn and asked inside for a cool lager, but 
the landlord shrugged and offered me the only thing he had in his cel¬ 
lar—a glass of water. I pressed them to look again and this time I pro¬ 
duced a piece of butter, half the size of a matchbox. The landlord's wife 
accepted eagerly and moments later, a liter of foaming chilled beer was 
mine. Two miles farther along the road, I discovered what price I really 
had to pay. 

The car shuddered and stopped! My host had siphoned off my whole 
tank of petrol. In a fury, I considered having the man arrested, but com¬ 
mon sense made me realize I would be wasting precious time. Instead, I 
filled a case with food and a blanket—and a spare pair of shoes, and 
walked. 

In just over an hour, I arrived at a small railway station, where I was 



ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 


33 


amazed to find that trains were still running. But there was no question 
of buying a ticket. 

"Are you mad?" asked the porter. "Nobody buys tickets any more. 
When the train stops, you just get on if you can." 

When it arrived, the train consisted of freight wagons and open 
coaches, but at least it took me to the outskirts, Garmisch, where, after a 
three-hour delay, I was able to get on a train to Innsbruck. 

The town was swarming with troops and the station itself was littered 
with stretcher cases and walking wounded. I decided to eat before con¬ 
tinuing on the last stage of my journey to Feldkirch. I walked away from 
the station and threaded my way down a little side street until I came to a 
tiny coffeehouse away from the crush of field grey uniforms. I sat at a 
table near the cafe's entrance. It was dim in the blackout and, at first, I 
did not notice the couple sitting adjacent to me. 

I could scarcely believe my eyes when I turned to study them more 
closely and recognized the man. I had last seen him in the Fuhrerbunker, 
exhorting us to the final defense of the Third Reich. It was General SS 
Zimmermann! He must have recognized me at the same instant and a 
flicker of disbelief crossed his face. He beckoned me over. I hardly sat 
down when he began to talk quietly and rapidly. 

"Thi s lady is my wife. I want you to take care of her. See that no harm 
comes to her, because I intend to kill myself." 

I was speechless. This man was a comparative stranger, an influential 
SS officer who did not even know my name. He who a short time ago had 
been full of optimism now proposed to commit suicide, and thrust the 
responsibility of his wife's safety onto my shoulders. 

I begged him to reconsider, but despite my pleadings, he explained 
that he could never leave Germany and since he had no intention of serving 
anyone but the Fuhrer, the only course open to him was suicide. Seeing 
that it was pointless to go on arguing, I told him that I had been ordered 
back to Spain and would take his wife with me if he insisted. 

Suddenly, as if fearing I might change my mind, Zimmermann stood 
up. He kissed his wife on the forehead, shook me firmly by the hand and 
without saying a word, walked out into the night. Frau Zimmermann (her 



34 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


name was Maria) half rose from her chair, then slumped back. She sim¬ 
ply said: 

"God help him, wherever he goes" 

Two years after the war I discovered that General Zimmermann had 
indeed carried out his promise and committed suicide. 

Maria Zimmermann and I, the following night, made contact with 
our agent, a Catholic priest in Feldkirch named Father John. We decided it 
would be best if we traveled as man and wife, and Father John promptly 
forged an appropriate wedding certificate. We stayed with the priest for 
three days and it was in his house on May 1st that I heard the German 
radio announcement that Hitler had 

"... died at the head of his troops." 

I was confused by this announcement, for I felt it could not be true. I 
knew of Bormann's instructions to transport the Fuhrer to a safe place, 
away from the battle and the advancing Red Army. I had seen for myself 
the carefully planned escape of every other top Nazi, and I refused to 
believe that Hitler had been allowed to remain behind. 

On the night of May 3rd, I crossed safely back into Switzerland, 
knowing that scores of high-ranking Nazis had preceded me through 
similar escape routes and countless others were to follow. 

In Switzerland we presented ourselves to the authorities as Angel 
Donate Reca and Maria Pinto, man and wife, and asked for repatriation to 
Spain. Both of us were extensively questioned and passed from camp to 
camp until at last we were dumped in the refugee camp for Spanish 
nationals at lePlaine near the French border. 

I was in this ghastly place on May 7 when I heard that the war was 
over. Germany had surrendered unconditionally. The misery of the filth at 
lePlaine almost defied description. We lived in unheated huts and slept on 
wooden bunks thinly covered with straw. The toilet was a hole in the 
ground at one end of the hut. The stench was indescribable. 

On the second day there, I was lucky enough to find a pro-Nazi Swiss 
guard who agreed to pass on a message to a certain Father Ramon, whose 
name had been given to me by the Catholic priest who assisted us in 
Feldkirch. This monk took my case to the Spanish consul in Geneva, and 



ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 


35 


shortly afterwards, 1 was visited by the Consul, one Senor Albazor. He 
pulled a great many strings and arranged with the Allied authorities on the 
Inter-Allied Commission for the Repatriation of Refugees to have Maria 
and me transferred to a hotel in Geneva under police supervision. From 
here it was a simple job to arrange passage for the two of us to Barcelona. 

I had cabled my wife when we were arriving, and she was waiting for 
us with a car when we docked late in July. After hearing our story, she 
insisted on Maria Pinto coming to live with us in Madrid. Maria stayed 
with us for three years before returning to Germany. Later I learned that 
she was working in South America. Now Maria is once again settled in 
Germany, at Koln, and she got engaged to an Englishman. But now she 
lives under the name of Maria Danneworth. 

By the time I reached home, the Allied nations were celebrating the 
crushing of Nazi Germany. But I knew that their victory had not been 
complete. Even as they rejoiced, scores of men, capable of keeping the 
spirit of Nazism alive, were being assisted to safety by those who still 
believed in their cause. I was one of those who assisted in these escapes. 
Two men came to me for help ... the first stands convicted for the murder 
of millions. 

I met him the first time in 1946. In June of that year, a monk from a 
Swiss order, called at my home in Madrid asking me to give assistance to a 
German refugee who had sought sanctuary with his brotherhood. The 
man's name he said, was Climents. He was described by the mo nk as: 

"A good man who wishes to start a new life in the Argentine." 

I said I might possibly be able to help, but first I would like to meet 
him. I accompanied the monk to the college of his order a few miles from 
Freiberg in Switzerland. I thought it possible that I might recognize 
Climents, but I did not. At that time he told me simply: 

"I am an officer of the SS, and I am being hunted by the Allies. Will 
you help me?" 

I agreed. 

Climents returned with me to Madrid on a special passport issued to 
him by the Vatican. These passports were issued to many refugees after 



36 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


the war, but were valid for travel only inside Europe. I noticed that this 
passport was made out in the name of Didier. However, I asked no fur¬ 
ther questions and obtained an Argentine passport for him in the name of 
Climents. On the third day of July, 1947 I drove him to Madrid Airport to 
catch a plane for Buenos Aires. 

As we waited together in the departure lounge, I asked if he could tell 
me his real name. 

"My name is Eichmann." he replied. It meant nothing to me then. But 
now, all these years later, all the world knows what the name Eichmann 
means. 

Who was the other man who came to me for help? It was Martin 
Bormann. 

I stood with my companion on the conning tower of the U-Boat and 
stared out across the white-flecked Atlantic. The coast of Spain was a 
grey smudge in the thin light of early dawn. It was quiet except for the 
hollow slap of waves against the submarine's hull. Then my companion 
spoke: 

"This is not running away. This is merely a pause. The war is not 
over as everyone believes. One day Germany—Hitler's Germany—will 
emerge victorious." 

He gazed toward the distant coast. But I knew that it was not Spain 
that he saw. He was seeing Germany. A much diminished, war-tom, 
scarred and defeated Germany. 

"One day I shall return." he challenged. "On that, I, Martin Bor¬ 
mann, give you my word." 

In silence we descended to the deck below. As Bormann dropped into 
sight, a 12 man Kriegsmarine guard of honor crashed to attention. Martin 
Bormann faced the U-Boat commander across the narrow deck and 
proudly drew himself to attention. Their arms came up as one and 
together they answered the salute. "Heil Hitler." 

It was May 7, 1946—exactly one year to the day after the signing by 
Germany of an unconditional surrender at Reims. A new chapter in the 
history of Nazism had begun. 



ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 


37 


After my escape from Germany, where I spent the last three months of 
the war in the Fuhrerbunker, Hitler's headquarters beneath the Reich 
Chancellery, I thought for a time that I had finally finished with my Nazi 
masters. 

On leaving the Reich, I had been instructed to alert the members of 
the Nazi espionage ring in Spain, of which I had been the wartime chief, to 
prepare for a "special visitor." These were the instructions given to me by 
Colonel SS Wagner, Intelligence Chief at Rottach am Egem—scene of 
the Nazis' last stand against the invading Allies. 

From time to time during the following months I recalled these 
orders, but was convinced they would never be put into operation. I little 
imagined I was soon to be plunged once more into the National 
Socialist cause, which I was certain had no further need for me. Until 
that day in December, 1945 when I received a visit from Felipe, a 
German who had worked with my organization in Spain. It had been sev¬ 
eral years since I had last seen him. Then, he had weighed a good 16 
stones [a British stone is equal to 14 pounds], but now he had lost con¬ 
siderable weight. He was tall, blond-haired and aged about 40. 

He threw his arms around me and seemed very happy to see me 
again. We talked over old times together, before and during the war. I 
was not very surprised when Felipe told me he was still working for the 
Nazis. I knew that large sums of money had been deposited with different 
agents in various parts of the world—all men dedicated to the Nazi 
cause. These men, and Felipe was one of them, had been chosen to keep 
Nazism strong in the event of Germany losing the war. They were all 
fanatics. Some of them had even sold their homes and possessions to 
carry on their work. But Felipe was more fortunate and still had access to 
large sums of ready cash. His was a key position in the escape route that 
had been reserved for those top Nazis who survived the war. 

Because of this, I felt sure that his surprise visit was not simply a 
social one. It was probably connected with the arrival of my long-awaited 
"special visitor." Felipe told me nothing of his mission, but before leaving 
he handed me a sealed envelope which he said contained important 
information. 

I opened it in the usual way. My espionage training with the Germans 
had taught me how to handle this kind of message. I went to my bureau 
and selected a large plain envelope, a size larger than the one Felipe had 
left. I placed the one inside the other and sprayed the whole package with 



38 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


a liquid which I kept locked in my desk drawer. Quickly I plugged in an 
electric iron and pressed the twin package until it was dry. It became rigid. 
Treatment with a second liquid spray caused the inside envelope to open. 
To have tried to open it in any other way would have resulted in the 
message it contained being destroyed. My instructions were written in 
Spanish. 

EXPECT SPECIAL VISITOR IN MADRID BETWEEN JANU¬ 
ARY 1ST AND 15TH. THIS PERSON, WHOM YOU WILL RECOG¬ 
NIZE, WILL BE BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE BEARER OF THIS 
LETTER. 

ZAPATO 

ZAPATO! That was the code name which Wagner had made me 
memorize before leaving Rottach am Egem. 

I spent the next four weeks in a frenzy of speculation. The peace of 
mind I had known over the past few months vanished, to be replaced by 
an undeniable compulsion to be once more back in the service of the 
cause. The message, though guarded in its phrasing, told me the one thing I 
wanted most to hear. At least one important Nazi had survived the war. 

Felipe came to my house on January 3, 1946. But this time he was 
not alone. His companion I did not recognize at first. He was wearing a 
dark overcoat over a grey suit and wore a bottle-green trilby hat pulled 
down low over his eyes. 

I knew I had seen this man before, but I could not see enough of his 
face to give him a name. Felipe introduced us. 

"Angel, I would like to present you to Herr Fleischmann," 

It was as I stepped forward to shake his hand that I recognized Martin 
Bormann. But a much changed Bormann. When I had last seen the Party 
Chancellor in the Bunker, he had been a good three stones heavier. His 
heavy jowled face had grown lean and his cheeks drawn. But there was 
about his eyes some unmistakable gleam, which reflected his insatiable 
appetite for power and limitless ambition. 

He removed his hat and I noticed he was partly bald at the front, 
though I discovered that this had been artificially brought about. Plastic 
surgery had taken care of his prominent Greek nose. 



ESCAPE FROM GERMANY 


39 


Felipe was curious to learn the real identity of the man he had 
brought to my house and at the first opportunity, he took me aside and 
asked "Who is this Herr Fleischmann?" 

1 told him: 

"Who else should it be but Herr Fleischmann?" 

But he pressed me to know what position the man held in Germany. I 
told him I had known Herr Fleischmann as one of Him ml er's assistants. I 
could see that Felipe was not satisfied with that answer, but he shrugged 
and dropped the subject and left shortly afterwards. 

As soon as we were alone, I took Bormann into the lounge, offered 
him a cigarette and a glass of Spanish brandy; both of which he accept¬ 
ed—and I waited. 

He spoke first. "Do you remember me from the bunker?" 

"Yes," I replied. "You are Martin Bormann." 

He smiled thinly and told me, "That's right. But to everyone else, I 
am Herr Fleischmann. Do you understand? " 

"Of course." And then remembering to whom Felipe's message had 
been addressed, I added "If you are Herr Fleischmann, then I am not 
myself, but Senor Gomez." 

Gomez was the name I had worked under in the Berlin Bunker. We 
talked in Spanish, though the Spanish of Bormann was a terrible thing. 

"You will have to study hard if you want to improve your Spanish suf¬ 
ficiently to stay here undetected." I told him. 

"I shall not be staying in Spain permanently." he replied. "But I shall 
take your advice and study the language." 


Then he handed me a white envelope, blank on the outside and 



40 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 



NAZI LEADER ADOLF HITLER holds the "Bloodied Standard"—the blood flag—of the 
Nazi Party at a memorial ceremony for the failed uprising of November 9,1923, known as the 
"Beer Hall Putsch." 


unsealed. Inside were further instructions, signed ZAPATO. 

I was told to take Bormann down to Condor, a castle on the 
Mediterranean coast of Spain at Denia, 30 miles south of Valencia. I was 
further informed that Macario, a German who had been living in Spain 
for over thirty years and who had been working for the Nazis since 
before the war, was expecting us. He had a large house two miles from 
the castle, and the use of a small cottage built into the castle wall. 

I assumed then that my part in the business would be over when I had 
delivered Bormann to Denia, but Bormann warned me 

"Get plenty of exercise. You must be fit to make a long journey very 
soon." 


That night he slept in the guest bedroom of my home. He had arrived 
without luggage of any kind and I had to send out for pajamas and shav¬ 
ing gear. 


HEINRICH HOFFMANN/HULTON ARCHiVLGETTY IMAGES 



PART V 


Bormann the Prophet 


D uring the next two days, my conversations with Bormann 
naturally revolved around the post-war situation in 
Germany. At this stage, he was not prepared to discuss the 
fate of Hitler but was only too willing to talk about the 
probable fate of other Nazi leaders, then awaiting trial at 

Nuremberg. 

He happily prophesied: "These people will soon be paid for the high 
treason they committed." 

He was particularly bitter against his former arch-enemy at Hitler's 
court, Hermann Goring. "That pot-bellied swine was the worst person 
Hitler could possibly have chosen to run the Luftwaffe." he declared. 

Ribbentrop too, he castigated, as the man responsible for Germany's 
premature declaration of war. 

"He may have been a good ambassador; which I doubt—but he 
should never have been made Minister for Foreign Affairs." 

These two men, Bormann claimed, pushed Hitler into a war for 
which Germany was neither economically nor militarily prepared. 
Goring, he said, had given Hitler a completely false impression regarding 
Germany's preparedness for total war in 1930—1939. "No power in 
Europe can fight us in the air." Bormann claimed Goring had told Hitler. 
And Hitler believed him. 

"For his part, Ribbentrop as Foreign Minister had done an unforgivable 
thing," Bormann went on, "in failing to report truthfully and accurately to 
Hitler the character, morale, feelings and strength of Britain and her 
Empire when he returned from his last pre-war visit to London." 



42 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


"Hitler proved extremely wise in many of his decisions." Bormann 
explained to me. "It was a pity he could not have been more wise in his 
choice of advisors." 

I never once heard Bormann comment on either Goring or 
Ribbentrop without accompanying such comment with an insult. 

Bormann stayed with me in Madrid until January 6th. On that morn¬ 
ing, we left in my new Chrysler for the eight-hour drive down to Condor 
Castle. It looked bleak and foreboding in the thin winter sunshine and the 
half-dozen white stone cottages nestling below its walls seemed deserted 
as we slowed to a stop outside the main entrance of the castle. 

This place had been used during the war as an espionage center and 
the men living in the cottages had all worked for the Nazi regime at some 
stage of the war. The castle was built so as to command a perfect view of 
both the coastal plain and the sea, and was therefore an ideal hideout for a 
fugitive like Bormann. One room in the west tower had been roughly 
furnished and the glassless windows boarded up in preparation for 
Bormann's visit. Macario had been expecting us and approached in the 
doorway of his cottage as we left the car. He was then about 55 years 
old—and dressed as he was in blue jersey, canvas trousers and sandals, 
he resembled the typical Spanish fisherman. 

He greeted us briefly and without ceremony. We were just two more 
clients in the long list of faceless men who had passed this way. He led 
us through twelve foot high heavy oak doors of the castle and, holding a 
hurricane lamp above his head, ushered us towards Bormann's quarters 
less than a stone's throw from the main gate. We clambered up a short 
flight of very steep stone steps skirting the west tower and ducked 
through a narrow opening on our left. A heavy drape of sacking screened 
the doorway. Macario pulled it aside. 

"It's probably not the best room you've ever had—but there are few 
safer. "Macario chirped, setting the hurricane lamp down on a flat-topped 
writing desk against the crudely hewn stone wall. An iron framed cot had 
been pushed into one comer and a pair of straight-backed wooden chairs 
and a small chest of drawers completed the furnishings. Instead of a car¬ 
pet, a two-inch layer of fine white sand covered the stone floor. 

Bormann seemed satisfied—at least he made no complaint about his 
Spartan hideaway. But he curtly rapped out an order in German. Macario 
scuttled away and reappeared a few minutes later with a basket of food 



BORMANN THE PROPHET 


43 


and wine. I did not stay to join him in his meal, but bade him good night 
and set out on the return trip to Madrid. 

I received no word of Bormann for three months and long before this I 
had accepted that my part in this drama was ended. Then, on May 1, 
Felipe turned up again at my house. Once again he brought a message, 
and, once again, it dealt with the escape of Martin Bormann. As usual, 
the message was brief and to the point. Herr Fleischmann would embark 
from Villagarcia—a fishing town on the northwest Gallegan coast of 
Spain, on May 7th. And I would be accompanying him. 

Bormann was to leave, and I would accompany him—but to where? 

But to where? There was no hint as to our final destination. I only 
knew that I would be getting further instructions from our agent in 
Villagarcia. 

On the morning of May 3rd, 1946 I said good-bye to my wife, 
Conception. I told her I might be away from home for several weeks or 
perhaps months. I drove down to Condor in the Chrysler, urging the big 
car as fast as I could over the rough roads, for I was anxious to find out 
from Bormann where our journey would end. 

He was waiting impatiently for me, pacing up and down the cobbled 
courtyard below his room. He shook me warmly by the hand and greeted 
me in Spanish. He had not wasted his three months in Denia and had 
almost perfected the language, and looked a good deal fitter. I was 
unsure how to address him, but I decided to keep up the pretense of his 
pseudonym. 

"Herr Fleischmann, it is good to see you again. I trust your stay at 
Condor has not been difficult." 

Bormann grimaced. "I would not say difficult, Senor Gomez. But 
nevertheless, I am not unhappy at the thought of leaving." 

Bormann had spoken to no one but Macario in those three months. 
He had not left the castle grounds, but at least his surroundings were 
beautiful. Acres and acres of rose gardens and lawns lay inside the castle 
walls. In this environment and under the warm Mediterranean sun, Martin 
Bormann had grown fitter, stronger and more confident. He was 



44 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


obviously excited at the prospect of action. The last twelve weeks had 
been spent in thinking and planning for the future and rebuilding of the 
Nazi Party. Now the time had come to translate those thoughts into 
deeds. He was in such good spirits that he sent Macario for a bottle of 
good Spanish wine and insisted that the faithful agent join us in a toast. It 
was a bizarre scene. We stood, our shadows flickering in the candlelight 
against the bare stone walls. Bormann sloshed wine into three tumblers. 
He handed us our drinks and pulled himself rigidly to attention. He 
raised his glass. 

"Gentlemen, we drink to the National Socialist Party and to its 
leader. Heil Hitler." 

"Heil Hitler," we echoed and I felt a tingle of excitement rippling 
through my body. Could it be then that the Fuhrer really was still alive? 
Bormann butted in on my thoughts. 

"Run along; we must rest," he said. "You and I, Gomez, have many 
miles to travel." 

Macario and I left Bormann standing alone in his cell-like chamber, 
and picked our way along the overgrown path to Macario's cottage. I 
dreamed that night a vivid picture of the Berlin bunker. And I heard again 
the voice of Adolf Hitler: 

"Where goes this man without a motive?" 

I was awaken at dawn to find Bormann dressed and waiting. We had a 
hasty meal of bread, freshly landed langostino, washed down by mugs of 
hot, sweet, black coffee. Macario had prepared a satchel of food and a 
bottle of cognac to take with us. Bormann and I shook hands briefly with 
the man, and climbed into the Chrysler. We nosed out of the little town, 
the rising sun at our backs, on the first leg of our eight hundred mile 
journey across Spain. Bormann, dressed in a cheap blue suit and white 
cotton shirt, sat unspeaking at my side as we sped along the coast road 
towards Granada. Our only stopping points that day were Granada and 
Seville, and then only long enough to replenish our fuel tank. I deliberately 
chose small roadside filling stations where there was no risk of 



BORMANN THE PROPHET 


45 


Bormann being recognized. We ate as I drove, Bormann handing me the 
cognac bottle from time to time. His bubbling good humor of the previous 
night had been replaced by his usual taciturn demeanor. 

I had chosen a round-about route deliberately so as to avoid the bigger 
cities, and our first overnight stop was in the small market town of 
Merida, near the Portuguese border. We did not travel on passports and at 
the quiet hotel I had picked out, I registered in my own name Angel de 
Velasco, showing my identity card and registering Bormann as Herr 
Fleischmann. I was paying the bill and the sleepy concierge did not bother 
Bormann for his papers. Our second night was spent in Ponferrada, 
barely a hundred and twenty five miles from our destination— 
Villagarcia. 

But those hundred and twenty five miles—the last lap)—took us the 
whole of the following day to cover. The road, an ill-made up potholed 
track, zig-zagged wildly across a chain of mountains and I arrived at 
Villagarcia exhausted. I drove directly to the house of one of my agents, a 
man named Martinez, who made us welcome. He was a genuine fish¬ 
erman and greeted us wearing the traditional calf length canvas trousers, a 
blue seaman's jersey and wooden clogs. Inside the house was poor but 
clean, and Martinez had prepared a supper. 

Bormann and I ate ravenously and while we were still eating, 
Martinez brought in his son, who he said would be going with us in their 
fishing boat the following morning. Martinez had another envelope for 
me, but he said: 

"I have been given strict orders not to hand this envelope to you 
before you are embarked." 

I protested. "Why not now? I insist you hand it over." Then I turned 
to Bormann. "I am tired of this guessing game. I want to know where we 
are going." 

Bormann remained calm in the face of this outburst. 

"My friend, even I do not know our exact destination. The organiza¬ 
tion which is arranging our transport is a highly efficient one—as you 
yourself must know. I need not remind you of the need for the strictest 
security. I have left the organization in the hands of trusted men. Let us 



46 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


not ask questions. Soon enough, you will know:' 

This gentle reprimand brought me back to my senses. 

"Of course. I understand," I said to Bormann. 

And to Martinez, "Of course you must carry out your orders. 1 apol¬ 
ogize for my rudeness." 

Bormann and I smoked a last cigarette before climbing the rickety 
stairs to a room where two single beds had been prepared for us. I was 
asleep even as my head hit the pillow. 

It was still dark when Martinez shook my shoulder roughly. "Senor, it 
is time to go." he whispered, and I heard Bormann grunt sleepily. We 
dressed by the light of a paraffin lamp and carrying a suitcase each, the 
former Nazi Party Chancellor and myself followed the old fisherman out 
of the house and down to the harbor. 

In the darkness of a moonless night I could make out a dilapidated 
old fishing boat rocking unsteadily at its moorings. A stiff wind had risen 
and I could hear the crash of heavy breakers against the shore. Bormann 
was horrified. 

"Mein Gott!" he exclaimed. "Don't tell me we have to make our 
journey in this thing. It will sink before it leaves harbor." 

The old fisherman told him not to worry, and helped us aboard the 
aged craft, of which he was obviously but unjustifiably proud. I took a 
last look around before following Bormann aboard. I had made arrange¬ 
ments for my car to be driven back to Madrid and had given the driver a 
brief message for my wife, telling her that I might be away longer than 
I had at first believed. 

Neither Bormann nor myself wore overcoats and we shivered, hurry¬ 
ing into the comparative warmth of the boat's main cabin. The craft had a 
crew of five and to an observer, it would seem that we were going on a 
normal nights fishing. Martinez's boat was a forty-five footer, propelled 
by a sluggish diesel engine. But despite Bormann's sarcastic comments 
and concern, she plowed a steady path through the white-topped waves 
toward the open sea. 



BORMANN THE PROPHET 


47 


We had come about two miles from the coast when Martinez slowed 
the engine and gave the order for the sea anchor to be dropped. He shouted 
to one of his seamen to keep a shaip lookout for any other shipping in 
the area, and we settled down to wait in silence. I noticed the lights of 
other boats in the distance and for the first time Bormann became agi¬ 
tated. But Martinez assured us that they were the lights of other fishing 
boats and were more than a mile away. 

The sea was getting rougher, but the weather-beaten old fisherman 
was quite unconcerned by the nauseating roll of his battered tub. It was 
then that Martinez produced a bulky package from a pocket of his coat. 

"This is the package for which you have been waiting, Senor." 

He handed the packet to me. I wanted to open it then and there, but 
Bormann told me 

"No, wait until we get on board our next craft." 

We had both known that there must be another boat waiting for us. 
Outside, a seaman shouted something and Martinez suddenly stood up 
and said: "All right. It is time you were going." 

On deck, I could see no sign of another ship, but two seamen were 
waiting to assist us over the side. I went to the rail and what I saw took 
my breath away. Bumping gently against the fishing boat's side was a 
rubber dinghy manned by two sailors wearing Kriegsmarine uniforms! 

They gave a military salute as we lowered ourselves into the dinghy, 
and Bormann returned their salute. We shouted a farewell to Martinez, 
and the two sailors cast us loose and began paddling away from the boat. 
The yellow dinghy tossed violently on the waves, and the sailors cursed 
their luck in German. Bormann and I still had our eyes fixed for some 
sign of an awaiting vessel. But there was nothing. 

Then with incredible suddenness, the sea immediately in front of us 
began to boil, and from the foaming waves rose the unmistakable shape of 
a submarine lifting itself violently from the depths. The sea cascaded 
from its decks and had it not been for the seamanship of the two sailors, 
we should have capsized. Even so, we were forced to bail frantically. 

Moments later we were scrambling over the wet curved steel deck 



48 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


and hauling ourselves up the slippery metal ladder that stretched to the 
lip of the conning tower. Bormann and I paused a moment on the narrow 
gangway circling the open hatch, from which came the pungent smell of 
diesel fuel. The U-Boat Commander, who had been waiting on the con¬ 
ning tower, had disappeared down below, leaving Bormann and me alone in 
the slowly gathering dawn. We caught a glimpse of the fishing boat 
heading back towards Spain. 

Bormann gazed thoughtfully towards the coast and spoke softly as if 
voicing his thoughts to himself. 

"Europe will see me again." he murmured, "leading a new and more 
powerful Germany." 

Then he turned abruptly and lowered himself into the bowels of the U- 
Boat. 1 followed him down the narrow ladder, and the two seamen, 
having stowed the dinghy, came after me, snapping the clips of the 
watertight hatch behind them. Bormann faced the U-Boat Commander 
across the narrow deck and together they saluted. 

Then the U-Boat Commander, in full naval uniform with an IRON 
CROSS glittering on his tunic breast, thrust out his arms and greeted 
Bormann in a firm embrace. He turned to me, extending a powerful hand 
and clicked his heels; "Captain Karl Jui" he announced formally and 
gave a slight bow. He was, I suppose, no older than 35 and although still a 
handsome man, his hair was prematurely white. He was tall and arrogant, 
his height being emphasized in the cramped confines of the U-Boat's 
control room. 

While Captain Jui introduced his First Officer, ship's doctor and 
other officers to Bormann and myself, I noticed around me the crew alert at 
their diving stations, awaiting the order from Jui to submerge. They all 
wore white jerseys as did the steward who led Bormann and myself 
along a steel gangway towards the boat's bow. 

As I stepped through a watertight door leading forward, I felt the boat 
surge and the deck ahead tilt downwards. We were going under, and I 
was embarking on the most fascinating voyage of my life. I glanced at 
my watch. It was 5:10 am the morning of May 7th, 1946. Exactly a year to 
the day after Germany surrendered unconditionally to the victorious 
Allies, I found myself in a German U-Boat diving beneath the waves of 
the Atlantic. 



BORMANN THE PROPHET 


49 


Apart from myself, there was only one other civilian on board this 
fully equipped and fully provisioned warship, the U-Boat under com¬ 
mand of Captain Karl Jui. That other man was Martin Bormann, the most 
hunted fugitive of the Third Reich, the man around whom a storm of 
speculation had long raged. We were on our way to an unknown destination 
where Bormann planned the renaissance of the Nazi Party—a new 
Nazism which would conquer not only Europe, but indeed the world. 

They had picked us up off the coast of Spain and now under full 
wartime conditions the ship was thrusting its way on a three thousand 
mile journey beneath the Atlantic. One of the crew in the uniform of the 
Kriegsmarine led Martin Bormann and myself to a small cabin in the 
bows of the U-Boat. In this cramped steel box, Bormann and I were to 
share eighteen long days together. And here he laid before me his plans, 
plans he had prepared in the last months of the war, to ensure the con¬ 
tinuance of the Nazi creed. 

Captain Jui appeared at the door of our cabin as soon as the seaman 
had left. Bormann went to the door and they talked for a minute or two 
in German. I could not catch what they said but as Jui shut the door and 
left us alone, Bormann remarked: 

"From now on, Angel, we can consider ourselves Argentine sub¬ 
jects." 

Only then, three months after I had been instructed to help Bormann 
out of Europe, did I have revealed to me our final destination. Then 
Bormann referred to the bulky package of papers which had been handed 
to me by another agent as we left Spain. 

"I think that now is the time to open the envelope." he said. "If I am 
not mistaken, it will contain certain instructions for our Captain." 

I took the packet from my coat and laid it on the table. I examined it 
carefully. It was in a plain envelope—not the usual kind used by the Nazi 
Intelligence Service. I slit it open without further ado. Had it been the 
special type of envelope I had received so many times before, doing this 
would have rendered any message unreadable. 

First I withdrew a single sheet of paper. On it were instructions typed 
in Spanish referring to Martin Fleischmann, the name Bormann used 
during his escape. I was to instruct him in the way of life, the political 



50 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


situations and the language of those South American countries known 
personally to me. I was to pay particular attention to life in the Argentine. 
From the envelope I also took out two Argentine passports. One was for 
Bormann in the name of Luis Oleaga and the other in the name of Adian 
Espana was for me. 

Although the passports seemed genuine enough—they were issued 
by the Argentine Consul in San Sebastian—there was another typewritten 
note attached to the inside page of mine saying that these passports were 
intended for use in emergency only and that the people who would meet us 
in Argentina would supply us with more authentic papers when we 
arrived. The message was signed "ZAPATO." I knew then that it had come 
from Colonel SS Wagner, former Chief of SS Intelligence in the Berlin 
Fuhrerbunker. 

The last item in the packet was another sheet of white paper containing 
a lengthy message written in numbered code. I could not decipher it. I 
handed it to Bormann and he simply shrugged and said: "Give it to the 
Captain." 

The message in fact was Jui's sailing orders. Bormann and I sat down to 
study our documents and take stock of our surroundings. There were two 
bunks in the cabin bracketed against the steel bulkhead to the right of the 
door, and placed one above the other. Over these there were shelves 
where we could put our only luggage: two small suitcases. Opposite the 
door was a table that folded back against the bulkhead when not in use. 
A single unshaded bulb glowed continuously from a bracket in the 
ceiling, and there was a small lamp screwed to a shelf above the table. 
The bunks themselves were firm but comfortable—each prepared with 
crisp, white sheets and pillow cases, and had a reading lamp above. The 
steel deck had a piece of threadbare carpet in the center of the floor. Our 
washing facilities comprised a small aluminum hand basin fixed to the 
gangway bulkhead outside our cabin. Two steel chairs completed the 
furnishings. 

We had been in the cabin for something like two hours when I sensed 
the U-Boat tilting its nose upwards. Bormann and I glanced at each other 
wondering, but our unspoken query was answered almost immediately by 
Captain Jui who knocked on our door and entered briskly. 

"Gentlemen, we have surfaced. We are just off the coast of Portugal. 
We shall be here for less than an hour to take on essential supplies." 



BORMANN THE PROPHET 


51 


Curious, I followed Captain Jui back to the U-Boat's operations deck 
and stood watching while two sailors opened the conning tower hatch 
and disappeared out of sight above us. A third seaman secured the hatch 
behind them and Jui rasped an order: 

"Take her down three fathoms." 

I heard the sound of ballast tanks filling, and then silence. By this 
time, Bormann had joined us on the bridge and we watched while 
Captain Jui made a 360 degree sweep with his periscope. Apparently sat¬ 
isfied, the captain came over to join us. 

"Everything's all right—but we must wait." 

He produced a chess board and pieces, and he and Martin Bormann 
settled down to a game. 

From time to time, Captain Jui excused himself to take a brief glance 
through the periscope. About an hour after the two seamen had left, Jui 
gave the order to surface. I felt a blast of fresh air as the conning tower 
hatch was opened and shortly afterwards the two men stumbled down 
the steps of the ladder, each carrying a small box about the size of a cigar 
box. I guessed they must have been extremely heavy for the men had dif¬ 
ficulty carrying them down. The boxes were stacked on the deck and 
they returned for another load. All together, nineteen of these boxes were 
brought down. I suspected that they carried gold. But if Bormann knew, he 
was not saying—and my suspicion was never confirmed. After these 
boxes, two larger wooden crates were lowered down and I was told they 
contained food. 

Fifteen minutes later, we were submerged again and life on board the 
boat settled down for our eighteen day non-stop run across the Atlantic. 
For most of the time Bormann and I were closeted together in our cabin, 
occasionally speaking with a member of the crew, but generally con¬ 
versing only between ourselves. 

We were served excellent food in our cabin including crispbread, 
freshly baked on board twice a week. One of the marines was detailed to 
wait on us. Occasionally, Captain Jui himself joined us for a meal, but he 
soon wearied of this, as it meant him standing to eat. There were only 



52 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


two places at our table. 

Jui was a veteran U-Boat man with all the arrogance that life and 
death command gave these wartime heroes. Twice I was to cross swords 
with him. The first time was a trivial incident and occurred during my 
second day aboard. I had wandered onto the bridge but was rudely 
ordered back to my quarters when Jui discovered me in conversation 
with one of his officers, and accused me of distracting the man from his 
duty. Upon my return to our cabin Bormann sensed my ruffled feelings 
and I told him what had happened. 

He shrugged. 

"Don't take it too seriously. You must remember that on this boat we 
are his guests. Jui is in command and we must accept what he says, and 
try not to antagonize him." 

I resolved to put the incident out of my mind. 

The second time I quarreled with Captain Jui was a very much more 
serious affair, but it happened towards the end of our voyage and I shall 
tell you of it later. 



PART VI 


Bormann’s Lessons 


I n accordance with my instructions, I started to coach Martin 
Bormann in the ways of fluent Spanish. Bormann applied him s elf 
studiously. Each night he studied a German-Spanish phrase book 
and insisted I test his vocabulary, growing annoyed with himself if 
he forgot a word. My particular difficulty was in teaching him to 
speak Spanish the Argentine way, which had a different pronunciation to 
the Spanish used in Spain. I myself had been several times to the 
Argentine and knew the language and country well. I had passed several 
months there during the war, engaged on espionage work for the 
Nazis—arranging a spy network with Japanese Intelligence to relay 
information on British-bound food convoys to our U-Boat packs in the 
North Atlantic. 

NOTE—This was the notorious "TO" Ring.—Ed. 

In the first few days, Bormann did little except study Spanish and 
make notes in a leather-bound writing case. I gradually became aware 
that the man I was with was no longer the refugee Bormann I had greeted 
in Madrid three months earlier. 

He had regained all his old authority and assumed again the air of a 
man who knows exactly where he is going. And as his confidence in 
himself grew, he began to talk more freely of the past and his plans for 
the future. During one conversation in which he had told me something 
of his plans for keeping Nazism alive. 

I asked him "How is it possible for the National Socialist Party to 
continue after the battering it has suffered?" 



54 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


He answered: 

"Neither I nor many of the others understood until it was too late what 
were our possibilities for the future. But now 1 am fully aware of those 
possibilities and will soon be in a position to take advantage of them." 

At this stage he was unwilling to reveal his plans in more detail. But 
he expressed his belief that Hitler's Germany could win a second war of 
conquest; within the next six years. 

"Hitler's Germany?" 1 asked. "How can you talk of Hitler's 
Germany if the Fuhrer is dead?" 

He regarded me seriously before answering. 

"You yourself saw the Fuhrer leave the bunker. And if you saw him 
leave, then he could not have died there." 

"Yes, I saw him leave," I agreed, "but I have no idea what happened 
to him after that. He could have returned, for all I know." 

Bormann said nothing for a full minute. 

"Do you want to know where Adolf Hitler is today?" 

"I am more concerned to know if he is alive." I answered. "As to 
where he is—it is not so important." 

"You are right. It is as important for our followers to know that he is 
alive as for the Allies to believe him dead." 

Then he told me the incredible story of Hitler's fate. He said "Listen to 
me carefully and remember what I say. It is hue. When Adolf Hitler left the 
Fuhrerbunker, he was barely conscious of what was happening. After 
months of fighting the enemy on the battlefield and the treachery in his own 
camp, he was both mentally and physically exhausted. 

"But time and again he expressed to me his resolution to die with 
German soldiers around him. This I could not allow to happen. Hitler 
was the embodiment of the National Socialist cause. One could not sur- 



BORMANN'S LESSONS 


55 


vive without the other. At least not then. 

"By the 21st of April (1945) it was obvious that the war was lost. It 
became necessary to countermand the Fuhrer's wishes and remove him 
physically from the bunker. I arranged to have him driven secretly from 
Berlin to Rottach am Egem, escorted by officers from my personal staff. 
Only a handful of people besides myself knew that the Fuhrer was there, 
and these were people who I knew could be trusted to keep the secret of 
his escape for as long as it was necessary. 

"From Rottach he was driven across Germany and smuggled by ship to 
Norway. Two of my agents kept him in a place many miles from the 
nearest village until arrangements were completed for him to leave 
Europe." 

I asked "What of Eva Braun and the suicide?" 

"Eva Braun never arrived in Norway. Unfortunately she was given an 
overdose of drugs from which she later died. As for the suicide, I was the 
author of the story that Hitler and Eva Braun committed suicide and their 
bodies were burned with petrol. Those witnesses who afterwards 
testified to this end had been carefully briefed on my instructions." 

Bormann leaned intently across the table; "That Hitler did not die I 
know. I also know that he is still alive but more than that I am not pre¬ 
pared at the moment, to tell you." And with that I had to be content. 

Yet later in a fantastic—and on reflection—nightmarish, mission 1 
was to be shown near conclusive evidence that what he had said was hue. 
But even now I gradually began to accept the incredible fact: 

Adolf Hitler was still alive. 

Bormann told me he believed the news of Hitler's death was a source 
of satisfaction and pleasure to the Allies. He believed that with Hitler 
dead, the Allies would accept that Nazism could not be rebuilt. Bormann 
also wanted to perpetuate the myth of his own death for the same reason. 
On a number of occasions throughout our U-Boat journey, he asked me 
what I would do if his name ever cropped up in conversation. During one 
such conversation, I assured him: 

"Martin, from me everyone will believe you are dead." 



56 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


This pleased Bormann. "That is what 1 wanted to hear." But he 
added, "Not that I died here. Tell them I died on the battlefield fighting 
the Bolsheviks." 

Then I suggested to Bormann that he had given me so much infor¬ 
mation, and since I was the only person in the world who could tell the 
world that he was still alive, he might never allow me to return from this 
journey. 

"I am more or less your prisoner," I told him. 

Bormann chuckled and rose from his bunk on which he had been 
lying. He reached out and clasped my hand in his. "There is no question of 
your remaining my prisoner. You have proved yourself a good friend and 
a loyal member of the Party. There are of course, certain things I cannot 
tell you. It is simply not convenient that you know everything, but that 
does not mean that I do not frust you. I am more than confident that you 
will not reveal the secret of my escape when you return to Spain. "It was 
the closest that Martin Bormann and I came to intimate friendship. 

Life in a submarine is so claustrophobic that it is impossible for two 
men to be confined almost entirely to one cabin without their nerves 
stretching to the breaking point. There were times when I positively 
loathed Bormann. I remember clearly one incident—we had been at sea 
for a week when one of the crew fell seriously ill and the U-Boat doctor 
reported that the man's condition was extremely grave. For want of 
something to do, I remarked to Bormann "I think I will go and talk with 
this poor fellow. Perhaps I might be able to cheer him up." 

Boimann's reply shocked and surprised me. Testily he snapped in a 
harsh voice, quite out of character "Why waste your time. This is of no 
importance to you. Do not bother yourself with it. What happens to this 
man can in no way affect our future." 

This sort of insensitive attitude shook me. It might have been accept¬ 
able coming from the waiped brain of a man like Hi mm ler. But from 
Bormann, who loathed Himmler in any case, it seemed unnecessarily 
brutal. In due course, the sailor died. Bormann was quite unaffected by 



BORMANN'S LESSONS 


57 


the man's death and when I asked what they did with a man who died on a 
submarine, he leered and replied: "We eat them." 

In fact, shortly afterwards, we had surfaced and the crew were 
ordered onto the upper deck where I presume the poor wretch was given a 
naval funeral. 

But in the main, I must say Bormann proved an interesting and pleasant 
companion. Our talks together ranged over every conceivable subject. 
When you are shut in a steel tomb under the sea, it becomes necessary to 
find an outlet in talking about everything, and also nothing. 

Within a week I had developed a kind of U-Boat craziness and expe¬ 
rienced bouts of depression and physical sickness. Bormann comforted 
me by telling me that this was not unusual even in hardened U-Boat 
crews, and advised me to think of the future. 

"At the moment, everyone is talking about the destruction of our 
cause," he told me. "For them, the battle has been fought. But for us, this 
is not the case. While they content themselves with editing their diaries, 
we prepare a new chapter in the history of the Nazi Party. Time will soon 
come when their nerves will be as shattered as ours are down here. You 
must cheer up. We will soon be off this damned submarine and back on 
dry land—and it has not really been very long since we left Spain." 

But to me it seemed that we had been at sea and happed in our metal 
box for half a lifetime and I refused to be comforted. I envied Captain Jui 
his patience and acceptance of this unnatural life. However, I knew that 
he had spent the whole war in U-Boats. He had been in the early years a 
First Lieutenant in a submarine similar to this, operating in the North 
Atlantic. Most of his war had been spent patrolling the Western 
Approaches to Europe, and he had been in on the sinking of seven Al lied 
ships. For his part in these actions he had been awarded the IRON 
CROSS and in late 1944, had been given command of his own U-Boat. 
He had been at sea at the end of the war and had received special orders to 
take his boat to a secret island base off the South American coast and 
await further orders. 

Throughout our journey, the U-Boat remained in radio contact with 
its base, and daily during the last part of our trip Bormann received mes¬ 
sages from the agents awaiting him in South America. To kill time, I 
repeatedly offered my services to Bormann to help him with his constant 



58 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


writing, but apart from asking one or two questions concerning intelli¬ 
gence work, he refused my offers of assistance. 

Consequently I faced long stretches of boredom and took to wandering 
about the submarine. However, most of the crew to whom I spoke with, 
were guarded in their answers even in response to innocent questions 
about their duties. I found that my only escape was sleep, and in order to 
sleep, I asked the ship's doctor to provide me with tablets. This officer, 
whose name he told me was Willy, proved more approachable than most. 
Oddly enough, he was also the ship's radio officer, but in neither capacity 
was he needed for more than a few hours each day. 

We became good friends and spent a lot of time talking about our 
families. Willy's home was Hamburg, where he had a wife and son 
whom he had seen only four times since he joined the U-Boat Service in 
1939. He was aged about forty and in contrast to most of the crew, had jet 
black hair. However, in common with them all, he was on the small side. 
It was a curiosity of the U-Boat service that the men who manned them 
were almost invariably short. 

Willy was a very enthusiastic sailor and liked the life of a submariner, 
but for myself I had quickly lost any enthusiasm I may have had for 
underwater vessels. This boat was fitted with the then newly invented 
"snorkel" apparatus which was supposed to maintain a good supply of 
fresh air when the boat was submerged. I had been full of praise for it in 
the first two or three days, but after a week I found the poor circulation 
of air, the stench of diesel and almost unbearable heat made me feel sick. 
And I damned the "snorkel" along with every other piece of machinery 
on the boat. 

For Bormann, it did not seem so bad. He rarely left our cabin and 
spent hours at a time writing in his book. Even this was a torment for me, 
for at such times he answered me with grunts; for long stretches refused 
to acknowledge my presence at all. During his long silences, Bormann, 
whose shaved head had grown and who had by now, a thick stubble of 
beard, developed a maddening habit of tugging endlessly at his left jowl. It 
was just one of those little things that can drive you crazy on a long 
submarine voyage. 

After politics, Boimann's favorite topic of conversation was his family. 
I was surprised to leam that he was married and had a daughter, then aged 
fifteen. He said he hoped to arrange her passage to the Argentine as soon as 
he himself had settled. Years later I learned that the girl had man- 



BORMANN'S LESSONS 


59 


aged to join him and she now lives in Buenos Aires, and is married with 
children of her own. 

However, if I was feeling in a state of nervous collapse, I became 
aware that my condition was shared by large numbers of the crew. 
Halfway through the second monotonous week at sea, one of the crew 
caught his foot in the engine room machinery and was quite badly 
injured. As a result, he had to spend his time in the seamen's mess area 
quite near our cabin. Since the poor fellow couldn't escape, I fastened on 
to him as someone to talk to and soon deduced that he was as anxious as 1 
was to see this voyage over. However, he said that this was not as bad as 
some of the trips he had made, but added his hope that the injury to his 
foot would be good enough cause for Captain Jui to put him ashore with 
Bormann and myself when we reached South America. And although 
it caused him some pain, he seemed almost pleased to have been 
injured. 

From the remarks of other crew members, I began to suspect that he 
had arranged the accident himself and many of the crew openly congrat¬ 
ulated him on his prospects of quitting the boat. It seemed to me that the 
attitude of some of the more outspoken seamen bordered on the mutinous 
and my impression of them changed from that of a smart, well drilled 
and enthusiastic crew to that of a group of dispirited men who only 
hoped to end their wanderings under the waves. And I thought that 
Captain Jui might have trouble with them before our voyage was over. 

One day I caught Bormann in a philosophical mood. For hours I lis¬ 
tened to his explanation of the past, and his hopes for the future. He began 
by comparing National Socialism with some of man's most ancient reli¬ 
gions, pointing out that as in all beliefs, Nazism looked for a super¬ 
human leader to free its people and lead them to world superiority. 

Bormann believed that there were only two possible theories in 
man's living; Communism and National Socialism. Bitterly he con¬ 
demned Communism; 

"Who wants all men to be equal like animals?" he snorted. "Nazism is 
the only way. We believe there should be rulers; supermen for the masses to 
follow. We want to breed a race of men with the brains and physique to lead 
the world. We started this with the SS because none of the people selected 
for the SS had any physical or mental defects. We want to procreate our 
race, and in a thousand years, the Reich will produce a race of 



60 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


splendid men and women." Pacing up and down the cabin, he went on: "I 
am convinced that National Socialism will rise again in Germany. It may 
take a few years; even a generation; but it will come back." 

I protested that this was an impossible dream, since Germany would 
be occupied for many years to come and the Allies would certainly crush 
any reawakening of Nazi feelings. I added that the world is not full of 
heroes, and men would soon forget the war and this period of German 
history. They had lost the war; that was enough for most. 

Bormann turned on me in a fury. 

"You bloody fool! Have you lost your faith ?" he shouted. "Can't you 
see that just by occupying Germany, the Allies will always give the 
Germans cause to turn against them?" Bormann ended this tirade by 
predicting: "The fools will think they have won the final victory, but if 
they are so stupid as to go on hating the German people and showing that 
hatred, then the Nazi cause will never die. They will look to us again for 
freedom." 

He talked optimistically for finding in South America a people who 
would lend themselves to the Nazi teaching of a super-race. "They must 
be a very clever people," he remarked. 

But on this, I had to disillusion him. "If you expect to find a super 
race there, you will be disappointed, Martin," I told him. 

"But is it not true that we have followers there?" 

I replied: "Yes, but you do not yet know the South Americans. Today 
they will call you a hero. Tomorrow they could just as easily shoot you in 
the back." At this point, our discussion was ended by the urgent blaring of 
klaxon horns and a fierce hammering on the door of our cabin. I realized 
that the U-Boat's motors had stopped. 

A rating entered the cabin and told us that Captain Jui wanted to see 
us urgently, and he led us at a rapid walk to the hatchway leading down 
to the engine room. In front of a huge bank of accumulators, Captain Jui 
was talking excitedly to a group of engineers. When we joined them, Jui 
broke off and told us seriously "We shall have to stop to make emergency 



BORMANN'S LESSONS 


61 


repairs to one of the accumulators." He pointed to one of the huge accu¬ 
mulators and indicated a crack running the full length of it from ceiling to 
deck. He explained that in its damaged condition, it would seriously 
affect the supply of electricity to the motors and unless repaired imme¬ 
diately, would make it necessary to continue our journey on the surface 
using the diesel engines. "I have no need to tell you how dangerous this 
would be for all of us," he added. 

But already the engine room crew had begun to seal the crack, which 
meant that the immediate danger would soon be past. Escorting us back 
to our cabins, Captain Jui again apologized for the defect in his ship, but 
remembering my conversations with the crew, I told him: "I am not sur¬ 
prised to find things going wrong. I do not think your crew is a happy 
one, Captain." 

Jui laughed, "Don't worry about the crew. We have been in worse sit¬ 
uations than this together. I believe the cause is simply that my ship has 
been heavily depth charged several times, and this has weakened the 
accumulator casings." 

The next day our spirits were given a boost when we neared the River 
Platte estuary. It meant that we were only a day or two from landfall. 
Bormann became excited and pulled out a large scale map of South 
America. He drew a large cross over our point of disembarkation, the 
tiny port of Puerto Coig in the Argentine district of Patagonia. That same 
afternoon my belief that the crew were determined not to sail again on 
this boat was further strengthened when another mysterious crack was 
found in another bank of accumulators. In my nervous state I even imag¬ 
ined disaster overtaking us within a few miles of safety. I was quite cer¬ 
tain of sabotage, and I told Captain Jui so. "It is incredible that between 
your officers and yourself there is no one who can see how this trouble 
was caused. It was sabotage, you fool. Can't you see that?" 

Captain Jui exploded with anger. In language that would shock a 
Hamburg docker, he raved at me for fully two minutes. At this moment, 
Bormann stepped between us. "Captain Jui," he roared. "You will come 
to attention and keep quiet!" Jui was shocked into obedience. Red faced 
with fury, Bormann viciously abused the stunned Captain. Pale and 
trembling, Jui suffered an outburst which only Hitler him s elf could have 
matched. 



62 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


In a screaming temper, the Fuhrer's Deputy tongue-lashed the young 
captain and ended by telling him "You do not deserve to be in command 
of a German ship. This gentleman," and he indicated myself, "I consider 
to be a hero. It is thanks to him that I am here at all. And if you insult him, 
you can consider yourself as having insulted the leader of the Nazi Party!" 
He thrust his face close to that of the shivering Jui and snarled "Need I 
remind you Captain, of the consequences of such a serious blunder?" With 
that, Bormann turned and walked away. 

After Bormann had left, the officers and crew on the bridge took 
moments to recover. But by this time, my temper had evaporated and to 
ease the tension, I stepped forward and held out my hand. "As far as I 
am concerned Captain, this matter is closed. Believe me, I regret it having 
taken place at all." 

Jui seemed glad to accept my friendship, and together we went to his 
cabin and split a bottle of French wine. 

While we were in the Captain's cabin, Bormann joined us, seeming 
also to have forgotten the incident. Almost immediately, a rating 
appeared with a message. It read: 

"Everything is prepared and we await you." 

It was signed "Rodriguez" This message, our first direct contact with 
our agents ashore, brought a whoop of relief from us all. 

Bormann asked me if I knew Rodriguez personally, and I told him I 
did not. "This is strange," he said. "I have been told that he is a priest, and 
that you will know him." 

"I have only known one priest who worked for us in the Argentine," 
I replied, "and his name certainly was not Rodriguez." 

Bormann smiled, "Your name is not Adian, is it Angel? And mine is 
not Luis. So why should this priest's name not be Rodriguez?" 

The message was not in code, I noticed. And a second signal a few 
hours later made us certain at last that we had finally reached safety. 

It said "You may proceed in perfect safety. We are in complete com¬ 
mand. Heil Hitler!" We had less than twenty-four hours to go before dis¬ 
embarking and the tension was tremendous. But Bormann and I spent 



BORMANN'S LESSONS 


63 


the night restlessly tossing in our bunks and were unable to sleep. Willy, 
the doctor, gave us both a sedative and even suggested that I might like 
an injection to put me out for those last agonizing hours of suspense, but I 
would not agree. Even now I could not forget my espionage training and 
my cardinal rule—never trust anyone. I was the only witness to Martin 
Bormann's escape. I was taking no last minute chances. 

On the morning of May 25th, Captain Jui gave the order to surface 
and I felt the rhythmic "THUMP THUMP THUMP" of our diesel 
engines take over from the electric motors, and the U-Boat thrust 
onwards on the surface. 

Bormann and I raced for the bridge in time to see Jui returning from a 
brief reconnaissance. Around his neck were a pair of powerful Zeiss 
binoculars. "You have a reception committee waiting for you," he told 
Bormann. 

"How many?" asked Bormann. 

"I have counted eight men and two cars," Jui replied. 

But I could wait no longer. I brushed past Jui and scrambled up the 
steel ladder to the observation platform on the conning tower. It was my 
first sight of land in eighteen nerve-racking days. Through the mist 1 
could see the beach quite close, and a number of figures waving at us. 

Once ashore, I watched Martin Bormann walk up the beach near the 
tiny town of Puerto Coig with a feeling of intense satisfaction. My most 
important job as an espionage agent of the Nazi cause had been accom¬ 
plished. Bormann, the most wanted war criminal in the world, had been 
safely smuggled out of Europe and was now safe on the friendly shores 
of the Argentine. 

I stood on the stony beach that morning in May 1946 and took a last 
look at the vessel which had brought us out of Spain. In the mist I could 
vaguely make out the glistening steel plates and her crew standing stiffly 
to attention on her upper deck, their arms outstretched in the Nazi salute. 

Bormann turned, a thick-set, wind-blown figure at the crest of the 
steeply rising beach, and stretched his arm toward the distant U-Boat. 
Three minutes later, the rubber dinghy which had brought us ashore had 
returned to the boat and eager hands hauled it aboard. I gazed seaward 
and caught sight of Captain Jui alone now on the conning tower. 



64 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 



FEBRUARY 7TH,1943: German Nazi Party leader Martin Bormann, left, one of Hitler's 
closest advisors, is shown talking with the Fuhrer outside his headquarters. Various sce¬ 
narios have been put forth by mainstream historians claiming Bormann died in a firefight 
in 1945 or that Bormann was captured by the Brits and tortured for information about Nazi 
bank accounts. In the 1980s, one history program clamed they had proof Bormann made it 
to Argentina. They offered the compelling testimony of eyewitnesses, and neighbors who 
knew Bormann, plus photos they claimed were of the escaped Nazi. The truth is, none of 
these scenarios is any more plausible than that set forth in this book. 


Moments later he, too, disappeared and the U-Boat vanished in the mist. 
Its last mission completed, the boat was heading for Buenos Aires—sur¬ 
render and asylum. 

We had been met on the beach by the Nazi agent Rodriguez, a priest 
whom I had recognized as a man who had worked with me some years 
before in that country under the name of Father Vogamiz. Rodriguez, 
wearing Roman Catholic garb, greeted Bormann enthusiastically. I 
doubt whether the good priest, or anyone else there, realized that they 
were the welcome committee for the new Nazi Fuhrer. 


KEYSTONE-GETTY IMAGES 



PART VII 


Half-Buried Hatreds 


E ver after these years, the face, the name and the recorded 
voice of Adolf Hitler are still sufficient to stir half-buried 
hatreds and unforgettable fear in the hearts of millions who 
suffered and fought in the last war. Yet to those who shared 
his beliefs—and I was one of them—he was considered a 
genius. The memory of the madness of those last weeks I spent with him 
in the Berlin bunker are still vivid in my mind, and I still remember as if 
it were yesterday the words of the Fuhrer's deputy, Martin Bormann, as 
we fled the shores of Europe in the Spring of 1946. 

"Only under Hitler can Germany ever hope for real spiritual and 
geographic unification." But the image that springs to my mind at the 
mention of Hitler's name is not that of the dynamic, dominating dictator. It 
is of a grotesque cripple, a man feebly clinging to life in the deathly 
wastes of the South Polar ice cap. 

The most macabre adventure of my career as a professional espi¬ 
onage agent began one July day in 1952. I had left Spain to live with my 
wife and family in Mexico three years before and settled in Cuidad 
Juarez, a small town close to the U.S. border. 

Ostensibly, I was working for the GARCIA VALSECA newspaper 
group as Literary Editor of a weekly supplement. But as always, my real 
work was with the Nazis—helping establish, for the expanding Party in 
Central and South America, a communications system for their intelli¬ 
gence service. It was a routine job with little travel and no risk. I began 
again to think that my usefulness to the Nazi cause had passed its peak. 
That is, until the day in July 1952 when I received a routine message 
ordering me to report to an isolated region on the southern tip of South 
America where I would be taken to see a "most important person." I nat- 



66 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


urally assumed that this most important person referred to in my orders 
would be my old friend, Martin Bormann. But I was wrong. Even now, 
after years of self-interrogation, I am forced to the conclusion that the 
man I met was no less a person than the Fiihrer himself—Adolf Hitler. 

I felt the old excitement as I drove to the airport. Once again, I was 
called to serve my Nazi masters. I wondered what mission they had in 
line for me. I was still wondering when, after several changes of aircraft 
and many hours of frustrating delay, I finally arrived at the airfield 
named in my instructions. The airstrip was in wild, forbidding country in 
the southernmost part of the Argentine. I had been expected and when I 
entered the only building, a rough wooden shack in one comer of the 
field, I was greeted by a blond Aryan type who turned out to be a former 
Luftwaffe pilot. 

Our transport, a twin-engined freight plane, was parked, already 
fueled, at the far end of the runway. Without further delay, the pilot told 
me to follow him and we boarded the aircraft. To me, sitting in the co¬ 
pilot's seat, it seemed impossible that the big plane could take off from 
the tiny strip. But my pilot coaxed her into the air and within an hour, we 
were crossing the coast five thousand feet below. 

I had asked him where we were bound, but was not surprised when 
he refused to discuss our destination. He simply explained that there was 
no difficulty involved in our flight, since there had been none of the usual 
formalities at the airstrip we had used. The only clue to our ultimate des¬ 
tination was that the aircraft was fitted with skis as well as wheels and 
now as we flew, I noticed that our compass was bearing steadily south¬ 
east. Incredibly, we were flying towards the South Pole! 

For several hours we flew over endless wastes of ice with never a sign of 
life or vegetation. My pilot seemed to know our route well, for he made 
few references to maps or navigational aids. Finally, after the briefest 
check on the, to me, meaningless and patternless terrain below, he eased 
back the twin throttles and dipped towards the ground. 

We came to land on a smoother tract of snow, and it was not until the 
aircraft was almost stationary that I picked out the angular outlines of a 
snow-covered hangar and a cluster of buildings grouped a hundred yards 
farther on. We taxied towards the main hangar and, with a final burst of 
power from the engines, slid to a halt. After the continual roar of the 
motors alongside me, the silence of that Arctic waste was unearthly. I 
hardly expected to find other human beings in what seemed a ghost town 



HALF-BURIED HATREDS 


67 


in the snow, but as soon as our aircraft stopped, a party of well-muffled 
men left the shelter of the hangar and walked towards us. They greeted 
my pilot as an old friend and welcomed me in polite German. One of 
them provided me with a heavy, fur-lined topcoat and urged me to hurry 
to the nearest house, one hundred paces away. 

Once in the house, a wooden single-story affair, I was handed a 
steaming hot drink and shown to my quarters. My room was hardly bigger 
than a normal sized bathroom, but there was a comfortable bed and a 
chest of drawers, which was quite sufficient for my needs. I found there 
were similar rooms in the building, plus a larger room where all the 
occupants ate their meals together. At that time, there appeared to be only 
myself and the three men who met me, and a white-jacketed servant who 
cooked and served our food. 

Dinner that night found me no nearer the solution to the mystery of 
this desolate Polar settlement. No one had volunteered why I, or anyone 
else for that matter, was here. My few attempts at questioning my com¬ 
panions had brought me stares as blank as our surroundings and an infu¬ 
riating stone wall response. 

During the meal, I was excluded almost entirely from the others' con¬ 
versation and was thankful to excuse myself on the grounds of tiredness, 
and retreat to my room. I lay on the cot that night with a thousand ques¬ 
tions buzzing around my brain. Why was I here? Where was I going? 
And—most important of all—who was I to meet? And what were the 
connections between this God-forsaken outpost and the photographs of 
two teen-age children I had been instructed to bring with me? 

1 took the photos from my briefcase and studied them again. I knew 
these children well. In the past six months, 1 had received repeated 
instructions to check on their well-being. Several times I had visited their 
hometown of Las Cruces, New Mexico. I understood they had been 
brought over from Lisbon, Portugal in 1951. Often I had watched them 
from a discreet distance and taken photographs of them on their way to 
and from school. In what way were they linked with this mystery man I 
had flown three thousand miles to meet? 

It was nearly mid-day August 10th when one of the men who I had 
met, came to my room and announced "Senor Gomez, today you are 
going to meet the Fuhrer." 

He mentioned the title so matter-of-factly that at first I did not grasp 
what he meant. "The Fuhrer?" I asked. "Who do you mean when you 



68 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


say the Fuhrer? " 

The man stared at me as if I was mad. "There is only one," he replied. 
"Adolf Hitler." 

Abruptly, he motioned me to follow him and turned on his heel. 
Dumbfounded, I let him lead me out of the house and across the snow to 
another, larger building. Just inside, he stopped and knocked on the door 
of a room leading off from the hallway. A muffled voice answered his 
knock. He threw open the door and ushered me in. There were four men 
in the room. Three of them were standing, but these I scarcely noticed. 
My attention was riveted on the fourth man, who was seated behind a 
large wooden desk facing the door. I knew instantly that this must be the 
man I had heard referred to as the Fuhrer. 

But if this was Hitler, then he was barely recognizable as the man 
whom I had seen leaving the Berlin bunker in April, 1945. To recognize 
in this person the Hitler who had dominated Germany for twelve years, it 
was necessary to have a willing imagination. 

This man had no mustache. He was completely bald and the skin of 
his cheeks and temples had been stretched out of shape and left taut 
across the cheekbones. Yet his forehead and chin were heavily wrinkled 
and lined, and an inch-long scar showed white on his left temple. This 
sinister face was framed against a huge scarlet and black Nazi banner 
which hung on the wall at his back. 

One of the three men standing to my left led me forward and intro¬ 
duced me to the figure behind the desk. I came to attention and gave the 
Nazi salute. The man behind the desk smiled fleetingly and acknowl¬ 
edged me with a slight wave of the right hand. 

Hitler, if Hitler it was, received me sitting down and later I learned 
that he had difficulty in standing. I could see that his left arm was semi- 
paralyzed and useless. His face was grey and every few moments, he had 
to wipe a trickle of saliva from his sagging chin. When he did this, I 
noticed that his thin, wrinkled hand trembled violently. He looked like a 
man from whom most of the life had been wrung and his eyes were dull 
and almost devoid of spark. He wore a dark blue double breasted suit 
with a Nazi Party emblem in the lapel, but the suit fitted him badly and 
hung limply from his narrow shoulders. 

The man who ushered me to the desk now bade me sit down and pro¬ 
duced a file of papers which he set in front of the old man before me. 
After a brief glance at the papers, he began to ask me questions in a thin, 



HALF-BURIED HATREDS 


69 


hesitant voice—questions about South America, and the political and 
economic states of various countries of that continent, but he spoke as if 
not really interested, and I had to lean forward in order to catch his words 
properly. 1 was gripped with such a strong feeling of dream-like unreality 
that I had to concentrate hard to answer intelligently. 

He continued to ask questions, now about the strength of the Nazi 
movement in South America and about my work for the cause of 
National Socialism. Yet only once did he show any signs of life and real 
interest, when with a sudden clench-fisted movement of his right arm, he 
asked me "Have you the pictures of the two children?" 

It was as "the children" or "that boy" that he referred to them 
throughout, never giving a hint of his relationship to them, if any. I only 
knew the boy's name was Adolfo and he was then about sixteen. The 
girl's name was Stem, German for Star. 

When he asked, I produced a pack of some fifty or sixty photographs 
of the children. I told the Fuhrer that they seemed well and happy. As I 
spoke, he pored eagerly over the pictures and when I had finished, the 
questioning ceased. Without further sign from the old man behind the 
desk, the interview was over. One of the others in the room stepped up 
and tapped me on the shoulder, motioning me silently to leave. I rose, 
bowed slightly to the man at the desk, and left the room. The following 
day, I was flown back to Argentina. 

I never again saw the man they called the Fuhrer. 

Throughout the flight, I cast my mind continually back to the 
macabre meeting with the hunched, shriveled man sitting in a swastika 
decorated room in that little hut on the South Polar ice cap; the man his 
companions referred to as "the Fuhrer." Could this shrunken old man 
have been the one-time ranting, dominating dictator whom I had last 
seen in the Berlin Fuhrerbunker during the collapse of Nazi Germany? 

Was this poor creature, now presiding over a million square miles of 
nothing, the same as he who had conquered a continent? Was this Adolf 
Hitler? 

I remembered the long conversations I had had with Hitler's deputy 
Martin Bormann, during our long flight together out of Europe six years 
before. Then, Bormann told me how he had planned the escape of the 
Fuhrer from the flaming hell of Berlin and how he planned to keep him 
hidden away until Nazism was again strong enough to lead Germany to 
freedom. 



70 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


Now, as our aircraft droned on towards South America, I was filled 
with excitement. It seemed likely that all Bormann had told me was per¬ 
fectly accurate, and that the Nazi Party would indeed prove strong and 
resilient enough to re-emerge. 

Upon my return to my home in Cuidad Juarez, a little Mexican town 
close to the U.S. border, I settled down to await orders from the Nazi 
underground movement which I still served. My task—under the guise of 
working for a newspaper group—was to organize and seek contact with 
Nazi sympathizers in Central America, and to this end I received orders 
on a radio receiver-transmitter which I kept in the bedroom of my house. 

It was just strong enough—it had a range of some 100 miles—to 
keep me in touch with the next link in the chain of party workers strung 
the length of South America. But the days of waiting for the big news 
stretched into weeks; the weeks into months; and the months into years. 
The messages I did get were trivial. There was no sign of a call to arms 
from Bormann or any of the other high-ranking Nazi Party chiefs who 
had escaped. 

In early 1957, I decided to quit working for my Nazi masters. I 
yearned to return to my native Spain and settle there once more with my 
wife and children, and spend the rest of my life making up to them the 
time I had spent on the Nazis. But my plans were delayed. 

On June 6th, 1957 my radio received brought me news which was to 
send me chasing through South America for yet another meeting with 
Martin Bormann. At first I balked at the uninformative order to proceed 
to Panama City and await further contact with another Nazi agent. 
Instead of following my orders as I had done for so long, I decided to 
take the bold step of flying direct to Germany to make contact with the 
men at the heart of the Nazi cause. 

Here I hoped to get more definite instructions. If I did not, I resolved to 
quit the organization altogether and move back to a quiet life in 
Madrid. 

To cover my trip, I proposed to my newspaper boss that I fly to Europe 
for a series of interviews. I managed to arrange one with General Franco, 
and this was sufficient to justify my journey, and I duly left. But immedi¬ 
ately after my audience with Franco, I set out across Europe to the 
German town of Koln. Koln had replaced Munchen as the new shrine of 
Nazism and it was here, I knew, that men such as Bormann came from all 



HALF-BURIED HATREDS 


71 


over the world for top-level ta lks on the Nazi situation at least once a year. 

The way I made contact with the Nazi underground movement was 
to insert a specially worded advertisement in a Koln newspaper, giving 
my whereabouts. The day the ad appeared, I took a telephone call at my 
hotel and was instructed to attend a rendezvous at a certain cafe in the 
city. 

There I was met by a man 1 had known during the war—a former SS 
officer, who is now among the group of highly important men who control 
the new Nazi party in Germany. This man took me to his home on 
WagnerStrasse where I stayed for two days. I explained my feelings to 
him and asked him to be more explicit about the trip 1 was supposed to 
make from Panama City, but he refused to be drawn. He simply said that 
the High Command had requested me to attend one of their meetings 
somewhere in South America. He only added that when I got there, 1 
would appreciate the reason why I had been sent for. 

This news reversed my pervious decision not to go. I resolved that I 
would make one more journey into South America, for I guessed that a 
request from the High Command could only lead to a meeting with Martin 
Bormann—the Nazi fugitive I had not seen since the day we stepped from a 
"pirate" U-Boat off the coast of Argentina ten years before. 

I returned immediately to Mexico and laid plans for my last journey at 
the bidding of Nazi Intelligence. First, 1 packed my wife back to Spain and 
told her I would rejoin her quite soon. Then, with my eldest son Angel, I 
moved to Chihuahua. 

The next step was to shake off the American counter-espionage agent of 
the CIA who had me under observation. This was not difficult since I had 
passed on considerable information about the activities of a 
Communist cell in Mexico to the U.S. military attache in Mexico City. 
The CIA agents who kept tabs on me did not seem unduly interested 
when I let it be known that I was to embark on a tour of Latin American 
countries with a bullfighting circus. I had great fun setting up my traveling 
bullring. I'd been a pretty good bullfighter myself in the arenas of Spain 
in the early 1930s and I looked forward to the trip as a pleasant holiday. 

As I say, I took my son with me and also recruited a young woman 
who was trying to make a name for herself in the somewhat crude bull¬ 
fights of Latin America. It would be useful to have her along, I thought. 
Having her in the show gave it an attraction and made my travels appear 



72 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


to be a serious business venture. I bought all the equipment we needed in 
Mexico City. We set out for Panama, traveling via El Salvador, 
Nicaragua and Costa Rica. All the way down, my little show and the 
woman bullfighter, whom I had rechristened "Lola Montez," proved a 
big attraction. 

Just outside Panama City, in a little town called Davis, I met my contact 
agent. He was a German named Karl who had taken up cattle breeding. 
He had apparently been in the business since about 1947. I guessed his 
story. Anyway, he informed me that 1 was to travel to Ecuador, and he 
gave me the location of a farm in the state of Cuenta in that country 
where, he said, the High Command meeting was due to take place. 

I plodded on with my traveling bullring. It was hard work, since 1 
found myself having to go into the ring myself to rouse the bulls suffi¬ 
ciently to make a show of it for the now deadly efficient Lola. It was 
usual, when we arrived in any town, for me to travel around searching 
for reasonably impressive bulls, which were hard to come by. 
Consequently, when we finally got to Cuenta, I hired a truck and gave 
the driver the address of the farm, as told to me by Karl. 

Unfortunately, the truck was unable to go the whole way and I had to 
resort to hiring a mule, which picked its way towards the farm, nestled in 
the foothills of the Andes. The journey on the back of a mule proved as 
hair-raising as any I had ever made. Some of the ravines we were forced 
to cross here were spanned by planks of wood, no more than 18 inches 
wide, and I found myself hanging on terrified to the neck of the mule. 

Worn out but thankful that I had not come to any great harm, I 
reached the farm. It was a large, splintery wooden house with several 
smaller cabins dotted around, and as I walked across the dusty ground 
towards the house, I was approached by the apparent owner, an 
Ecuadorian, and a posse of about fifty indians. Quickly, I explained that I 
had come for the meeting. 

"Meeting?" said the man without emotion. "There is no meeting 
here." 

Mystified and more than a little annoyed, I turned to go. But the man 
called me back and said that since I had obviously come a long way, he 
would be pleased if I would join him in a drink. He led me into the house 



HALF-BURIED HATREDS 


73 


and poured me a glass of the local spirit, a rather fierce drink rather like 
brandy to taste but with twice the kick. We talked in Spanish about nothing 
very much for a minute or two, at the end of which I drank up and made 
my farewell. I was just about to leave the house when a sunburned but 
obviously European man appeared in the doorway. "Are you Don Angel 
Alcazar de Velasco?" he asked in German ("Sind Sie Don Angel Alcazar 
de Velasco?"). 

"Yes," I replied. 

"Then come this way," he said and led me through a door and up a 
flight of narrow wooden stairs. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated a 
moment, then threw open the door and bade me enter. 

1 walked into a very large room where seven men were seated around a 
long, cloth-covered table. And there, smiling a welcome from the top of 
the table, was Martin Bormann. I recognized him instantly, but ten years 
had left their mark on his features. He was now almost completely bald 
and had deep pouches on his cheeks, but in his eyes and smiles there was 
no mistaking the man I had brought out of Europe. 

I made the Nazi salute as I entered the room and the group responded 
immediately by rising and answering "Heil Hitler!" 

Martin was first to speak, "Man, you've grown old, Angel" 

"And the years have made a difference to you, too, Martin," I coun¬ 
tered with a chuckle. Bormann invited me to sit down at the table and 
join himself and the others for coffee. He made no attempt to introduce 
me to these men, mostly Germans, and I recognized none of them. 

He ladled my coffee out from a large bowl on the table and as he did 
so, he remarked "I have been keeping track of you ever since we parted, 
Angel. I have seen plenty of reports about your good work for us, plus a 
few reports which you have made out yourself. I wanted to tell you per¬ 
sonally how pleased I am with the work you have done for the party." 

I sipped my coffee, thanked him, and replied, "I myself have thought 
often about you and of the trip we made together." 



74 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


Bormann insisted then that I should go downstairs and wash the dust 
from my body and rest before joining him at dinner. As I left the room, I 
nodded curtly to the other men at the table, each of whom had a pile of 
papers in front of him, as if each had been given an agenda for an impor¬ 
tant board meeting. 

1 went downstairs and was shown to a room where I lay down on a 
single bed and slept for about an hour. 1 was woken and invited upstairs 
again, where Bormann and his friends were preparing to dine. A place 
for me had been laid on the rough wooden table on Bormann's right- 
hand side. During dinner, thick soup eaten from heavy earthenware 
bowls, Bormann talked earnestly to me, questioning with great enthusi¬ 
asm. He wanted to know everything 1 had learned about Central and 
South America in the years I had lived there since last we met. 

Furthermore, he wanted to know who I knew in South American pol¬ 
itics and what the situation was, as I saw it, with the organization of 
underground Nazi agents in the continent. He listened intently while 1 
outlined the social, political and economic affairs of those agents I knew 
personally. Then he pressed me for my views about certain Latin states 
and their ripeness for revolutionary take-over. On this subject, the other 
men began interjecting with their own questions; about armaments, 
finance and the structure of various governments until at the end of an 
hour, I felt like a well-squeezed lemon. 

I did not mention that I had recently been to Europe and they did not 
mention that part of the world. 

Bormann did not tell me too much about him s elf and his life in South 
America, but I gathered that he had been well employed and dug his fin¬ 
gers into many different political pies. But he did mention that he had 
been successful in setting up a number of youth movements along the 
same lines as the old Hitler Youth; those children who had proved their 
worth in the battle-scarred streets of Berlin in 1945. 

But there was one thing above all, that I wanted to tell Bormann; and 
one question above all, that I wanted to ask. 

First, 1 informed Bormann that I had decided to end my work for the 
Nazi cause and return to Madrid and my family. He did not seem sur¬ 
prised, but asked me to think again. "This is not the time to think about 
leaving us," he said fiercely. "After all we have fought for over the years, 
now we can see the chance of realizing our ambitions. Our party is now 
the strongest in South America and the revival of Nazi Germany is only 



HALF-BURIED HATREDS 


75 


a matter of a short time, a few years at the most. It has taken longer than 
planned I know, but soon we shall be in a position to put Germany back 
on the road to triumphs such as the Fuhrer dreamed of in 1939." 

He paused after this speech. "It seems silly for you to leave us," he 
concluded, "when everything you have been working for is about to take 
on some meaning." 

But I would not be persuaded. "I am glad that things are turning 
your way, Martin," I answered. "But I have lost much of my energies. I 
do not feel up to taking on further work. In a word, I am tired." 

Bormann accepted my decision without further comment and 
changed the subject. I waited for my opportunity during the meal before 
asking my million-dollar question. "What of the Fuhrer?" 

The question brought dead silence from all around the table. 
Bormann answered slowly. 

"I don't follow. What about him?" 

"Is he still waiting?" I asked. 

"I planned to bring the Fuhrer back into Germany at the correct psy¬ 
chological moment," said Bormann. "That plan is now abandoned." 

"Does that mean Adolf Hitler is now dead?" I asked. 

Bormann shrugged. He refused to answer me, but turned the subject 
quickly and pointedly. Bormann's last question during that strange meal 
was to ask me an out-of-character inquiry for this once publicity-hating 
man. He wished to know if people in Europe still talked about him. 

"The people, yes. They are still talking about you. But you are rarely 
named in the press these days," I told him. 

"That is good; that is good," came his reply. 


I left Bormann the next morning. We parted solemnly, both express- 



76 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 


ing the wish and hope that we would meet again some time, some place 
and in more happy circumstances. The last words he ever spoke to me 
were these. 

"1 promised you once that I would return to Germany and that is still 
my promise. The destiny of the Fatherland lies with the National 
Socialist Party and its Fuhrer. FTeil FTitler! " 

I clambered onto my mule and without looking back on the group of 
men standing near the farmhouse at the foot of the Andes, I returned to 
Cuenta. As soon as I could arrange a booking, I returned at the first 
opportunity to my home in Madrid. I had finished serving my Nazi mas¬ 
ters. I had given them two decades of my life; two decades in which I 
had risked my life and made myself prematurely old with worry. 

I do not work for them now, but thousands of others are helping to 
keep the Nazi cause alive and I am sure of that. Flowever hard the dem¬ 
ocratic powers try to delay it, the re-emergence of the Nazi creed in 
Europe is bound to occur. 

I know. I have seen the men who are working for that end. They have 
power. They have influence. They have the financial determination to put 
Germany back on top of the heap. 

They also have Martin Bormann. While men like him live, Nazism 
will never die. 


—Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco 



AFTERWORD 


Who to Believe? 


E arly in 2006, OPJB, a book by British spy Christopher 
Creighton (John Christopher Ainsworth-Davis) came on the 
scene purporting to tell the true story of Martin Bormann's 
World War II fate. (To this day, biographies of Bormann do 
not list a date of death as his death has never been verified.) 
Creighton's book relates that toward the closing days of World War II, a 
British team of commandos kidnapped Bormann. They brought him to 
London where he was interrogated—no doubt undergoing the persuasive 
and time-honored methods the British are prone to use—and Bormann 
revealed the secret bank accounts he controlled for the planned Nazi 
resurgence. 

The money was taken and we may only sur mi se how it was divvied 
up. 

Thus the integrity of Ainsworth-Davis's book may or may not be 
compromised by the book you now hold in your hands. 

The question seems to be, do you wish to believe: a British or a 
German intelligence agent? 


—Willis A. Carto 
Editor & Publisher 
The Barnes Review 



PHOTO SECTION 



HULTON ARCHtVE/GETTY IMAGES 




80 


ESCAPE FROM THE BUNKER 



TOP OF PAGE: (from left to right) Adolf Eichmann, Klaus Barbie and Dr. 
Joseph Mengele, former Nazis who made it out of Germany after the war and 
escaped to South America. ABOVE: Allied soldiers celebrate the death of 
Hitler by reading Stars & Stripes, a U.S. military newspaper. Hitler's death (or 
public trial) was considered a must if full closure was to be brought to the war. 
Could the dead man in Hitler's bunker have been a Hitler double? FACING 
PAGE: Top, the last known photograph of Hitler alive shows him outside the 
Bunker, offering words of encouragement to young Germans. BOTTOM: This 
photograph was taken by the Soviets, who exhumed Hitler's body for this 
snapshot. Many believe it was a Hitler double. Dental records were supposed 
to have identified this corpse as Hitler's, but many doubts remain. 









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A 

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