The Intelligence Page

Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco

Part 14:
South America and Hitler, 1952

by Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco


This story began in KTB #110 and is quite an eye-opener, but this is only the tip of the iceberg! The first part of this amazing story is the very long letter sent to us by DON ANGEL ALCAZAR de VELASCO (158-+-1985), Chief of a Spanish espionage cell working for the Hitler Government. After this letter has been presented fully in our KTB Magazine, we will also present a mountain of documentation from various Government agencies; USA as well as other countries, and other pertinent facts. You may then decide for yourself who escaped Europe and who did not.

PLEASE KEEP IN MIND that this is a letter from a Member and it expresses his personal views and memories of a specific time in the war and over a few years later. We present this letter from DON ANGEL as we do letters and input from any other Member on World War II history. After reading this letter and the others documents you will read afterwards here in our KTB Magazine, you may then decide what to believe. Perhaps in a few months we will be able to disclose the reason for this statement.

Even 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 espionage 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 Culdad Juarez, a small town close to the U.S. border.

Ostensibly, I was working for the CARCIA 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 intelligence service. It was a routine job with little travel and no risk. I began 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 naturally 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 Fuhrer 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 destination 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 southeast. 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 stationery that I picked out the angular outlines of a snow covered hangar and a cluster of buildings grouped a hundred yards further 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 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.

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 companions had brought me stares as blank as our surroundings and an infuriating stone wall response.

During the meal, I was excluded almost entirely from the other’s conversation 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 questions 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?

I took the photos from my briefcase and studied them again. I knew these children well. In the past six months, I 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 Führer.”

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

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 Führer

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 introduced me to the figure behind the desk. I came to attention and gave the Nazi salute. The man behind the desk smiled fleetingly and acknowledged 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 produced 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, 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. I 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?”

More Don Angel Alcazar de Velasco

Note:

This story began in KTB #110 and is quite an eye-opener, but this is only the tip of the iceberg! The first part of this incredible story is the very long letter sent to us some years ago by DON ANGEL ALCAZAR de VELASCO (158-+-1985), Chief of the Spanish spy ring working for the Hitler Government during World War II.

Was he really a spy working for the Hitler Government? Yes, we confirmed this with CAPT BOB THEW (333-+-1987) when BOB was in our HQ some years ago. He said that DON ANGEL was not a very good agent, but he certainly was one. And from the other side, PETER HANSEN (251-LIFE-1987) also confirmed DON ANGEL was an agent for Germany but not a very good one. Is everything in the letter from DON ANGEL true? Judge that for yourself - but wait until all the data has been presented.

Please remember that we ask you to keep these facts in mind while reading this incredible story by DON ANGEL.

    1) DON ANGEL was an ardent NAZI throughout the War and up to the time of his death. This is obvious from time to time in the text of this letter, so don’t let it bother you.
    2) Spies and agents usually tend to embellish their feats and DON ANGEL was no different, so we must ‘add a grain of salt’ to some of these revelations.
    3) There are twists and turns in this long letter; some HARD facts in our files we’ll print after this letter. DO NOT FORM AN OPINION until you have read all the amazing facts you’ll see here on our INTELLIGENCE PAGE.

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© Copyright 1996 by Harry Cooper, Sharkhunters International, Inc.
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