Chapter IV: Part 4

When I got back, it looked like moving day. The ramp was already lined with tables, chairs and chests. Dr. Mutter was running back and forth, cautioning one GI not to drop a delicate cabinet, helping another with an overambitious armful of equal rarity and all the while trying in vain to check the numbers marked on the pieces as they flowed down the stairs in a steady stream. Meanwhile, my two packers trudged up and down the ramp, lugging heavy chests and monstrous panels which looked more than a match for men twice their size.

In spite of their concerted efforts, we didn’t have anything like enough help, so I appealed to Leclancher. With discouraging independence, he indicated that his men were drivers, not furniture movers, and that he couldn’t order them to help. But he would put it up to them. After a serious conference with them, Leclancher reported that they had agreed to join the work party. Now, with a crew of twenty, things moved along at a faster pace. With a couple of the GIs, the two packers and I set to work loading the first truck. Here was where the little Rackhamites shone. In half an hour the first truck was packed and ready to be driven back to its place beside the chapel wall. The second truck was brought up and before long joined its groaning companion, snugly parked against a buttress.

Presently, the eight GIs trooped out into the courtyard. It was half past five and time for chow. The Frenchmen knocked off too, leaving Dr. Mutter, the two packers and me to take stock of the afternoon’s accomplishment. While we were thus engaged, Leclancher came to tell me that my driver, the one I called “Double Roger,” was feeling sick and wanted to see a doctor. In the confusion of the afternoon’s work I hadn’t noticed that he was not about. We found him curled up in the back of the truck and feeling thoroughly miserable. I drove him down to the Medical Office in the village and there Dr. Sverdlik, the Battalion Surgeon, examined him. Roger’s complaint was a severe pain in the midriff and the doctor suggested heat treatments. He said that the German surgeon up at the monastery hospital had the necessary equipment.

That seemed simple enough, since the drivers were billeted in rooms adjoining the hospital wing. But I reckoned without Roger. What? Be treated by a German doctor? He was terrified at the prospect, and it required all my powers of persuasion to talk him into it. Finally he agreed, but only after Dr. Sverdlik had telephoned to the hospital doctor and given explicit instructions. I also had to promise to stand by while the doctor ministered to him.

The German, Major Brecker, was methodical and thorough. He found that Roger had a kidney infection and recommended that he be taken to a hospital as soon as possible. I explained that we would not be returning to Munich for at least two days and asked if the delay would be dangerous. He said that he thought not. In the meantime he would keep Roger under a “heat basket.” Roger eyed this device with suspicion but truculently allowed it to be applied. When I went off to my supper, twenty minutes later, he was sleeping peacefully—but not alone. Three of his fellow drivers were sprawled on cots near by, just in case that Boche had any intentions of playing tricks on their comrade. Maybe not, but they were taking no chances! What a lot of children they were, I thought, as I walked wearily down to supper.

That evening I asked the colonel if I could get hold of some PWs to help out with the work the following day. He said that there was a large camp between Hohenfurth and Krummau and that I could have as many as I wanted. So I put in a bid for sixteen. After arranging for them to be at the monastery at eight the next morning, I went to my own quarters which were in a house just across the way.

I had one little errand of mercy to take care of before I turned in. There was a recreation room on the first floor and adjoining it a makeshift bar. Most of the officers had gone to the movies, so I managed to slip in unobserved and pilfer two bottles of beer. Tucking them inside my blouse, I made off for the monastery. There, after some difficulty in finding my way around the dark passageways, I located the rooms occupied by my two little packers. They were making ready for bed, but when they saw what I had for them, their leathery old faces lighted up with ecstatic smiles. If I had been a messenger from heaven, they couldn’t have been happier. Leaving them clucking over their unexpected refreshments, I went back to my own billet and fell into bed. I hadn’t had exactly what one would call a restful day myself.

That beer worked wonders I hadn’t anticipated. When I arrived at the monastery a little before eight the next morning I found that my two packers, together with Dr. Mutter, had been at work since seven. As yet there was no sign of the Frenchmen, but I thought that they would probably show up before long. At eight my gang of PWs appeared and the sergeant who brought them explained that I wouldn’t be having the crew of GIs who had helped out the day before. When I protested that I needed them more urgently than ever, he informed me that the combination of GI and PW labor simply wouldn’t work out; that I certainly couldn’t expect to have them both doing the same kind of work together. I said that I most certainly could and did expect it. Well, my protest was completely unavailing, and if I had to make a choice I was probably better off with the sixteen PWs. Perhaps my two packers could get enough work out of them to compensate for the loss of the GIs.

I had just finished assigning various jobs to the PWs when Leclancher turned up. “May I have a word with you?” he asked. “It is about Roger.”

“What about Roger? Is he any worse?” I asked.

“No, but he is not any better either,” he said. “Is it possible that we shall be returning to Munich tomorrow morning?”

“Not the ghost of a chance,” I said. “We shan’t be through loading before tomorrow night. We’re too shorthanded.”

“But if we all pitched in and worked, even after supper?” he asked.

“It would make a big difference,” I said. “But it’s entirely up to you. It’s certainly worth a try if the drivers are willing.”

I’ll never forget that day. I never saw Frenchmen move with such rapidity or with such singleness of purpose. When five o’clock came, we had finished loading the fifth truck. Taking into account the two from the preceding day, that left only three more trucks to fill. Leclancher came to me again. The drivers wanted to work until it got dark. That meant until nine o’clock. Knowing that the two packers were equally eager to get back to Munich, I agreed. I hurried off to call the sergeant about the PWs. Special arrangements would have to be made to feed them if we were keeping on the job after supper. Also, I had to make sure that someone at Battalion Headquarters would be able to provide a vehicle to take them back to their camp.

While the drivers went off to chow and the PWs were being fed in the hospital kitchen, I joined Dr. Mutter and the packers to discuss these new developments. I felt sure that I would be returning to Hohenfurth in another few days with additional trucks to complete the evacuation. That being the case, some preliminary planning was necessary. I instructed Dr. Mutter to call in a stonemason to remove the Della Robbia relief and the other pieces which had been set into the walls, so that they would be ready for packing when we came back. I gave him a written order which would enable him to lay in a supply of lumber for packing cases which would have to be built for some of the more fragile pieces. Lastly, the four of us surveyed the storage rooms and made an estimate of the number of trucks we would need for the things still on hand.

To save time I had a couple of chocolate bars for my supper and was ready to resume work when our combined forces reappeared. The next two hours and a half went by like a whirlwind and by eight o’clock we knotted down the tarpaulin on the last truck. Everybody was content. Even the PWs seemed less glum than usual, but that was probably because they had been so well fed in the hospital kitchen.

If we were to make it through to Munich in the one day, we would have to start off early the next morning. Accordingly I left word that the trucks were to be lined up outside the monastery entrance at seven-thirty sharp. Then I went down to the colonel’s quarters to see about an armed escort for the convoy. I found Colonel Sheehan and Major Thacher making preparations to “go out on the town.” They looked very spruce in their pinks and were in high spirits.

“We missed you at supper,” said the colonel. “How’s the work coming along?”

“My trucks are loaded and ready to roll first thing in the morning if I can have an escort,” I said.

“That calls for a celebration,” he said. “Pour yourself a drink. I’ll make a bargain with you. You can have the escort on one condition—that you join our party tonight.”

I didn’t protest. I thought it was a swell idea. A few minutes later, the captain with whom I was billeted arrived and the four of us set out for an evening of fun.

In the short space of two days I had grown very fond of these three officers, although we had met only at mealtime. They were, in fact, characteristic of all the officers I had encountered at Hohenfurth—friendly, good-natured and ready to do anything they could to help. That they were all going home soon may have had something to do with their contented outlook on life, and they deserved their contentment. As members of the 26th Division, the famous “Yankee Division,” they had seen plenty of action, and as we drove along that night in the colonel’s car, my three companions did a lot of reminiscing.

While they exchanged stories, I had a chance to enjoy the romantic countryside through which we were passing. We were, the colonel had said, headed for Krummau, an old town about fifteen miles away.

The road followed along the winding Moldau River, which had an almost supernatural beauty in the glow of the late evening light. The bright green banks were mirrored, crystal clear, on its unrippled surface, as were the rose-gold colors of the evening clouds.

We crossed the river at Rosenberg, and as we went over the bridge I noticed that it bore—as do all bridges in that region—the figure of St. John Nepomuk, patron saint of Bohemia. The castle, perched high above the river, was the ancestral seat of the Dukes of Rosenberg who ruled this part of Bohemia for hundreds of years. One of them murdered his wife and, according to the legend, she still haunted the castle. Robed in white, she was said to walk the battlements each night between eleven-thirty and twelve. Major Thacher thought that we should test the legend by paying a visit to the castle on our return from Krummau later that evening.

When we arrived in Krummau it was too dark to see much of the old town except the outline of the gray buildings which lined the narrow streets. Our objective was a night club operated by members of an underground movement which was said to have flourished there throughout the years of Nazi oppression. There was nothing in any way remarkable about the establishment, but it provided a little variety for the officers stationed thereabouts. My companions were popular patrons of the place. They were royally welcomed by the proprietor, who found a good table for us, not too near the small noisy orchestra. Two pretty Czech girls joined us and we all took turns dancing. There were so many more men than girls that we had to be content with one dance each. Then the girls moved on to another table.

We whiled away a couple of hours at the club before the colonel said that we should be starting back. I hoped that we would be in time to pay our respects to the phantom duchess, but the clock in the square was striking twelve when we rumbled through the empty streets of Rosenberg. It had begun to rain again.

At six the next morning, I looked sleepily out the window. It was still raining. We would have a slow trip unless the weather cleared, and I thought apprehensively of the steep road leading into Linz. Fresh eggs—instead of the usual French toast—and two cups of black coffee brightened my outlook on the soggy morning and I was further cheered to find the convoy smartly lined up like a row of circus elephants when I reached the monastery at seven-thirty. Leclancher had taken the lead truck and the ailing Roger was bundled up in the cab of one of the others.

Dr. Mutter waved agitated farewells from beneath the ribs of a tattered umbrella as we slid slowly down the monastery drive. At the corner of the main street of the village we picked up our escort, two armed jeeps. They conducted us to the border where we gathered in two similar vehicles which would set the pace for us into Linz. The bad weather was in one respect an advantage: there was practically no traffic on the road.

At Linz I stopped long enough to thank Anderson and his colonel for the escort vehicles they had produced on a moment’s notice that morning in response to a call from Colonel Sheehan. This third pair of jeeps were very conscientious about their escort duties. The one in the vanguard kept well in the lead and would signal us whenever he came to a depression in the road. This got on Leclancher’s nerves, for I heard him muttering under his breath every time it happened. But I was so glad to have an escort of any kind that I pretended not to notice his irritation.

When we reached Lambach, midway between Linz and Salzburg, we lost this pair of guardians but acquired two sent on from the latter city. While waiting for them to appear, I scrounged lunch for myself and the drivers at a local battery. As soon as the new escorts arrived we started on again and pulled into Salzburg at two-thirty. This time there were no delays and we threaded our way through the dripping streets and out on to the Autobahn without mishap.

I now had only one remaining worry—the bad detour near Rosenheim. Again, perhaps thanks to the weather, we were in luck and found this treacherous by-pass free of traffic. As we rolled into Munich, the rain let up and by the time we turned into the Königsplatz, the sun had broken through the clearing skies.

My first major evacuation job was finished. As soon as I got my drivers fixed up with transportation back to their camp and the members of our escort party fed and billeted I could relax with a clear conscience. It was a little after five-thirty, and Third Army’s inflexible habits about the hour at which all enlisted men should eat didn’t make this problem such an easy one. Third Army Headquarters was a good twenty minutes away, so I took the men to the Military Government Detachment where the meal schedule was more elastic. Afterward I shepherded them to their billets and went off to my own. I would have to write up a report of the expedition for Captain Posey, but that could wait.

(5)

_SECOND TRIP TO HOHENFURTH_

The first order of business the next morning was a conference with Captain Posey. I gave him a complete account of the Hohenfurth trip and presented my recommendations for a second and final visit to complete the evacuation. It was my suggestion that I return to the monastery with the same trucks—as soon as they could be unloaded and serviced—and that he send up another officer with at least eight additional trucks, the second convoy to arrive by the time I had completed the loading of my own. I proposed taking four packers this time instead of two, the idea being that two of the packers could help me with the loading while the others were building cases for the fragile objects which would have to be crated. I mentioned also the impending withdrawal of our troops from Hohenfurth, which would make later operations of such nature impossible.

This was of course no news to Captain Posey as, presumably, it had been the determining factor in the removal of the Hohenfurth things in the first place. He approved my plan and advised me to get my trucks lined up, and said he would see what he could do about sending an additional officer. I didn’t like the sound of that. Too often I had used those same words myself when confronted with a difficult request. Furthermore, it had been my experience with the Army in general thus far—and with Third Army in particular—that “out of sight, out of mind” was a favorite motto. I had no intention of going back to Hohenfurth until I had a definite promise that reinforcements would be forthcoming. I think that my insistence piqued the captain a bit. But at that point I was feeling exceedingly brisk and businesslike—a mood which I found new and stimulating. It would be better to have a clear understanding now as to who would join me in Hohenfurth; as I explained to Captain Posey, I would like to give the officer some detailed instructions, preferably oral ones, before I started off.

I spent the rest of that day and most of the following one at the Verwaltungsbau supervising the unloading of the ten trucks from Hohenfurth and making trips out to the trucking company headquarters to conclude arrangements for continued use of the vehicles. Also, I had to put in a request for eight others. It was gratifying to find that every piece we had packed at Hohenfurth came through without a scratch. My two packers, to whom all credit for this belonged, were equally elated. My request for the services of four packers was met with black looks, but when I promised that we’d not be gone more than four or five days, Craig acquiesced.

Late in the afternoon of the second day, I went again to Posey’s office. He was not there but I found Lincoln, as usual hunched morosely over his typewriter. He said he had good news for me. Captain Posey had pulled a fast one and snatched a wonderful guy away from Jim Rorimer, Monuments Officer at Seventh Army—a fellow named Lamont Moore. Moore was already, he thought, on his way down to Munich to make the trip to Hohenfurth. When I said I didn’t know Moore, Lincoln proceeded to tell me about him.

“Lamont was director of the educational program at the National Gallery in Washington before he went into the Army. Before that he had a brilliant record at the Newark Museum. The two of you ought to get along famously. Lamont’s got a wonderful sense of humor. He’s exceedingly intelligent and he’s had a lot of experience in evacuation work.”

“Where did you know him?” I asked.

“We were in France last winter. That was before he was commissioned. He’s a lieutenant now,” Lincoln said.

“That sounds perfect. But I want to ask you a question about something else and I want a truthful answer. I have a sneaking notion that you knew all the time what was in that monastery at Hohenfurth. How about it?”

“Furniture and sculpture, you mean, instead of paintings?” he asked. “Of course I didn’t.”

“Well, maybe you didn’t, but perhaps you can imagine how I felt when I found that the Mannheimer collection alone contained more than two thousand items, and that the Rothschild pieces totaled up to a similar figure.”

Lincoln’s chuckle belied his protestations. “I’ve got another piece of news for you,” he said. “John Nicholas Brown and Mason Hammond are arriving tomorrow. I thought you might like to see them before you return to Hohenfurth.”

“You told me once that Captain Posey, like many another officer, doesn’t relish visitors from higher headquarters,” I said. “Am I to infer a connection between his absence from the office and the impending arrival of these two distinguished emissaries from the Group Control Council?”

He assured me that I was not, but I left the office wondering about it all the same.

That evening George Stout paid one of his rare and fleeting visits to Munich. On these occasions he stayed either with Craig or Ham Coulter. This time the four of us—all “strays” from the Navy—gathered in Ham’s quarters.

“The work at the mine,” George said, “is going along as rapidly as can be expected in the circumstances. But it’s got to be stepped up. I came down to find out how soon you could join me.”

“I’m going back to Hohenfurth again,” I said. “Lamont Moore is to meet me there.”

George was glad to hear this and said that he and Lamont had worked together at the Siegen mine in Westphalia. He confirmed all of the good things Lincoln had told me about Lamont and said that he’d like to have both of us at Alt Aussee. He promised to have a talk with Posey about it, because he was of the opinion that these big evacuation jobs should be handled by a team rather than by a single officer. According to George, a team of at least three—and preferably four—officers would be the perfect setup. Then the work could be divided up. Each officer would have specific duties, assigned to him on the basis of his particular talents. But all members of the team would have responsibilities of equal importance. It would be teamwork in the real sense of the term.

Like all of George’s proposals, this one sounded very sensible. At the same time, when I recalled the haphazard way I had been obliged to conduct operations thus far myself, I wondered if it weren’t Utopian. That didn’t discourage George. When he had a good idea he never let go of it. And, if we had only been a larger group, I am convinced that his brain child about teams would have had wonderful results. As it was, the events of the next few weeks were to demonstrate how effective the scheme was on a small scale.

When I got out to Third Army Headquarters the next morning, George had already come and gone. I would have liked to ask Posey about their conversation but he didn’t seem to be in a chatty mood—at least not on that subject. However, he did have a few caustic things to say about “people from high headquarters who have nothing better to do than travel around and interrupt the work of others.”

Knowing that he was referring to Messrs. Brown and Hammond—Lincoln’s assurance of the night before to the contrary notwithstanding—I piously observed that high-level visitors to the field might do quite a lot of good. For one thing, the fact that they had taken the trouble to visit it emphasized the importance of the work they had come to inspect; and, for another, it pleased the officer in the field to have his job noticed by the boys at the top. I thought I sounded pretty convincing, but sensing that I was not, I turned to other topics.

About that time John and Mason arrived. Our last meeting had taken place in the vaults of the Reichsbank at Frankfurt several weeks before. Mason referred to that and jokingly accused me of having run out on him. When I told him that I was about to return to Hohenfurth he announced loudly that that was perfect—he and John would drop in to see me there. I said that would be fine but, when I noted the expression on Captain Posey’s face, I added to myself, “fine, if they get the clearance.” Before coming up to see me, they expected to visit one or two places south of Munich, so they wouldn’t reach Hohenfurth before the end of the week.

Captain Posey was a great believer in the old theory that the Devil finds work for idle hands, at least as far as I was concerned. That same afternoon he casually suggested that I take a “little run down into the Tyrol” for him and inspect a castle about which he had been asked to make a report. He proposed the trip with such prewar insouciance that it sounded like a pleasant holiday excursion. As a matter of fact it was an appealing suggestion, despite my plans for an early morning start to Hohenfurth.

It was a beautiful summer day and my jeep driver asked if a friend of his, a sergeant who was keen about photography, might come along. I agreed and the three of us headed out east of Munich on the Autobahn. It was fun to be riding in an open jeep instead of an enclosed truck.

We reached Rosenheim in record time and there struck south into the mountains. Our objective was the little village of Brixlegg, between Kufstein and Innsbruck. We were on the main road to the Brenner Pass. Italy was temptingly close. We stopped from time to time so that the sergeant could get a snapshot of some particularly dramatic vista. But there was an embarrassment of riches—every part of the road was spectacularly beautiful.

Brixlegg was a tiny cluster of picturesque chalets, but it had not been tiny enough to elude the attentions of the air force. On the outskirts we saw the shattered remains of what had been an important factory for the manufacture of airplane parts. Happily, the bombers had concentrated their efforts on the factory. The little village had suffered practically no damage at all.

We located our castle without difficulty. It was Schloss Matzen, one of the finest castles of the Tyrol—the property of a British officer, Vice-Admiral Baillie-Grohman. This gentleman had requested a report on the castle from the American authorities. We found everything in perfect order. The admiral’s cousin—a Hungarian baron named Von Schmedes who spoke excellent English—was in residence. He showed us over the place. The castle was an example of intelligent restoration. According to the inscription on a plaque over the entrance, the aunt of the present owner had devoted her life to this task.

Although an “Off Limits” sign was prominently displayed on the premises, the baron was fearful of intruders. As the castle stood some distance from the main highway, I thought he was being unduly apprehensive. He said that an official letter of warning to unwelcome visitors would be an added protection. To please him I wrote out a statement to the effect that the castle was an historic monument, the property of a British subject, etc., and signed it in the name of the Commanding General of the Third U. S. Army.

On our way out we were shown two rooms on the ground floor which were filled with polychromed wood sculpture from the museum at Innsbruck. The baron said that additional objects from the Innsbruck museum were stored in a near-by castle, Schloss Lichtwert.

It was but a few minutes’ drive from Schloss Matzen, so I decided to have a look at it. Schloss Lichtwert, though not nearly so picturesque either in character or as to site, was the more interesting of the two. It stood baldly in the middle of a field and was actually a big country house rather than a castle.

We were hospitably received by a courtly old gentleman, Baron von Iname, to whom I explained the reason for our visit. One of his daughters offered to do the honors, saying that her father was extremely deaf. We followed her to a handsome drawing room on the second floor, where several other members of the family were gathered in conversation around a large table set with coffee things. In one of the wall panels was a concealed door, which the daughter of the house opened by pressing a hidden spring. Leading the way, she took us into a room about twenty feet square filled with violins, violas and ’cellos. They hung in rows from the ceiling, like hams in a smokehouse. Fräulein von Iname said that the collection of musical instruments at Innsbruck was a very fine one. We were standing in a Stradivarius forest.

When we passed back into the drawing room, the father whispered a few words to his daughter. She turned to us smiling and said, “Father asked if I had pointed out to you the thickness of the walls in this part of the castle. He is very proud of the fact that they date from the fourteenth century and that our family has always lived here. He also asks me to invite you to take coffee with us.”

Knowing that coffee was valued as molten gold, I declined the invitation on the grounds that we had a long trip ahead of us. Thanking her for her courtesy, we left. It was after eleven when we got back to Munich. We had driven a little more than three hundred miles.

Bad weather and bad luck attended us all the way to Hohenfurth the next day. Less than an hour out on the Autobahn, we came upon a gruesome accident—an overturned jeep and the limp figures of two GIs at one side of the road, the mangled body of a German soldier in the center of the pavement. An ambulance had already arrived and a doctor was ministering to the injured American soldiers. The German was obviously beyond medical help. As soon as the road was cleared, we continued—but at a very sober pace.

On the other side of Salzburg we had carburetor trouble which held us up for nearly two hours. It was after five thirty when we reached Linz. We stopped there for supper and I had a few words with the colonel who had looked after us so well a few days before. He seemed surprised to see me again, and rather agitated.

“You can get through this time,” he said, “but don’t try to come back this way.”

“What do you mean, sir?” I asked, puzzled by his curt admonition.

Apparently annoyed by my query, he said brusquely, “Don’t ask any questions. Just do as I say—don’t come back this way.”

At supper I saw Lieutenant Anderson again and I broached the subject to him. “Does the colonel mean that the Russians are expected to move up to the other side of the Danube?” I asked.

“Take a good look at the bridge when you cross over tonight,” he said.

It was my turn to be nettled now. “Look here, I don’t mean to be intruding on any precious military secret, but I am expecting a second convoy to join me at Hohenfurth in two days; if the other trucks aren’t going to be able to get through I ought to let the people at Third Army Headquarters know.”

“Well, frankly I don’t know just what the score is, but the colonel probably has definite information,” he said. “What I meant about the bridge is that it’s jammed with people and carts, all coming over to the west side of the Danube. It’s been like that for the past two days and it can mean only one thing—that the Russians aren’t far behind.”

This wasn’t too reassuring, but I decided to take a fatalistic attitude toward it. If I had to find some other route back from Hohenfurth, I’d worry about it when the time came. I did, however, try to get through to Third Army Headquarters on the phone. Posey’s office didn’t answer, so I asked Anderson to put in a call for me in the morning.

It was slow going over the bridge, but we finally forced our way through the welter of carts and wagons. Once we were in open country, the traffic thinned out and we moved along at a faster pace. The Czech and American officers at the frontier recognized us and waved us through without formality. We arrived in Hohenfurth a little before nine. I knew the ropes this time, so it was a simple matter to get the men billeted in the monastery. After that I went on to my own former billet. When I reached the house, I found a group of officers in the recreation room. They were holding an informal meeting. Colonel Sheehan was presiding and motioned to me to join the group. He had just returned from the headquarters at Budweis with important news. His own orders had come through, so he would be pulling out for home in a few days. But of greater concern to me was the news that the Czechs would definitely take over at the end of the week. We would still have some troops in the area, but their duties would be greatly curtailed. I would have to finish the job at the monastery as fast as possible and head back to Munich.

We resumed our work at the monastery with surprisingly few delays. It was almost as if there had been no interruption of our earlier operations. This time I had double the number of PWs, so I did not have to call on the drivers to help with the loading. During my absence, Dr. Mutter had put a stonemason to work on the pieces which had been set into the wall, and these now lay like parts of a puzzle in a neat pattern on the floor of the reception hall, ready to be packed. He had also procured lumber and nails, so my two extra packers were able to get to work on the cases which had to be built. By evening, seven of the trucks were loaded, leaving only one more to do the next day.

That night I consulted one of the officers, who had a wide knowledge of the roads in that area, about an alternate route to Munich. He showed me, on the map, a winding back road which would take me through Passau—instead of Linz and Salzburg—to Munich. It was, he said, a very “scenic route” but longer than the way I had come. He felt sure, though, that I could get my trucks through, that there were no bad detours, etc. It was comforting to know that this route existed as a possibility—just in case. But I still had hopes of being able to go back by way of Linz, in spite of the colonel’s warning.

The next day was the Fourth of July—not that I expected either my French or German associates to take special notice of the fact. Still I was glad that I had only one truck to load on the holiday. I took advantage of the later breakfast hour, knowing that my faithful German packers would be on the job at seven o’clock as usual. When I arrived at the monastery at nine-thirty, I found that the last truck was already half loaded. There was enough room to add the two cases containing the Della Robbia plaque and the Renaissance fireplace taken out of the wall; and, if we were careful, we might find a place for the fifteenth century Florentine relief which the stonemason had also painstakingly removed. Once that was done, there was nothing to do but wait for the arrival of Lieutenant Moore and the additional trucks.

I called the workmen together. In halting German, I explained the significance of the Fourth of July and announced that there would be no more work that day. It was providentially near the lunch hour. I could send the PWs back to their camp as soon as they had eaten. The German packers, intent on returning to Munich as soon as possible, chose to get on with the cases they were building. Dr. Mutter and I retired to his study to take stock of the receipts we had thus far made out. As for the French drivers, they had disappeared to their quarters.

After lunching at the officers’ mess, I decided to celebrate the Glorious Fourth in my own quiet way. Major Whittemore had lent me a car, so I set out on an expedition of my own devising. Ever since the night of our trip to Krummau, I had wanted to explore the castle of Rosenberg, and this seemed the logical time to do it. Rosenberg was only eight kilometers away.

It was a sleepy summer afternoon. Not a leaf was stirring as I followed the winding Moldau into the pretty village with its storybook castle. The road to the castle was rough and tortuous, reminding me of a back road in the Tennessee mountain country. Just as I was beginning to wonder if the little sedan were equal to the climb, the road turned sharply into a level areaway before the castle courtyard.

I parked the car and went in search of the caretaker. When I found no one, I ascended a flight of stone steps which led from the courtyard to the second floor. The room at the head of the stairs was empty, but I heard voices in the one adjoining. Two cleaning women were scrubbing the floor, chattering to each other as they worked. They were startled to see me, but one of them had the presence of mind to scurry off and return a few minutes later with the archetype of all castle caretakers. He had been custodian for the past fifty-six years. Lately there hadn’t been many visitors.

He took me first to the picture gallery—a long high-ceilinged room with tall windows looking out over the river. There were a dozen full-length canvases around the rough plaster walls, past Dukes of Rosenberg and their sour-faced Duchesses. The _clou_ of the collection was a tubercular lady in seventeenth century costume. The caretaker solemnly informed me that she was the ill-fated duchess who paced the ramparts of the castle every night just before twelve. She had lived, he told me, in the fourteenth century. When I mentioned as tactfully as possible that her gown indicated she had been a mere three hundred years ahead of the styles, he gave me a dirty look as much as to say, “a disbeliever.” I did my best to erase this unfortunate impression and proceeded to the next series of apartments. They included a weapon room, a sumptuous state bedchamber reserved for royal visitors, several richly furnished reception rooms, and a long gallery called the Crusaders’ Hall—a copy, the caretaker said, of a room in the Palace at Versailles. Here hung full-length portraits of such historic personages as Godefroy de Bouillon, Robert Guiscard and Frederick Barbarossa—all done by an indifferent German painter of the last century. Notwithstanding its ostentatious atmosphere, the gallery had a dignity quite in keeping with the musty elegance of the castle.

I thanked the old man, gave him a couple of cigarettes and returned to the car. It was time for me to be getting back to the monastery.

I gauged my arrival nicely. As I pulled up to the entrance, the guard at the archway came over to the car to tell me that eight trucks had just driven through. When I reached the courtyard the last of them was backing up against the chapel wall.

A tall, rangy lieutenant, wearing the familiar helmet liner prescribed by Third Army regulations, walked up to the car as I was getting out and said, “Good afternoon, sir. Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

So this was Lamont Moore. Just as Lincoln had predicted, I liked him at once. There was a quiet self-possession about him, coupled with a quizzical, humorous expression, which was pleasantly reassuring. I have never forgotten the impression of Olympian calm I received at that first meeting. In succeeding months, there were many times when Lamont got thoroughly riled, but his composure never deserted him. His even temper and his sense of humor could always be depended upon to leaven the more impetuous actions of his companions.

Without wasting breath on inconsequential conversation, he suggested that we “case the joint.” After introducing him to Dr. Mutter, who was still hovering around like a distracted schoolmaster, we made a tour of the premises. By the time we had finished I had the comforting, if somewhat unflattering, feeling that he had a clearer understanding of the work there than I, notwithstanding the time I had spent at the monastery.

On our way down to the village afterward, I asked Lamont if he had had any difficulty coming up through Linz. He said no, but that he also had been warned not to return that way.

As soon as he had found a billet, we settled down to talk over the loading of his trucks. “The colonel says that we’ll have to finish the job in a hurry. The Czechs are taking over at the end of the week,” I said. “And if the Russians move up to the Danube, we won’t be able to go back by way of Linz. We’ll have to return by way of Passau.”

“I understand that there isn’t any bridge over the Danube at Passau,” Lamont said quietly. At that I got excited, but in the same quiet voice Lamont said, “Don’t worry. We’ve got more important things to think about—something to drink, for example.”

We went over to the officers’ club, arriving just in time to be offered a sample of the Fourth of July punch which two of the officers had been mixing that afternoon. From the look of things, they had perfect confidence in their recipe, which called for red wine, armagnac and champagne. After the first sip I didn’t have to be told there would be fireworks in Hohenfurth that evening.

Lamont and I began to discuss mutual friends and acquaintances in the museum world, a habit deeply ingrained in members of our profession. We agreed that a mutual “hate” often brought people together more quickly than a mutual admiration. Then inconsistently—it was probably the punch—we started talking about Lincoln, whom we both liked very much.

“It was Lincoln who told me what a fine fellow you are, Lamont,” I said.

“That’s interesting,” he said with a noiseless laugh. “He said the same thing about you.”

Comparing notes, we found that Lincoln had given us identical vignettes of each other.

“Tell me something about the work you’ve been doing in MFA&A. This is my first real job, so I’m still a neophyte,” I said.

Lamont rolled his eyes wearily and said, “Oh, I’ve been evacuating works of art for the past four months, and I wonder sometimes if it’s ever going to end. Siegen was my big show. It was the foul and dripping copper mine in Westphalia where the priceless treasures from the Rhineland museums were stored. The shaft was two thousand feet deep and some of the mine chambers were more than half a mile from the shaft. Walker Hancock of First Army and George Stout had inspected it originally and advised immediate evacuation. But no place was available. First Army was pushing eastward, so all Walker could do was to reassure himself from time to time that the contents were adequately guarded.

“Shortly before VE-Day, I received a cryptic telegram at Ninth Army Headquarters stating that, as of midnight that particular night, Siegen was my headache. Then followed weeks of activity in which Walker, Steve and I were involved.”

“Who is Steve?” I asked.

“Steve Kovalyak of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania,” said Lamont. “I think he’s with George at Alt Aussee now. I hope you’ll meet him. He’s a great character.

“A bunker at Bonn was approved as a new repository for the Siegen treasures. I surveyed the roads to Bonn and found them impossible for truck transport. George was called to Alt Aussee. Walker went off to see about setting up a collecting point at Marburg.

“Then I was called back to Ninth Army Headquarters. The evacuation of Siegen was momentarily at a standstill.

“Later I returned and, with Walker’s and Steve’s assistance, completed the evacuation. We moved everything to Marburg, except the famous Romanesque doors from the church of Santa Maria im Kapitol. Walker took them to the cathedral at Cologne, along with the Aachen crown jewels.

“Siegen was the second major evacuation—perhaps you could say it was the first carried out by a _team_ of MFA&A officers.”

“What was the first?” I asked.

“The Merkers mine, where the Nazi gold and the Berlin Museum things were stored. That was the most spectacular of the early evacuations—that and Bernterode.”

“What about Bernterode?” I asked. I had read Hancock’s official report of the operation and had seen some snapshots taken in the mine, so I was curious to have a firsthand account.

“Walter Hancock was the officer in charge of the evacuation,” said Lamont. “Like Siegen, it was a deep-shaft mine, so the contents had to be brought up by an elevator. It was a hell of a job to get the elevator back in working order. The dramatic thing about Bernterode was the discovery of a small chapel, or shrine, constructed in one of the mine chambers and then completely walled up.

“In this concealed shrine, the Nazis had placed the bronze sarcophagi of Frederick the Great, Frederick William—the Soldier King—and those of Von Hindenburg and his wife. On the coffins had been laid wreaths, ribbons and various insignia of the Party. Around and about them were some two hundred regimental banners, many of them dating from the early Prussian wars.

“When Walker was ready to take the coffins out of the mine, he found they were so large and heavy that they’d have to come up one at a time. He was standing at the top of the shaft as the coffin of Frederick the Great rose slowly from the depths. As it neared the level, a radio in the distance blared forth the ‘Star-Spangled Banner.’ And just as the coffin came into view, the radio band struck up ‘God Save the King.’ The date,” Lamont added significantly, “was May the eighth.”

If I thought I was going to get much sleep that night, I reckoned without the patriotic officers of the Yankee Division, who were hell-bent on making it a really Glorious Fourth. It had been my mistake in the first place to move into quarters directly over the recreation room. It wasn’t much of a bedroom anyway—just an alcove with an eighteenth century settee for a bed. I was resting precariously on this spindly collector’s item when the door was flung open and Major Thacher shouted that I was wanted below. I told him to go away. To my surprise he did—but only to return a few minutes later with reinforcements. I must come down at once—colonel’s orders, and if I wouldn’t come quietly, they’d carry me down. Before I could get off my settee, it was pitched forward and I sprawled on the floor. What fun it was for everybody—except me! I put on a dressing gown and was marched down the stairs. I had been called in, as a naval officer, to settle an argument: Who had won the Battle of Jutland? The Battle of Jutland, of all things! At that moment I wasn’t at all sure in what war it had been fought, let alone who had won it. But assuming an assurance I was far from feeling I declared that it had been a draw. My luck was with me that night after all, for that had been the colonel’s contention. So I was allowed to return to my makeshift bed.

Lamont took some of the wind out of my sails by assuring me the next morning that the British had defeated the German fleet at Jutland in 1916.

But we were having our own battle of Hohenfurth that morning, so I was too preoccupied to give Jutland more than a passing thought. Just before noon, as we finished our fourth truck, John Nicholas Brown and Mason Hammond arrived. Mason, as was his custom when traveling about Germany, was bundled up in a great sheepskin coat—the kind used by the Wehrmacht on the Russian front—and looked like something out of _Nanook of the North_. John, less arctically attired, hailed us gaily from the back seat of the command car.

Lamont and I suspended operations to show them around. We were pleased by their comments on our work—how admirably it was being handled and so on—but we struck a snag when we showed them Canova’s marble Muse. Lamont and I had just about decided to leave her where she was. Our two visitors thought that would be a pity, a downright shame. We pointed out that to transport the statue would be a hazardous business, even if we succeeded in getting it onto a truck in the first place. We had no equipment with which to hoist anything so heavy. On our inspection tour they kept coming back to the subject of the Canova, and Lamont gave me an irritated look for having called their attention to it at all.

At lunch, which we had with the colonel, they fixed us. When the subject of the statue was brought up, the colonel instantly agreed to provide us with a winch and also two extra trucks. We needed the trucks all right, but we weren’t particularly happy about the winch.

As soon as we got back to the monastery, we broke the news to Dr. Mutter. The Muse was about to take a trip. He held up his hands in dismay and said it would take us half a day to get the statue loaded. When we told the German packers what we had in mind, they made a few clucking noises, and then began the necessary preparations. The first thing they did was to get hold of two logs, each about six feet in length and five inches in diameter. With the help of a dozen PWs, they got them placed beneath the base of the statue. From that point on, it was a matter of slowly rolling the statue as the logs rolled. It was arduous work. A distance of well over four hundred yards was involved, and the last half of it was along a sloping ramp where it was particularly difficult to keep the heavy marble under control.

Once the truck was reached, it was necessary to set up a stout runway from the ground to the bed of the truck. This done, the next move was to place heavy pads around the base of the statue, so that the cable of the winch would not scratch the surface of the marble. It was a tense moment. Would the winch be strong enough to drag its heavy burden up the runway? It began to grind, and slowly the Muse slid up the boards, paused for a quivering instant and then glided majestically along the bed of the truck. There were cheers from the PWs who had gathered around the truck to watch. We all sighed with relief, and then congratulated the little packers who had engineered the whole operation. Dr. Mutter kept shaking his head in disbelief. He told us that when the statue had been brought to the monastery in the first place, it had taken three hours to unload it. The present operation had taken forty-five minutes.

After this triumph, the loading of the remaining trucks seemed an anticlimax, but we kept hard at it for the next six hours. By seven o’clock, all ten of them were finished. All told, we would be a convoy of eighteen trucks.

We were on the point of starting down to the village for supper, when Dr. Mutter, even more agitated than he had been before, rushed up and implored us to grant him a great favor. Would we, out of the kindness of our hearts—oh, he knew he had no right to ask such a favor—would we take him and his wife and little girl along with us to Linz the next day? Linz was his home, he had a house there. He had brought his family to Hohenfurth only because the Nazis wouldn’t allow him to give up his duties as custodian of the collections at the monastery. Now the Czechs were going to be in complete control. He and his family were Austrians and there was no telling what would happen to them.

How news does get around, I thought to myself. We hadn’t said a word about the Czechs taking over, but when I expressed the proper surprise and asked him where he had heard _that_ rumor, he wagged his head as much as to say, “Oh, I know what I am talking about, all right!”