Chapter 3

German. The Rhine River, 1945

 

 

I had good reason to remember the crossing date. General Patton wrote about it, as did Generals Bradley, Eisenhower, and the Nineteenth Division commanding officer, Major General Herbert L. Earnest and his superior, Corps Commander Manson Eddy.

The bridge across the Rhine at Remagen had been shelled and bombed extensively. It was not considered safe for transport of heavy tanks; indeed, two days after it was captured, it collapsed of its own accord and fell in the river.

Eisenhower had tasked the British commander, Bernard Montgomery, who was downstream of the bridge, and at his own request, with the assault against the Germans on the other side. Patton, on the other hand, had his own plans. He was intent on beating his archrival across. He had no intention of sitting idly by watching the show, while Montgomery “piddled around and hogged all the glory.”

My first squad and I were no longer on foot. We had been traveling in a Carryall and two Jeeps ahead of the lead elements of Patton’s Third Army. I had recently been relieved of my second and third squads, because we were moving too fast and a platoon had become too unwieldy. My diary informs me we arrived at the crossing point at a town about ten miles from the industrial center of Koblenz on the afternoon of 20 March. General Patton was supposed to arrive the next day.

Sure enough, as advertised, Patton drove up accompanied by his senior aide, several of his field headquarters staff, and more tanks.

I was standing at the water’s edge when his Jeep pulled-up. Patton saw me and walked over: “Comment ca va?” Adair, he asked.

I replied: “Ca va bien, mon general.”

Patton was one of those West Point graduates who loved to speak French. That may be one of the reasons he remembered me. I have known a few other Academy officers. Some were like Patton; however, there were others who could care less about the language. I always figured the ones who sought me out to keep in practice were the ones who had done well in the mandatory course.

After the informal greeting, he continued in French, asking me whether I had anything of interest to report. I told him no. I said in French: “I’m stymied by the river, and I’m waiting for the general to float me across so I can get back to work.” He laughed, and then gave out in English with some uncomplimentary words about Montgomery, and how his malingering had slowed us all up and stopped his advance.

And then he said he was expecting a battalion of his combat engineers: “They’re supposed to arrive in a couple of hours to build a pontoon bridge. They’re down below inflating rafts and loading bridging material right now. As soon as they’re finished, they’re going to truck it up here, and then they’ll start floating it across. We should be able to cross by tomorrow.” He chuckled, telling his aide that Montgomery was not going to make it until the 24th, two days late.

His aide, the one to whom he had been directing most of his remarks, appeared to be confused about how the bridge was going to be constructed.

The general anticipated his questions by telling us all that the actual work would start from the other side. “There’s a reason,” he said, “if we start from this bank and a float gets away or a powered launch malfunctions, the swift current will take it into our new bridge and maybe tear it apart. Anyway, they know what they’re doing. We’ll give them the time they need, and then we’ll all drive across without getting our feet wet.”

He turned to me again: “Adair, how come I haven’t promoted you yet?”

“I guess you’ve been too busy, General,” I replied, smiling.

“Well I’m not too busy right now, Captain.”

I glanced at his aide, who was already fishing around in a box he carried, looking for a set of captain’s bars. It was rumored the General had a cigar box half-full of insignia of all ranks. He liberally removed rank from non-performers and promoted others at will. Today was my lucky day; tomorrow, I just might be a lieutenant again.

He beckoned to me to come up the few yards to his Jeep. He handed me the new insignia. I came to attention, saluted, and said: “Je vous remarcie beaucoup.”

“De rien. Je vous en prie,” he replied.

He offered me a few words of congratulations in French about the good job I had been doing. He said something else in French that I missed. Then in English for all to hear, he loudly spit out some expletives about Germans in general and Montgomery in particular.

Weeks before, my squad had advised Patton through the officer in charge of counter-intelligence that the general’s plan to put soldiers across the river was not necessary. Patton had assumed opposition was going to be too heavy to attempt a river crossing by the book. Never one to admit something couldn’t be done, and always the innovator, he had formulated a daring plan. He had been in the process of requisitioning all the L-5’s in Third Army. What he intended to do was fly infantryman across one at a time in the small two-seated airplanes, with each aircraft making several flights an hour. He anticipated putting enough troops across to secure the area some ten miles south of Mainz, the obliterated industrial city of the Ruhr. His howitzers and dug-in tanks would shell the area several miles along a front, beginning at the water’s edge, and some ten miles to the rear. In this way his light airplanes could land and take off with minimum casualties. Air Corps fighters, armed with rockets, would fly top-cover to stop a panzer counter attack.

I had advised him there was opposition. But it wasn’t that heavy, thus making his aerial operation unnecessary. And thus making the pontoon river crossing more efficient and practical.

I watched him as he turned around and walked back to the edge of the water, all the while talking to this colonel, his senior aide. At one time, I knew his name, but I’ve forgotten it now. Anyway, I heard him tell Patton. “This river doesn’t look too formidable, General.” I could tell he was joking. But Patton missed the point, replying in his own inimitable expletive-sprinkled vernacular: “You’re right. If that paper-hanging sonofabitch thinks he’s going to hide behind this piddlin’ drink of water, he’s badly mistaken.” All this time, his performance and remarks were being directed toward a group who had joined us near the water. Random shells were falling around us from a German unit that had moved in across the river. Patton, who knew he was being watched by fifty or so of his men, showed absolutely no fear of the shells. He stayed longer than his staff would have liked, and then drove off to check on his engineers.

As soon as the bridge was finished and the first of his units were over, he returned. He walked out on the new pontoon bridge and stared at the river a few feet below for what seemed the longest time. Then he started to walk across. When he got to the middle, he turned away from his aide and unbuttoned his cavalry trousers. He removed his appendage, while turning his head toward the group following him in Jeeps, as if he was waiting for some kind of recognition. Then he turned back toward the river and started to pee. The crowd began to cheer and applaud. Patton, ever the showman, turned his head halfway around again with a broad smile on his face. Occupied by his business, he peed for the longest time into the German Ganges; the vaunted Rhine River, the pride of the German nation. Finished, he buttoned up his pants while the cameras clicked away for the benefit of posterity. Then bowing to the photographers, he walked on across, climbed into his Jeep, and drove away to the laughter of his cheering section.

Within a few days, the bridge was completely finished. But, I might add, it was not accomplished without his combat engineers taking casualties. But it was finished. And then the remainder of Third Army crossed over this span and one other below and advanced toward the cities of Gotha and Leipzig.

I was with Patton’s G-2 Section, but attached to the Nineteenth Infantry Division for rations. Within three days, they had secured the area around the small village of Merkers.

A captain in counter-intelligence, at their command post in the nearby village of Keiselbach, had asked me to keep my eyes and ears open. He said they had heard unsubstantiated rumors from displaced persons about a potassium mine in the Merkers area. He told me: “None of them have been confirmed, but there are too many, all alike, to ignore. Hundreds of millions of dollars of stolen loot has supposedly been hidden in this mine by Hitler’s elite troops, the Waffen SS, using slave laborers to do the work.” According to him, they had moved the entire German money reserve from Berlin to this mysterious mine in the area where we were working.

I told him I would, and then put it out of my mind. There had been all kinds of rumors floating around about secret German stashes, and how the SS was going to use them in their plans to re-group in the mountains around Bavaria for a last ditch stand. General Patton had no choice but to believe them, and months earlier, he had been pushing toward Bavaria to cut them off. However, his plans had to be changed when he was ordered to divert north to relieve Bastone at the Battle of the Bulge. He figured if the SS could settle into what he referred to as redoubt fortifications, we would lose a lot of people trying to roust them out. But that was then, and this is now. Now, he had abandoned the idea as just another of Hitler’s too little, too late, pipe dreams.

About two weeks later, my men and I stopped at a hastily erected checkpoint on the road outside Merkers. Two soldiers had stopped two young French women walking from Merkers to Keiselbach. One of them was very pregnant. She looked as though she was about to deliver at any moment. Neither of the soldiers spoke French or German, so when I told them the score, they were happy to turn them over to me.

We put the mother to be in the front seat, while her sister, whose name was Françoise, rode in the back with me; Carl transferred to our second Jeep.

When we started back to Merkers, both women objected, loudly. When I told them I would take them to one of our doctors, they were elated. They had been on their way to a German midwife in Keiselbach, whom they had heard about; but they were not sure she was still there. Now, confident of qualified medical assistance, they were most interested in conversing with me in my peculiar brand of French.

I took a chance: “Have either of you heard of a potassium mine around here where the SS has hidden a lot of treasure? We know it exists, we just don’t know where.”

“Yes,” Françoise, the younger of the two, replied. “If you keep your promise, I will come back with you and show you where it is.” I could not be sure then, but I am now, that her sister Murielle gave Françoise a look of real disdain, as if a glance was meant to tell her to keep her mouth shut among these strangers.

I took them to a mobile hospital unit just setting up about five miles west of Merkers. I was hoping the doctor in charge would cooperate in this instance and consent to treat a civilian. I was fully prepared to lean on him with whatever assets I had at my disposal, but it turned out to be unnecessary. He had no choice: either he admitted her or some of his people were going to have to birth her sitting in my Jeep.

We wasted no time after the medics took over. With her sister Murielle out of the picture, Françoise was eager to take us to the mine. Furthermore, as it turned out, she had valuable information, which I was able to pass up the chain of command to General Patton.

The mine was located on the outskirts of Merkers, on the road to Keiselbach. When we arrived, the bunch of us stopped at the mine entrance and ate a package of field rations. She told us the mine had several entrances. They were all located in different towns close by. She named them for me, and I wrote them down. But I’ve forgotten them now, and I’ve lost my old notebook. However, I remembered she said this one was the main entrance. She said the tunnel in front of us led to a shaft a mile or so back in the mine.

When I asked her how she knew so much about it, she told me her pregnant sister knew an SS officer who helped move the treasure from the Reichsbank in Berlin to this mine. She also said there were other mines in the area, which she said she would show us later.

“Françoise, was this Waffen SS guy the boyfriend of your sister?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Where is he now?”

“He was transferred to the Russian front, up by Berlin, a few weeks ago, along with his unit. His name is Kurt Steinmann, in case you want to know.” She talked as though she had no great love for the SS. However, I realized Murielle was still very much in love with him; that’s why she preferred her sister keep quiet about things involving the Waffen SS.

I gave her another ration; she hadn’t seen much food in days.

“Is there anybody they left behind?” I asked her. The last thing I wanted was to run into some of Kurt’s friends who might have been left as guards.

“No, there are no soldiers. They ran away two days ago. There are some civilians though. Two I know of are officers of the Reichsbank, and another one is a curator for some valuable paintings. And there is one technician who runs the elevator. There is no one who is going to give you any trouble if we went in right now.”

“If it’s so easy to access, how come the locals haven’t carted it all away?”

“Because,” she said, “they don’t know what I just told you. They think the SS left some people behind as guards. And they do not know how to operate the elevator. Anyway, Murielle told me there is a vault with a time lock and everything.”

“Are there any lights inside?” I ask her.

“There are, but only a few are turned on. They have limited diesel oil to run the generator units. But I understand, from what my sister has told me, they do work. They do keep some of them going, because it is necessary to keep the air conditioners working. I understand a constant cool temperature is necessary to preserve the paintings.”

“Let me ask you: how come the Germans never moved the treasure when they knew we were coming?”

“They tried. They even had some of it loaded on a train headed towards Bavaria. But they found the bridge bombed out about twenty miles from here and they had to come back.”

“Cheri, did this Steinmann talk about other caches of loot down in Bavaria?” I didn’t mean anything by this term of endearment; it was just what we called Cajun girls from Lafayette to Bayou Barateria. That is, we did if they were pretty, and Françoise was pretty, in spite of being a little on the lean side.

“He did not say so in so many words, because it was highly classified. But he was gone much of the time, and she did say he had been working in the area around Bavaria.”

Françoise didn’t know much more than what she had just told me. She suggested I talk directly to her sister, whom she was sure would tell me anything she knew. Françoise felt her German officer had abandoned her sister. But as it turned out, this was not exactly the case. And as I was later to find out, Murielle was anything but eager to divulge the slightest bit of information regarding Kurt Steinmann, who was soon to become a public enemy in his own country.

The four of us drove back into the mine to the elevator she was talking about. We found it to be operational. The day before, slave laborers, supervised by bank officials, had unloaded millions of dollars worth of German currency. And just hours before, they had been in the process of carting it below. The elevator operator explained to Eric how they anticipated our arrival, and fearing us, had fled, leaving him with a ton of money. It was lying in the tunnel next to the lift, where he had just finished taking it below.

I couldn’t help but notice the state-of-the-art timbering in the tunnel. I had majored in geology at LSU, before the War caught up with me. I say state of the art; it was to the extent they had adopted the American square set method first used at the Comstock Mine in Virginia City. The Germans were noted innovators in most of the sciences of the time, but they had to take a back seat to American know-how when it came to hard rock mining.

At the operator’s suggestion, we parked our trailer and drove the Jeep on-board the huge freight elevator. Then we started the descent of two thousand feet or more into the mine proper. The rickety ride in the dark was somewhat unnerving; however, the operator assured Eric and Carl that it was perfectly safe and capable of carrying a far heavier load than was on-board now.

Eric was translating his remarks for me. I asked him to ask the operator why he was being so accommodating. He said the guy was interested in a tip, not money but food. He had been working all day and he was hungry. Then, too, he was most relieved when he realized we were not going to shoot him. He saw us as his new friends, and he was most eager to keep us this way.

We unloaded the Jeep from the elevator, and with Françoise sitting on my lap in the front seat, the gang of us drove down the tunnel to the vault.

The door looked like a bank vault. I knew nothing about vault doors, but this one looked formidable. However, it did appear to be overdone, as though it was mostly for show. It was not mounted in steel but in a wall of masonry and bricks, which appeared as though it could be circumvented in a few minutes with a good pick and a strong back.

The operator didn’t have the safe combination, and the only Reichsbank officer who did was one of those who had run off, fearing what might happen to him. I asked the operator what was behind the door. He told me there were hundreds of millions in gold, silver, platinum, coin, and more currency. I knew it had been looted from Jews and from several banks in Europe and Russia, without him having to tell me.

Then, he escorted us down a smaller tunnel to a storage area. Lining the walls for hundreds of feet were crated paintings from the Berlin museum, as well as other museums from all over Europe. The names of the painters were stenciled on each crate. Some of them were not in crates, but were standing against the wall with canvas coverings. There were dozens of French, Dutch, Flemish, Italian, and a few Russian paintings. I jotted down some of the names, in order to brief General Patton and my superiors in the intelligence unit I worked for.

We stayed below for the better part of an hour. All this time, we were talking to the operator about what was behind the door. He said it had taken days to transport the loot from the top down to the vault. He explained how much of it belonged to the Waffen SS, as well as the Schutstaffein SS. I was to learn that this latter unit was responsible for running the concentration camps.

He said that, some of the bags and boxes he handled were stenciled with the name of Melmer. Later, I was told by one of the bank officials, a guy by the name of Albert Thoms, who had also run off but who had returned, that Melmer was the name of an SS captain by the name of Bruno Melmer. It turned out the Melmer account was actually credited to a fictitious officer by the name of Hilliger. The next day, Thoms told me Hilliger was a code name for Heinrich Himmler, head of the Gestapo, the Schutstaffein, and the Waffen SS.

The other two officers of the Reichsbank could be made available to answer any more of my questions, according to the operator. They were knowledgeable of the contents, but didn’t have the combination to the vault, he said.

“Where are these people now?” Eric asked him.

“They were here earlier, but they left by another entrance when they saw you coming. I am sure they will come back if you promise not to shoot them or put them in jail.”

I told him and Eric translated: “You get in touch with these people and have them standing by in the morning. I want them to be here and available every day to answer any questions. And you, and all the others, who have had anything to do with this treasure, should be here as well. You tell them I am taking possession of this mine, and everything in it, in the name of the American Army. You work for us now and not the bank of Germany.”

He was not the least bit surprised. He told Eric they were hoping we would get here first, and relieve them of the treasure before the Russians did. He said they knew the Russians would be incensed by the outrage since some of the loot was Russian. This was especially true of their masterpieces. They fully expected the Russians to shoot them on the spot as criminals. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised.

 

I went back to Keiselbach and briefed my superior, Lt. Col. Russell, and the officer I had spoken to who was with counter-intelligence. They, in turn, contacted Gen. Earnest, the Nineteenth commander, who passed it on to Gen. Manson Eddy. Eddy wasted no time in calling General Patton to tell him the treasure had been located.

Patton was reluctant to advise Eisenhower, until he heard it was me who had first seen the vault and the hoard of currency stacked in the tunnel. Eddy told him what the elevator operator had told me, but it was the truckloads of currency that convinced him. Patton had recently been worked over by the press on this subject and he was gun shy. He wanted to be absolutely sure before he said anything to Eisenhower about something as sensational as this. I can’t say as I blamed him. He told Eddy to keep it quiet, and to blow the vault and then to get back to him.

In the meantime, Earnest took action to move several units of infantry to the mine entrance, supported by tanks and anti-aircraft guns. When I told him where the other entrances were, he deployed combat units to guard them as well.

My men and I were on site to translate and answer any questions when Generals Eddy and Earnest, accompanied by Col. Russell, arrived with some combat engineers. They estimated it would take only a half stick of dynamite to blow the vault wall.

The group of us wasted no time entering what came to be known as Room Eight.

There were lights in the room, which one of the bank officials turned on for us, but there was no ventilation. The room was huge. Stacked in neat rows, about three feet high the length of the room, were bags of gold and silver bars. As the group of us wandered between the bags and boxes of loot, we noticed several of them were unsealed. It was explained why: these bags had been opened for inventory and had not been resealed.

General Earnest was quick to see the obvious: unsealed bags, particularly of such things as valuable coins and diamonds, could be easily pilfered. He directed me to stay on site to prevent this from happening. Although infantry cordoned off the entrances, it still didn’t guarantee the security of the cache from everybody, including the elevator operator or the officials of the bank, now that accountability was no longer their business.

In the meantime, Patton had asked Eisenhower to get his finance people involved. He wanted to be about the War; he didn’t want the responsibility for the treasure.

Eisenhower appointed a Colonel Bernstein, head of the European Finance Department of the Army to take charge.

The next day, Eisenhower, Bradley, and Patton flew over from Patton’s headquarters at Hersfeld. Bernstein, and a brigadier by the name of Weyland from the Air Corps, had arrived earlier and were on site to greet them.

When Patton saw me at the elevator shaft with Carl and Eric, he returned my salute, and then told me to stay close to answer any questions he might want translated with the bank officials.

We accompanied them down the shaft. As I said, the trip down was long and unnerving, helped a little bit by a flashlight Bernstein had thought to bring along.

As it turned out, I would get to know Bernstein well. I would come to recognize his many attributes as an administrator, but not as a soldier. He had been commissioned a colonel directly from civilian life, and he was void of any knowledge of even the basic fundamentals of soldiering.

The rickety elevator had been operating only a few minutes when Patton thought he should break the silence with some conversation. I guess he figured it would relieve the tension, which was being felt by everybody. He said: “Ike, do you believe this rig is supported by only one small cable?” Then he directed his next faux pas at Bradley. “Brad, wouldn’t promotions in the United States Army be considerably stimulated if that cable busted?”

Eisenhower, who was standing next to me, was fidgeting, and he didn’t think Patton was being very funny. He turned to him saying, “Okay, George, no more cracks until we’re above ground again.”

A few minutes later, Patton again interrupted the silence by introducing me to the other three generals as the officer who discovered the treasure.

Then Bradley said to Patton: “George, have you any idea how rich you and the captain here would be if this were the old free-booting days?” He went on for the next few minutes explaining the military and historical traditions of dividing conquered spoils. That evening at dinner, Eisenhower asked Patton what he would really do if he turned most of the loot over to him, as they would have in ancient times when every soldier had a vested interest in the captured spoils. Eisenhower had heard Patton’s discourses on how he believed in reincarnation, and how he believed he had served at various times in the Roman Legions.

Patton was reported to have told him: “The first thing I would do is melt down the gold. And then I would strike medallions and give one to every sonofabitch in Third Army. The alternative would be to bury it, then when times got tough, like they used to be, I would dig it up and buy some modern tanks with it.”

Eisenhower turned to Bradley and said: “See I told you, he has an answer for everything.”

Before they left, Patton called me aside. “Leave your men here, but accompany me topside. I want to talk to you before I go.”

An hour later, he found the time and the occasion to pass on what he had on his mind. He chose to speak in French, in case he was overheard. “Get below. Stay close to that stuff. I mean camp next to it for a couple of days. I don’t know this Bernstein from Adam’s house cat. What I do know is, I am responsible for it all and I don’t like it. They are my troops who are guarding this place, and we don’t know how much is even in there. If the word gets around some of it is missing, the press is going to fry my butt. Things are in a state of flux right now. I’ll send down your trailers, and see you are relieved in a couple of days. Until Bernstein gets things organized and decides where he’s going to put it, keep everybody the hell away from the vault, except him and your bosses. I’ll clear it with them and advise Bernstein.”

I never bothered to tell him that I had already been ordered to do that exact same thing.

The trailers carried our rations and sleeping bags. We were pleasantly surprised to find Patton had added some good wine, cheese, and bratwurst. And that’s how come Carl and Eric and I, along with three others from my first squad, ended up babysitting the treasure.

 

The first night underground, Eric and Carl stayed with me by the vault. The other guys were posted down the tunnel, where they could stop anybody coming down the elevator or from coming through the tunnel by way of the other entrances. They had erected a barricade with the other Jeep and trailer and a heavy Browning automatic rifle.

We had left the light on in Room Eight, behind the blown-out wall. There was plenty of light coming from the hole in the vault to see what we were doing. We found some wood and lit a fire to heat some coffee and cook the bratwurst. We sat around talking, discussing what Bradley had said about the spoils of war belonging to the conquering troops. We had also discussed what Patton had said about spoils being the legacy of the Roman Legionnaire, and countless other professional soldiers in former times. It had always been understood by their progenitors that the reason they were fighting was to inherit most of the treasure they captured from the enemy. This was part of the contract a Legionnaire made with the emperor and the Roman Senate when he volunteered and put his life on the line.

“Captain, did you see all the money stacked in the tunnel. Do you suppose it’s going to be worth anything when this is all over?” Carl was making conversation to pass the time. It was early and not yet time to hit the sack.

“Are you planning on swiping some?” I said. “If you are, you’re going to have to carry a Jeep full to buy a cup of coffee.”

“Do you think it’s going to be that worthless?”

“I think it’s going to be about like German money was after the First War or Confederate money was after you carpet-bagging Yankees got through with us a few years back.” My chiding remark was leveled at Carl, who was from Minnesota.

“You know, as much as they hate giving it back, any one of those generals would court-martial our collective butts if we were to pocket as much as one mark of that worthless money.” I told them.

“Captain, who’s going to get back all the gold?” Carl asked.

“Yeah, and who’s going to get back all the teeth?” Eric asked me, rhetorically, with disgust in his voice. “Did you see those open sacks in the back against the wall.” We had heard about a crematorium the Russians had run into soon after they entered Poland.

“Those gold teeth and those separate bags of gold fillings and inlays belonged to those poor bastards they burnt up. Are they going to give them back to them? And what about all those personal items like those sacks full of gold cigarette cases, lighters, jewelry, and other things. And what about the sack of diamonds? Where do you think the diamonds came from, the ones stenciled Melmer?” Carl asked me.

“I never saw any diamonds,” I said.

Carl replied: “There was an open sack of them. Where do you think they came from? And there was a sack of what looked like American gold coins. I have never seen anything like them. They were stamped twenty dollars on the face. Why do you suppose the Germans would be hording coins only worth twenty dollars? Do you suppose, Captain, they’re collectors’ items and worth a lot more?”

Eric ignored the subject of gold coins and gave Carl his opinion about where the diamonds came from. “They were looted from Jewish jewelry. The jewelry must have been taken from their homes or confiscated from their personal belongings before they murdered them.”

They were both getting worked up talking about it. And to see the physical evidence in sacks a few yards away didn’t help much.

“Which one of you saw a bag of Melmer diamonds?”

“We both did. It said 10 kg. on the bag. How much is a kg. anyway, Captain?” Carl asked.

“It’s a kilogram, and it’s equivalent to a little more than two pounds. That means the sack weighs 22 pounds,” I answered.

“How much do you think a pound of diamonds is worth?” Carl asked me.

“I have no idea. I guess it depends on their size and quality. How big are they, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Did you see them close-up, Eric?” Carl asked him.

“Yes, I shined my flashlight inside, and I can tell you they’re huge. They’re twice as large as any engagement ring I ever saw.”

“How big is that?” Carl wanted to know.

“I guess the biggest was on Mary Kitchen’s finger. Her husband owned some oil wells over Huston way. I heard it was more than two carats. These are bigger, some of them could be as large as five, maybe six carats. I mean they’re gigantic.”

“Can we go take a look, just for something to do?” Carl asked me.

I should have shut the conversation down right then but I didn’t. I was as eager to see them as they were. And furthermore, I knew I was going to help liberate them. They were our legacy, just as the general had said. They were ours; the American people owed us them. The system had changed, and not for the better–now, all you got for fighting for your country was a small monthly salary; it was hardly enough to buy more than some tobacco and a few beers. We rationalized we were the rightful owners, since they were never going to find their way back to the Jewish people. And the idea of them unlawfully enriching some wealthy German woman’s finger or a do-dad around her neck, after what had happened, almost made us sick.

I knew what we were about to do was against the law. But then against whose law–military law? It must have been new military law, because it certainly wasn’t against old law–General Bradley had said as much.

But, whatever, I knew taking them was wrong and I didn’t care. Anyway, like the millions of times I had committed a sin–I knew I was going to do it before I ever did. There was some wrestling went on with my conscience at the outset. But I knew my conscience was outmatched and that eventually I was going to win. It was something akin to the thoughts coming over me awhile ago, when Françoise was sitting on my lap.

“How much did that Kitchen broad’s ring cost?” Carl asked Eric.

“I can’t remember, exactly. But something like two thousand rings a bell. And that was ten years ago.”

“Wholly, Jeez!” Carl retorted.

“How many double handfuls do you think is there,” Carl asked him.

Eric answered: “There has to be at least five, six, or maybe more. So conservatively, what do you think a double handful is worth, Captain?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “Your guess is as good as mine. It’s like those promotional contests you used to see. They would put a large bottle full of beans in a store window for a month. And every five bucks you spent you got a chance at a guess. The winner won fifty bucks. But remember, during the Depression, a man worked a lot of hours for fifty dollars.”

“Captain, do you know anything about diamonds?” Carl asked me.

“I know a little about how they’re formed, but not too much about how they’re marketed. I do know they hold their value. But the big diamond merchants control the price, so they don’t fluctuate very much. Their price usually rises with the rate of inflation.”

“How much more is say a three carat than a two?” Eric wanted to know.

“Well, it’s a lot more than you might expect. They’re priced by the carat, which rises almost geometrically. However, three-carat diamonds are a rarity.”

“What does that mean exactly?” he wanted to know.

I answered him by saying: “Well, say a one carat is 300 dollars, then a two would be nine multiplied by two or 1,800 bucks. Then a three would be over 2,400. But a four would be astronomical, maybe as much as 26,000 dollars. You can see as the progression moves upward, the value of a carat goes up rapidly.

“I’m going to take a wild guess, though, and say at about 20,000 a stone, a level double handful of clear cut diamonds is conservatively worth over three million dollars. If there’s six doubles, then the bag is worth about eighteen million. But then we have to divide that by three. And don’t forget the fence that would want a double share; so we have five into that gives us roughly three million each, give or take.

“I read the other day in the Stars and Stripes where they’re planning to build a lot of homes for returning veterans in the San Fernando Valley, where everybody is never going to more roam and make the San Fernando Valley their home. The paper said they should run around 10,000 each. To put it into perspective, your share would be worth about 300 of those new homes.”

We all had a chuckle, and one of us commented about how crowded it was going to be if everybody who was humming that tune was moving to the San Fernando Valley when the War was over. And how we didn’t expect houses or diamonds to stay at that price for long.

“What are the guys down the tunnel going to get if we own all that real estate?” Carl wondered out loud.

“To tell you the truth, they’re replacements, and I never thought about them. And anyway, one or more of them might squeal and get us all a stint in Leavenworth,” Eric said, and we both nodded in agreement.

One of the problems in the combat infantry is the business of friendships. In the beginning, in training, individuals began liking each other. Later on, they became closer than family. When some of them were killed, the rest of us were never able to forget. We didn’t want to add to their number; none of us could mentally stand the strain. It was about the time of the battle of the Falaise Pocket, when we decided we didn’t want any more friends. That’s when we started treating replacements badly. They were not part of our primary group. We didn’t want to get close to them; it hurt too much when they died. I rarely spoke to mine; I relied on the ranking sergeant to deal with them. Not once did I ask where they were from–I was cold and distant, and they resented me.

Our platoon was never to be the family it was when we first started out. At the Mosell River Crossing and the Bulge and in between, we had taken twenty-five percent casualties, of whom some had been replacements. The four down the tunnel had joined us after the Bulge. They never knew what it was like to be seriously shelled. They had never even fired their rifles. They were not veterans; they were little more than civilians, and that’s how we thought of them. It wasn’t their fault; it was just the way things were. The way we figured it, they were not entitled to a share.