Chapter 20

Konigessee, April 1945

 

 

The Konigssee is about four miles from Berchtesgaden. It’s similar to hundreds of other alpine lakes in Europe, as well as other glaciated lakes in the world. They all began with huge masses of ice forming on granite mountaintops. The ice gouged out glacial cirques of dirt and rock before pushing down the mountainsides. Over millions of years, it ground away, cutting U-shaped valleys, striating, polishing, and slickensiding canyon walls. On the sides, it excavated and then deposited lateral moraines and then terminal moraines as it slowly melted and receded. Huge chunks were chipped and broken off as the ice advanced. These huge erratics were dropped helter-skelter as it melted; and the deep bowls at the terminus eventually filled to form large lakes.

Not only is the Konigssee close by Hitler’s lair, but it’s the deepest of the European glacial lakes. Only a very serious diver would stand a chance at the bottom in the numbing cold. Viewed from the top of the Kelstien, it appears to be what it is: beautiful, but foreboding, unforgiving, and dangerous beneath the surface. So dangerous is it that authorities banned diving there and in other glacial lakes soon after the War. However, this was no guarantee some foolhardy souls have not sought fortunes in SS gold rumored to be lurking below. But regardless, no such danger will deter the SS when the time comes to retrieve their life’s blood.

Before Hitler, the road to the Konigssee was unimproved. It had little traffic and only an occasional tourist. But included in the Bormann laid-on construction projects of the Thirties, the road to the lake was widened and surfaced. It made it so much more convenient for the Fuhrer if he evidenced a desire to visit. However, Hitler was not one for picnicking or boating or the like. Having done it once or twice, he gave it up, and the road continued to be infrequently used through the War years.

 

Ralph came for us late this afternoon. He explained the role we were to play in the gold-loading detail. Then, he told us he had taped two Lugers under the back seat of a small bus we would be using. He told us to feel them out and then re-tape them to our legs when we had the chance. He told us there would be ten of Bormann’s laborers, who would help us load the gold into two trucks and then accompany us to the lake.

Following the loading, we boarded this small bus having a rear mounted, air cooled engine. The engine resembles those you see on most of their small autos, something like those you see on small airplanes.

Ralph supervised the bus loading under the watchful eyes of an SS officer. He makes sure that Eric and I are the first to board. Crouching low in the small entranceway, we step up and shuffle back to the rear seat. We sit down facing forward. The officer is outside as the other passengers fill the aisle. He can’t see either of us. I take this opportunity to run my hand under the seat, expecting to feel the weapon. I can’t feel anything. It’s like an electric shock, this non-feel. I almost faint dead away. I stare at Eric in disbelief. He stares back. There’s not one under his seat either. We sit looking at each other, dumbfounded. I look at Eric who looks as though he wants to vomit.

I see now why Ralph didn’t bring more laborers; the bus has only twelve seats. One of the three officers involved climbed aboard; he sat on a small pull-down facing us while Ralph took position behind the wheel. This officer was armed with a machine gun and a detached expression. He has a cold, lifeless stare, resembling a shark poised for the attack. This is my first up-close look at the SS. He has my attention. I’m intimidated, to say the least.

As expected, they are going to take every precaution to prevent anybody from escaping. The only exit is the entrance behind him, and he hasn’t taken his eyes from us in the fading light. For some reason, I thought he was staring at Eric and me. It’s as though he knows us or suspects we are not who we are supposed to be. The barrel of his weapon was pointed straight at me, and I know I’m going to be the first to be shot if any prisoner tries escaping. I hope no one has any such plan. Ralph says they don’t. He says they were picked at random at the last minute to prevent just such an occurrence. He says they have seen each other before, but that it’s not likely they know each other. He says they are not organized. He tells me when the time comes, they will all just break and run and hope they can make it to the trees. I hope he’s right. If they rush the officer while we’re still in the bus, it will result in a massacre. Ralph assures me that we are not to worry. He’s told me this over and over again. He says they’re smart enough not to pull such a stunt. Later maybe, but not on the bus. Somehow, nothing he has said is very reassuring or of much help now.

The Commandant and his deputy, as expected, are driving the two trucks. They also have machine guns similar to the British Sten and our Thompson. This term “machine gun,” however, is a misnomer. We learned in infantry school about how Hitler insisted on an assault rifle for his troops that was accurate to two hundred yards. The model these officers are carrying is the one they came up with. Hitler didn’t like it because it didn’t meet his specifications. But both the army and the Waffen SS needed it desperately, and there was no time for a major redesign–so the armaments minister went ahead with its manufacture and distribution, risking court martial. Thinking he could fool Hitler, he called it a machine pistol. At a conference on the Eastern Front, several of Hitler’s generals bragged about the weapon and then asked the Fuhrer when they could get some more. Hitler was furious, but there was nothing he could do. But from that time on it was known as the MG 42 Assault Rifle.

This third officer, according to Ralph, was supposed to guard the bus from the rear of the second truck. But at the last minute, he boards the bus instead–facing us in the lengthening shadows.

Darkness comes fast in the Alps. I guess this isn’t news to anybody whose ever lived in the mountains. I come from bayou country, where dusk seems to go on forever, especially in the summer months. But in the mountains of Austria, I have been amazed at how rapidly darkness approaches; one minute it’s light and the next you are stumbling about wondering what happened. In our case, I expected the sun to set rapidly behind a mountain on our right and put us in the dark before we reached the lake.

I think the SS officer in charge planned it this way. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. He obviously wants to arrive immediately after dark. This is certainly apropos. What they are about tonight is Devil’s work. Mass killing of innocents is Devil’s work. I think we all agree it needs take place in the dark, maybe the darker the better.

I can see it in their eyes, these prisoners. They are not exactly afraid, but tense, wary, and alert. They are wearing the same expressions I imagine gladiators wore who were picked for the arena. The officer, like Caesar, has the power of life or death over them. And like Caesar, he’ll show them no mercy. And they know it’s going to happen just as soon as the gold is loaded in the boats. They have been told we are headed for the lake and why we are going there.

They also know, that like the arena, death is not a forgone conclusion. It’s going to be pitch black before the moon rises and once on the ground and spread out they will have an opportunity to break for the forest. Maybe all of them won’t survive, but then each of them is an optimist–each of them is a positive thinker they have had to be in order to have stayed alive this long. They survived when hundreds succumbed to hardships and to the hazards involved with cutting a road to the top of the Kelstien. They have beaten the odds before, many times and, according to Ralph, those who don’t believe in luck have come to think of themselves as blessed in some way.

Martin Bormann decided to build his Fuhrer a pompous nest on the very top of the Kelstien peak, as a surprise gift for his 49th birthday. Without prior approval, he squandered millions of marks and hundreds of lives in accomplishing what the world later saw as a manifestation of his dementia. All the more so when it was discovered Hitler hated heights. He never stayed overnight in his grandiose tree house, and it was seldom used as a gathering place for visiting dignitaries, as Bormann had intended. However, it did serve to impress prominent guests with the ingenuity and daring of German engineering. For this reason, Hitler thanked him. It stands today as another monument to some men’s utter disregard for human life and for some men’s disregard for the suffering of other men.

In order to accomplish this Herculean task by the appointed date, Bormann drove his slaves relentlessly, without regard for their health or safety. And in spite of the hell he put them through, some of them survived.

These men sitting beside me now are some of the remainders; they are survivors of Bormann’s idiocy. They are tough; they are like gladiators. None of them will chicken out, panic, and get me shot. At least that’s Ralph’s opinion.

Ralph says the prisoners figure if they can get away tonight they are going to be free at last. One of them told him that he didn’t believe the SS was going to let any of them go home to tell of the atrocities they had witnessed. He told him they consider themselves fortunate to be assigned to this detail; it gives them a last clear chance to escape. This prisoner believes the SS will leave in the morning. But before they go, he thinks they are going to machinegun everybody. They don’t intend leaving anybody alive.

True, heretofore, there has been no firing squads or gassings; no violence of any kind has occurred on the Obersalzberg near the Berghof. This is in keeping with Hitler’s wishes. This is his home. This is his haven, a place of peace, relaxation, and meditation. But behind all this tranquility, and not too far away, slave laborers have been systematically worked to death by their SS overseers. None were spared the rigors and hazards of the mountain road or working on the eagle’s nest thousands of feet above the valley floor. Ralph says, at the lake, the prisoners will be looking forward to taking the ultimate revenge on their tormentors if the opportunity presents itself. My question is: How do they really feel toward Ralph? And who do they believe we are? And how are they going to treat us when the violence does break out? Will they see us as friends or foe; might they not believe we are SS plants to keep them in line; or will they not care who we are and just shoot us if they get their hands on one of the machine guns? One way or another, one side or the other is going to shoot us–and it isn’t going to be too much longer before it happens.

I guess I knew it all along. But now as we come closer to the lake, it becomes more apparent that we are in this for keeps. We are among desperate men who realize the War will finally end in a few days. They have somehow survived. And I know they will take no unnecessary chances. They are going to kill us along with the officers if they get the chance. I see it as a very definite possibility.

To tell you the truth, up until now, Eric and I have been treating this assignment as some kind of youthful adventure. And like sugar plum dreams, it has been made more enjoyable by visions of gold dancing in our heads. And of course, we are going to make some kind of miraculous escape, the way they used to do it in the old Saturday matinee serials. Oddlie explained it all, making it sound so simple. Until now, I believed him. It has been a lark; it has never crossed our minds that somebody might actually shoot us. But now, as I look at this blond Adonis with the lightening bolts on his collar and the death’s head embroidered on his sleeve and cap, I have to fight myself to retain my composure. I’m becoming scared. Before I was apprehensive; now I’m just plain scared. I want to get out of here. I want to get back to General Patton without delay. I want to tell him where the gold is located and be done with it. I want him to send professional deep-sea divers back if he really wants the gold as bad as Oddlie says he does. I just want to scram out of here and take Eric with me. We have the diamonds, the three of us do. Somebody else can have this gold. I don’t care. I glanced at Eric, who gives me a look that says he feels the same way. The fun and games are over. We are not survivors the way they are. We aren’t gladiators or anything of the kind.

Eric still looks sick. Now I feel as though I want to join him–I mean, join him throwing up on the floor.

 

We have been en route about ten minutes. Slowly, down past the Berghof and down to the crossroad, the overloaded trucks are creeping, carrying more than twice their designed capacity. The two officers driving are guarding against burning out clutches and overheating brakes.

To the right is Berchtesgaden and the road to Salzburg. We take the one to the left. It will make a sweeping turn and head due south. Then, according to Ralph, who gave us a thorough briefing among the boxes yesterday afternoon, it’s about two more kilometers to the Konigssee.

Ralph was at the lake last week. They sent him to scout the area for the most practical place to load the boats. He told me he towed ten of them down from an upper boat rental, with another one having a large outboard motor. He said the boats were also large with a flat bottom and made of light aluminum. He was afraid ten might not be enough. I went over the figures with him, doing some calculations on the side of a box, and then assured him he was all right. The boats only require a few inches of freeboard, and they only plan on moving out in the lake a few hundred yards. But the important thing to remember, I told him, was the appearance that the project was workable. In case one of the officers takes it in his head to check Ralph’s calculations, the plan must be realistic. Whether or not it will actually work, and the boats will actually float, is not the issue. Things are never going to get that far–at least we hope they are not.

He chose a shallow beach as the loading site. It looks back on a forest about fifty yards from the water. The beach, being formed of glacial till, is covered with odd-sized polished stones, making it difficult to walk along or too rough for lying about sunbathing.

The water is supposed to be the purest of any of the lakes. He says, you can drink from it just the way it is. It’s supposed to be emerald green and more pure than tap water. They apparently don’t have to post swimming verboten signs, because it’s too cold. Even during the hottest of summer days, it’s much too uncomfortable on the surface; a few feet below, it’s numbing to the senses.

He has put some thought into how we are going to load the boats without having to stand in the water very long. You can be sure the SS doesn’t care whether we freeze our legs and feet, just as long as we are able to walk.

He has inter-connected the boats with their mooring chains and strung them together parallel with the shoreline. They will each be loaded with something near 2,000 pounds. When they are ready to go, the first one in line will be hooked to the motorboat. The plan is for the laborers to push each loaded boat into about two feet or so of water, and then the motorboat, with the help of the laborers, will slowly tow first one and then the other off the graveled bottom. Two of the officers are going to be in the motorboat. The one who accompanied us in the bus is staying with the prisoners. When they arrive at the drop-off point, they will punch a small hole in the bottom of each boat. Hooked together, they will all slowly sink at the same rate to the bottom. The gold should remain in each boat for easy retrieval.

Ralph fixed a three-hundred-meter line to a large erratic at the water’s edge. Then, he oared out into the lake with the other end, which he fixed to a homemade reflecting marker buoy. He then took a compass bearing on a small flag attached to the buoy. He chiseled both the distance and the direction from the erratic into the stone. There’ll be no problem finding the exact dumping spot tonight. And anybody coming back from Argentina can easily find the location, as long as he’s able to interpret the figures carved in the rock. Of course, Ralph knows the code, as do the three officers. I don’t much like the scheme. I think it will put Ralph’s life in jeopardy, even more so than it has already. Why would he be privy to the coordinates of the dumpsite, unless they plan to shoot him? Does the Commandant like him enough to have really made him one of them?

Obviously, the plan is for the officer to shoot them after the gold is loaded and the boats start moving into deep water. Incidentally, I keep saying them when I really mean us. We are them. We have been told what they have been told. And what happens to them will now happen to us. It wasn’t planned this way. And it wasn’t going to happen this way–that’s before somebody confiscated the pistols under the seat–now Eric and I are about to join them in the coliseum. We are about to become part of the Sunday games. Without the pistols, we are defenseless–we are reduced to running through the trees with the rest of them–and so is Ralph.

There’s no doubt Ralph attended last night’s festivities. That means he’s somewhere inside the SS. I should say was, because of what has happened. He could be in the organization as a kind of honorary member. But I think he purposely has misled me as to how valuable he is to them. I don’t think his job is as innocuous as he’s made it out to be. It’s not likely he will tell us the truth. But, whatever, it’s all off now. They know he put the Lugers under the seat. And of course it writes fini to any further association he has with them. He’s going to be done away with the same as the rest of us, although he doesn’t know it yet. If I can make eye contact with him in the mirror, I intend telling him about the non-Lugers, although, I don’t know what good it will do.

To prevent a mutiny and a mass bug-out, resulting in the shooting of most of the labor force before the job is finished, the prisoners received a briefing before they boarded the bus. They were told if they did this one job they would be transported back to the compound. Then when the SS takes off in the morning, they will be allowed to go home. They were told the SS doesn’t care if they know the gold is in the lake, since they have no idea where it’s going to be dumped. The SS wants them to know that they don’t enjoy killing people for no reason. And the way they have it worked out, there’s no longer a reason. Everybody will return tonight and tomorrow everybody’s going home. The War’s over, and everybody should be happy. So, they can all relax and get on with the job. But according to the radio operator, Hitler’s not interested in any fair play for prisoners. He’s ordered the Commandant to execute all non-SS witnesses. He doesn’t want to chance the gold later falling into unauthorized hands. But the fact the operator told Ralph, makes me wonder all the more if Ralph is one of them.

We’ve been told to keep our eyes straight to the front with our hands resting on our legs. I wait until I see the officer’s eyes distracted and then look up to acquire the mirror. Ralph is glancing back at me, trying to get my attention. I check with our guard again, and then make an everything has come unglued face. A minute later, I imitate a pistol with my index finger, mimicking a gun barrel. Then I slowly move my head in the negative sign. Ralph catches on, and joins the two of us in being scared to death. He understands completely. He realizes we are up the creek. We have no defense. We’re in a world of hurt. We’re trapped like animals being led to the slaughter, and there’s little or nothing we’re going to be able to do about it now.

We are moving at a snail’s pace behind the rear truck. All we can hear is the whine of the air-cooled engine behind us, working overtime. What Ralph has in mind if anything is unknown to the two of us? The prisoners plans are obvious. In spite of what happens, they’re going to break and run the first chance they get. But if we’re going to secure the gold and then do away with the SS, as we have been instructed to do, we must get hold of a weapon. This is the first order of business. But one follows the other. If we can get a gun, then we can escape unhurt and take the poor prisoners with us. To save all these lives is worth any reasonable gamble, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not going to have a chance to ask Eric how he feels about it. However, I think Ralph is game for most anything. But the two of us have no idea what Ralph intends to do.

A few minutes later, it is suddenly dark. The headlights are still off, and apparently they will remain so. There’s not even a shadow of the truck in front of us. However, we must not be very close, because the officer is gesturing with his rifle barrel and yelling words I can’t understand. But I take it; he wants Ralph to keep it closed up. At least that’s what I think he wants. But he could be yelling just to have something to do, because he has no idea how far we are lagging behind, if we are.

But we are really moving slowly now. We make a turn off to the left on a diagonal. The road becomes unimproved, twisting, and rough. I assume we are getting close to the edge of the lake, but I have no way of knowing. The officer stands up, holding onto the support pole across from Ralph. He turns and looks out the windshield. He’s checking to see how close we are to the back of the truck, and he wants to know how close we are to the water. It might be just curiosity, although, I hear him yell something to Ralph again. He turns around with his assault rifle slung over his shoulder with his finger on the trigger. I know the safety is off and the slightest misstep on our part will cause him to unleash a full magazine in one gigantic spray. We’ll all be hit. It will be as though he has a garden hose he has decided to turn on us. The chance of not being hit by at least one bullet is about the same as not being hit by at least one drop of water.

Then all of a sudden Ralph completely ignores the officer. He shifts into a lower gear and guns the engine. The bus jumps as though it has been prodded from behind. It begins to accelerate. The SS officer doesn’t panic. I watch spellbound, mesmerized, in a kind of trance, as he yells even louder in Ralph’s ear. Ralph stares straight ahead paying no attention, all the time leaning forward in his seat as if to urge the underpowered bus to go faster. I feel the vehicle make a sharp turn to the left and back again. I suspect we just passed the two lumbering trucks, and still we are slowly accelerating. The officer swings the barrel of his weapon, catching Ralph in the back of the head. I know it must hurt, but still he keeps the gas pedal pressed to the floor. Within seconds, we crash into what I later determine is the large erratic with the chiseled location code. The boulder is misshapen and huge, at least twice the size of the bus, and buried deep in the ground like an iceberg.

The two of us are thrown from our seats, sprawling on the floor on top of each other. The German has been catapulted back against the windshield. And then, as if clutched by a giant hand, he’s violently turned upside down in the doorwell.

Ralph opens the door. The officer rolls out, sprawling onto the rocks face down, unconscious. Ralph yells out something. It’s meaningless to me but not to them. His voice is the sound of a clarion. It sounds like a chorus of all the angels in heaven to the poor sacrificial prisoners; it’s something like Gabriel’s horn on judgment day. They realize they have been resurrected. They shake off the shock of the sudden stop. Giving out with shouts of joy, they bolt for the door, falling over each other and us in a frenzy. They realize they have only seconds before the officers alight from the nearby trucks and turn their guns on the bus.

Ralph was the first out. He pulls the machine rifle from around the unconscious officer’s neck, just as the truck lights go on. Ralph lets go a short burst, calculated to make the two officers stay in the trucks until the last of the prisoners reach the nearby pines. I get up from the floor with scraped and bruised hands and knees and a nasty bump on my head. I’m off the bus just in time to see the last of them running on the rocky beach, stumbling, falling, half crawling, disappearing from the headlights into the pines.

The truck lights are still pointed towards the bus. Eric and I are both headed for the trees behind the prisoners, when I see one of the officers charging towards Ralph. All of a sudden, a single high-powered rifle shot rings out and the Commandant falls forward face down in the gravel. The second officer quickly follows, as he is also ripped apart by what I later conclude is a hollow-nosed sporting shell. Somebody has been waiting in the trees close by. Using a flashlight taped to a barrel and a telescopic sight, he has killed them both, as though they were two helpless deer caught in his headlights along a forest road.

Ralph lets go with half a clip in the direction of the trees. He’s shooting high so as not to hit anybody, but he wants whoever is there to stay back. It’s an unbelievable scene. It’s as though it has all been choreographed, as though it were a stage play. But I know it hasn’t. I know it’s all very real.

I hear a rustle in the trees; somebody clumsy and heavy falls next to me in the dark trying to get away from Ralph and his machine gun.

My first thought is Goering. It’s Goering the hunter–Goering the outdoorsman–with some of his loyal lieutenants. I think this guy looks like Goering ought to look. And who else knew the gold was going to be unloaded tonight?

I jump up running, losing my footing a few yards down the side of the moraine. I fall, hitting my head against a large tree. I quickly jump up again, as a rifle bullet tears into another tree beside me. Lying in the mud in pain, I struggle to crawl into some underbrush, knowing that, whoever they are, they are looking for me. They intend to come back and hijack the gold. But they have to run off everybody before they can. And they can’t take a chance they have been seen and identified. Clearly, they have become disorganized; they didn’t count on this happening.

True, they intended to kill the officers and spook the others. Then they were going to have a clean hand to drive away in the trucks. But Ralph shooting off some limbs above their heads has changed everything.

Another burst from Ralph’s assault rifle, and more slugs can be heard ripping into thick forestry. Another of the shooters runs past me, falling in the undergrowth. He’s hesitant to turn on his flashlight for fear Ralph will see him and turn his weapon in his direction.

A crazy thought runs through my mind as I lie panting, mud covered, bruised, skinned, and nearly at my wits end. This gunfire is being directed at the assassins in a very professional manner. It’s as though he, presuming it is Ralph, doesn’t want to hit anybody; he just wants to scare the daylights out of them. Whoever is firing has been trained in its use. And I’m sure it’s not Eric; it has to be Ralph–but how come…it makes no sense. I’m thinking about how the SS could have trained him as I faint dead away. The tree and the bus have finally taken their toll on my head, as though I had been injected with a delayed anesthetic. Whatever happened, happened all of a sudden; because the night became even blacker than it was.

It seemed as though it was an eternity, but it must have been only minutes, when I see a bright light shinning in my eyes. A voice I recognize as Ralph’s, is yelling to Eric, “Kommen sie, he’s over here.”

But even as I gain consciousness, the thought still swirls around in my brain–a civilian like Ralph Wahl doesn’t know how to use a sub-machine gun. And who were the people shooting the rifles? And why did I think Goering? Why not Walter Reinicke? But what makes me think it’s either of them? Why not some perfect stranger from the town who knows what’s going on? It could be anybody.

 

The first thing I do after they help me back to the lakeshore is to strip off my blue denim work shirt. Leaning over in the cold water, I cup my hands and drink deep of the most refreshing liquid I have ever tasted. I’m perspiring, suffering from some kind of shock. The tension of the last two hours is suddenly drained from me, leaving me with a tremendous thirst. Satisfied, I stand up and look around at the bodies a few yards away. I’m woozy on my feet, and kneel down again to soak my head. Both my friends are looking at me. I get the idea they are worried I have a concussion and maybe I do. But I’m at a loss to tell whether it’s from the blow to my head in the bus or from the tree.

Eric is the first to ask me if I’m all right. He obviously wants my attention; he wants to discuss something important.

“Captain, can you come over here a minute.” He and Ralph have procured flashlights from someplace. I recall being more interested in where they got them than anything he has to tell me. He wants to show me something. He wants to discuss the body of the officer who was guarding us in the bus.

“Come here and look at this guy.” I didn’t answer but dried my face and chest off as best I could with my hands, while shaking the loose mud from my shirt. I walk over to where he’s standing, pointing. Ralph has taken up a position with the assault rifle behind the fender of one of the trucks, in case somebody decides to return. We know they will; we just don’t know how far they’re going to run in the dark before they come back for the gold. Nobody is going to give up that easily.

“What’s up?” I hear myself say.

“This one’s alive.”

“How about the others.”

“They’ve run off with the Valkyrie to join Odin in Valhalla.” Eric’s effort at gallows humor.

I go over to look at him. He’s definitely alive, but appears to be paralyzed from the waist down. I ask him if he can move his feet; he just stares at me.

“How about your hands?” Still no answer.

“Look, Fritz,” I said, “if you want our help, you’d better shape up.” Eric translated.

He just stares with a haughty expression of the vanquished warrior who knows his time has come and whose first instinct is to show contempt for his enemy; after all, we both know his dignity is all he has left. He has no intention of asking for any favors; no quarter asked and none giventhe code of the SS–that’s what I have been given to understand anyway.

“Shoot me,” he says in perfect English, with scarcely the trace of an accent. “I want you to shoot me, you swine.”

“I’m not going to shoot you, my friend. Maybe one of the others will. Hey, Ralph, do you want to shoot this guy?”

“Not me!”

“Eric?” No answer.

“Well, there you have it then. I would give you a gun, but then you would shoot me.

“Look, let’s be serious for a minute. Your back is probably broken. All I can do is make you comfortable. We will try and make you as warm as possible and hope your friends come for you in the morning. That’s all we’re going to do. I would take you back and dump you off at your infirmary, but we might kill you if your neck is broken. Then, too, I’m no doctor. I don’t know; maybe the nerves in your back are just bruised. Maybe you are not permanently crippled.”

“It does not matter. My people are going to shoot me in the morning,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” I asked him. “I know you people are crazy, but I thought the one thing you had going for you was loyalty, especially to your wounded.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, now with a little less rancor in his voice.

“You mean, because you lost the gold?”

“That is part of it, but because of something else in the back of the first truck. There is a box that belongs to me. It has no real value to you, but it does to me. I have sworn to guard it with my life. Will you give it to me?”

“What’s in it?”

“You do not want to know. But I give you my word; it has no military value to you. And you would not know what it was if you saw what was inside.”

I ignored him and started to walk toward the truck. Ralph had been listening and left his post by the fender, yelling at me to stay back: “Leave it alone, do not go near the truck. And do not give it back to him. Leave it in the truck. Believe me, Captain, you do not want to become involved with him or his box. Let us leave. Let us get out of here–now!”

I was confused, as was Eric. Neither of us had any idea what he was yelling about, and we told him so; all the time the SS officer was watching, pleading for us to leave his box. He didn’t care for his life; all he wanted was his box. Then when Ralph said something to him in German, he yelled back, telling him to shut up.

Eric was eager to be gone. He was around the other side of the bus checking the front wheel. Ralph was determined to take the box with us. He wanted it left on the truck. He didn’t want me to listen to the begging of the officer. But he seemed equally determined to not let me see it or touch it.

“I beg of you, Captain. Listen to me–if you open that box or so much as touch it, you will rue this night all the rest of your life.”

I guess I looked at Ralph with a quizzical expression. I thought of asking him if he had taken leave of his senses, but I held my tongue.

“All right, then. Let’s get going. Sorry, old boy. I tried,” I said, as I started walking toward the trucks. “But I think you’re both a little nuts.” I said it as an afterthought, flippantly, and it made me ashamed. This man lying in the gravel was going to lose his life. I apologized, something that would never have crossed his mind to do. To him, an apology was a sign of weakness.

“Get in the trucks. I’ll ride with Ralph.”

“I’ll drive,” Ralph said. I shrugged my shoulders. My head ached too badly to argue any further about anything, but the guy on the ground must have hurt far worse than I did. But not a whimper, not even a sign he was in any kind of pain. I marveled again at these people. Where do they come from? What kind of training makes them this way? What is it that makes them this tough, this disciplined? But then as I climbed in the first truck and Ralph started the engine, I wondered if he really was hurting. If his back was broken, he shouldn’t be able to feel anything, or so I had been led to believe.

Eric had been inspecting the bus. The front was bashed in, but the wheels turned and it steered. The engine was in the back so it wasn’t a problem. He told me it would go, and then asked me if I wanted him to drive it away. I told him no, we were going to leave it–too much trouble. I told him to drive the other truck.

As we pulled away, I could hear the German screaming at me to shoot him or to unload this stupid box of his. I should have been more curious, but I had other things on my mind. I didn’t care about any box. I had put it out of my mind, but only for a minute; later, when I was ready, I was going to satisfy my curiosity.

This box of his obviously contains long range plans for the SS recovery or names of important people–something like that. But if so, what has Ralph so energized? I had never seen him so serious or so anxious. He knew what was in it. But how did he know? And why did he care? But then, I suspected he might have something to do with them soon after I met him. He was somehow one of the brotherhood–and now this box. I realized it must have something major to do with this infamous cult organization; it must be as important to them as the gold.

For some curious reason, I cared about the officer as a human being. But there was nothing I could do for him. The last words I heard him screaming were not directed at me but at Ralph.

“Do not forget what I told you.” He repeated it twice, once in German.

“Stop the truck,” I said.

“Captain, you are not going to shoot him, are you?” Ralph asked, looking at me with a pained expression.

“Does it make any difference to you?” I’m thinking again what I had suspected all along–that he was in someway connected to the German. He never answered. He didn’t have to. At some point, I might have to shoot Ralph. I hope it never comes to that, but it might.

The three of us got out, and I walked back a few yards. The German said nothing, he just looked up at me.

“You know, I have a baby son,” he finally said in a low voice, pensively. I almost expected him to ask me if I wanted to see the picture he was carrying in his wallet. But he was not making an appeal for his life. He said it as though he knew I knew. I never replied; I let it pass.

“This is what I can do for you…it’s up to you. You tell me what you want me to do,” I said to him.

“We can put you in the bus. However, if we do, I can almost guarantee you’ll never walk again. If we leave you here, you’re going to go into shock, and maybe die from exposure before morning. That’s a possibility, but not as sure as what else might happen to you. Those people are coming back. They can’t stay away. They have to know if they’ve left anybody alive. And when they do, they’re going to kill you.

“Now, here’s what I propose: if we can find a way to cut two small trees, we might use the tunics of your buddies over there to make a field stretcher. We have no axe, so we’ll have to find another way to break them off. Then, we can use their pistol belts to strap you on. We’re going to have to put you on this stretcher thing face down or we’re going to damage your spinal column even more–probably beyond repair. If this works out, we can lay you on top of one of the piles of gold. It’ll be the most uncomfortable ride you ever took. But it’s only going to be for a few miles–only as far as Berchtesgaden.”

Ralph looked at me kind of funny: “What does Berchtesgaden have to do with anything? Who says we are going to take him there?” But I never paid any attention to him.

Eric had been listening. He was a good soldier. He never asked a lot of dumb questions. And he never made counterproposals unless he thought his ideas were better than mine. Usually they were not, so he kept his mouth shut for the most part. I wished I was the same way. I knew I had a future in the service with Patton as a sponsor if I could only be more like Eric.

“I’ll get you a couple of saplings, Captain,” is all he said. He had shouldered one of the machine guns, and now he took his flashlight and walked off into the trees.

There were two short bursts of machine gun fire. He walked back dragging two small saplings of just the right size.

He looked at me and laughed. “Back in Chicago this might give a whole new meaning to the term chopper.”

 

“Ralph.”

“Ya.” He glanced over at me in the dark. We were almost to Berchetsgaden. He knew what I was after. He knew exactly what I wanted to hear. But I knew he didn’t want to hear me ask it.

“Are you ready to tell me about this guy’s box or whatever is in it?”

“No. But I am going to tell you something else. That officer knows you. And you know him.” He looked over at me and then quickly back to the winding road.”

“What makes you say a crazy thing like that?” I was astounded at what he just said. Maybe it just popped out of his kidneys, because I had just saved this guy’s life; maybe it was his way of kidding me. “Are you the one who got hit in the head?”

“No,” he said, “he knows you, really. He told me you are the boyfriend of his wife’s sister. He has seen pictures of you, and he knows what you do.”

“What! My girlfriend! If I have one, she has a sister all right, but she has no husband.”

“Yes, she does, according to him she does, and he ought to know. Did you not ask me if I knew an oberststurmbannfuhrer by the name of Steinmann? Well, friend, that is exactly who is riding along in the back. Care to tell me about it?”

“No.” I was in deep thought. I had nothing I wanted to share with him.

“This Steinmann is well placed, I understand. But then you knew he is one of Hitler’s favorites….” Ralph paused for a minute, thinking, and then he started talking again. “How come you know him? Could it be he is working with us–you are in counter-intelligence? No, I do not believe it. No, not him! No, I know better. I really do. He genuinely is SS; I know this…. ”

I interrupted: “I happen to know he is also. But I know it from a whole different set of circumstances. But tell me why you’re so sure he doesn’t work for us. He doesn’t; but why are you so sure–could it have something to do with that box or what’s in it?” This remark got me nothing but silence.

We drove to the outskirts of Berchtesgaden before I spoke again: “Where are we going to get some supplies? I forgot all about them. I just assumed you were going back to the officer’s mess with the bus, then you were going to load up and meet us at Reinicke’s.”

“Not to worry. Reinicke’s garage is full. I have been laying them in for months, little by little. We will take what we need, and then you make your call to Oddlie. I suggest you also try to reach your man by walkie-talkie; tell him where to meet us; the closer the better. I am leery of going very far in these trucks. I figure our people are just over the horizon somewhere. The odds of running into a column of our tanks are much better than Tigers. The Tigers, however, will figure we are deserters, so it makes no difference–the one will blow us up as quickly as will the other.”

We pulled into Reinicke’s place and parked the trucks around back. The plan had always been to stop here and call Oddlie, who was supposed to be standing by all night. Likewise, Carl, if he was moving toward us, was awaiting our call. But now we had another problem besides what to do with my new friend Kurt. We had too much gold. The German trucks were not designed to carry five tons each, and that’s what she weighed. They had bottomed their springs, and the tires were in danger of blowing out. Not even the five-ton truck being driven by Carl could handle it. We needed two of them. I figured our two German trucks, even limping down the road at a few miles an hour, were going to soon burn out their clutches. I didn’t think they could go a hundred miles.

I plan to tell Oddlie to get me another two or three guys with another five ton. I want him to send them as quickly as possible to an address I’m about to give him. Oh, and I want them to bring plenty of fuel, because our load of gold is heavy; it’s twice as heavy as Oddlie’s people estimated it would be.

The Germans had brought it from Berlin in four trucks and then were restricted to using two for the trip to the lake. Ralph told me Kurt had brought the Commandant orders from Berlin, authorizing only three officers besides the laborers to be at the lake. I hadn’t quite figured out where that left Ralph. But after they discovered the Lugers, it didn’t matter.

Reinicke came out to meet us. I expected him to be angry for bringing the trucks in his yard and drawing attention to him. But strangely enough he wasn’t.

I took over the operation from Ralph, intending to run things from here on out. I asked him to assemble Reinicke and his sons in his kitchen for a short meeting. Ralph informed me they were not at home, which I thought was odd, as sick as they were supposed to be. Why would they be, though; it wasn’t much past ten. They were grown men in a town full of lonesome women. Why would they be? I guess I would have to be pretty sick to be lying around at home under the circumstances. Still, it was curious, but I made no comment to Ralph.

The four of us gathered in Walter’s kitchen after unloading Steinmann, who was still surly, as might be expected, but on the whole he was showing improvement. Still, he was who he was; and I bet if he lives, he will never change much. Yet Françoise told me on several occasions that, in spite of him being a monster, her words not mine, he had a soft spot. He worshipped Murielle and there’s no accounting for that. Well, maybe there is–Hitler loved his dog–and you know the old saying: anybody who loves dogs can’t be all bad. But in his case, we had all better find a new saying–that is, anybody who knows anything about Auschwitz and Buchenwald should anyway.

The first thing I did was present Walter Reinicke with a gold bar. I laid it on the table next to his salt and pepper shaker for effect. It looked humongous. I had no idea how much it was worth, so I pulled a whopping big number out of nowhere. Another one of those wags. Eric, who was a recipient of my last one in the mine, looked at me. I saw the expression on his face and amended my statement. I said that’s what it should be worth on the black market. At any rate, whatever it was actually worth, Walter figured it was going to be more than enough to remodel and redecorate his recovered Zum Turken.

“Walter, in a few days you’re going to regain ownership of your hotel. It belongs to you and not the Nazi government. In a couple of weeks, there will be no Nazi government.

“I have no idea what’s in there now. But after tomorrow, whatever is will be yours by right of acquisition. You just get up there the day after the SS leaves. Lock it and board it up, and have one of your sons guard it until my people get here. You don’t want the place looted.”

I didn’t know how much he was retaining of what Ralph was translating. He was not stupid and probably was way ahead of me. I bet he and his sons had discussed this very subject every day since they came home. But where they were going to get the money to remodel it was something else again.

Walter thanked me profusely, as might be expected. When he quieted down, I sprung it on him: “Walter, I want you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” was his expected reply.

“I have a seriously injured SS officer outside. No, he’s not a deserter.” I could see that look on his face as Ralph translated.

“I want you to take him to the compound–to the infirmary–and drop him off. Tell them he was injured in an automobile accident or something. Tell them anything. Anyway, the two of you get your stories straight. And I want you to do it right now, within the next few minutes. Then I want you to find your sons and get out of here. I mean get at least five miles away from the compound and from Berchtesgaden proper. Promise me you’ll be gone before sun-up, and stay gone until the day after tomorrow.”

He started nodding and smiling. I could tell he thought the request was crazy, but he didn’t care; he figured he had gotten much the better of the bargain.

I have to tell you, I felt like some kind of con artist at work here. The three of us knew the 25th was just hours away. And like as not, a couple of hours after sunrise there wasn’t going to be any Turken, Berghof, or anything else. And to my way of thinking, there might not be much left of Berchtesgaden either.

We removed one of Walter’s interior doors and used it to transport Kurt. We tied him and the door to the top of Walter’s small automobile, and then he drove off at about five miles an hour.

Kurt called me over just before they left: “Say hello to Murielle for me when you see her.” He acted as though we were good friends, which really confused Reinicke. But he wasn’t my friend. I had his coveted box and its contents, which supposedly euchred him out of a place in Valhalla or the SS hall of fame or whatever they were going to call it. And in a way, I was responsible for him being up the well-known creek. In short, you would have to look around to find somebody who had done more to screw up the life of another person than I had his. But maybe it was partial payment for just a few of the lives he had ruined–permanently. But where troubles were concerned, they were just starting for him. Whatever his fellow SS might do to him was small potatoes compared to what General Weyland was planning for all of them right this minute.

 

“Once more, Ralph, what’s in the box? What big SS secret are you two sharing? Why didn’t Steinmann want me to know anything about it? I’ve only a few seconds to transmit, and if it’s anything important Patton needs to know, I need to get it to Oddlie quickly. And I’ll be the judge of whether he needs to know.” The two of us had gone back to the bedroom to pack up the radios. Eric was in the kitchen trying to scrounge up something to eat. We had already loaded the food, including several of those salty sausages I didn’t care for, which managed to confuse Eric. Then we were going to take the radios and leave. The plan was to contact Oddlie when we found a power source away from Reinicke’s place and then later when we got closer to Carl.

“Again your way off the base. There is nothing either of you need to know or would even begin to understand.” Ralph, raising his voice, was obviously becoming perturbed.

“Humor me. All right? Forget curiosity. I’m becoming worried your big secret might have military ramifications you’re not aware of. I’ll make a bargain with you. If you tell me what’s in the box, I’ll leave you alone. I won’t open it until you agree it’s okay. What’s with you anyway? Why are you so concerned? What have you to lose at this point? For that matter, what have I to lose that’s so all-fired important?”

He replied: “You did not have anything to lose until you sent Steinmann off. Before he left, he told me to designate you the Keeper. The Commandant had been the Guardian and Steinmann was the Keeper. Now everything has changed for both of us.”

The terms guardian and keeper sounded as though Ralph might be involved with some kind of fraternity key or seal or something.

“Ralph, I heard of a college fraternity once, but maybe they all do, I don’t know, who carried on secret rituals in secret rooms where they handled secret icons and such. These things were only available to initiated members. They were never discussed with outsiders. And they even went so far as to initiate the janitors of their houses who worked around those things. I’m just going by what I’ve heard on this. It does make a lot of sense, though. Tell me something: is this the sort of relationship you had with the SS, I mean being initiated like those janitors?”

Ralph glanced at me, clearly not wanting to discuss the subject further. But his look and his attitude gave him away.

Ralph is a good christian. Oddlie told me as much; he had served on a mission for the Mormon Church. And he considers himself a loyal American. Now he finds himself embroiled with one of the more notorious military brotherhoods known to history. His position is not compatible with his religion. Everything the SS stands for, the mysteries, the secret blood rituals, and many other things are counter to what he’s been taught and believes. And I’m thinking he’s been wrestling with his problem for some time. He’s been able to live with it, but now that somebody else knows and understands his dilemma, he’s not sure what he’s going to do. He’s determined, I think, to leave it alone; he’s thinking it’ll all go away. And the fewer people who know about it the better. I think he wants me to forget the subject–kind of like we all do when we’ve done things we’re not too proud of. If we can forget them, they might just go away.

“Ralph, what’s the difference between the keeper and the guardian?”

“Well, for one thing, the keeper has to be a military officer. He can be of company grade, but he must be commissioned. The guardian can be of any rank.” I looked puzzled. I know I did because I was. I didn’t understand much more than before I asked.

He looked at me for the longest time, considering what he was going to say next and what he intended to do. Then he said: “What have you got to lose, you ask? What have you got to lose?” his voice dropping. “All right. All right, then, I’ll tell you what you have to lose. Then when you know, because of your rank and new position, you will be obligated to become the keeper. And then, the thing you are going to lose, if you insist on probing further into this, is nothing less than your immortal soul.”