Chapter 23

Bavaria, Germany, 4 May 1945

 

 

The first slowdown occurred north of Siegsdorf early the next morning. We came to a sudden stop with several Red Balls blocking our way. They were stalled near a crossroad because of a long column of LeClerc’s Shermans and his trucks entering from off the autobahn.

The first inkling we had of the effectiveness of Lothar’s signs was when one of the French tank commanders rendered us a salute. At first I thought it was for me. On second thought, I realized he couldn’t see my rank under my field jacket. As the next tank was passing, I received another eyes left and another salute.

I knew they were French because their lead tank was flying a small tricolor from its whip antennae. And each of the next ten were named after French heroes and famous World War One battles, stenciled in white paint across their turrets. Passing across from me now is the Vimey Ridge, the name of a rabbit-warren-like fortress overlooking the Somme battlefield. It was a famous observation post defended by the French at a huge loss of life. It was taken from them by the Germans and finally recovered–not by the French, but by determined Canadians who suffered tremendous losses. There was the Verdun, a monster meat grinder of a battle that lasted for years and resulted in the French losing most of one generation. Then came the Morte Homme, another artillery observation post overlooking the reaches of the Verdun battlefield that had been fought over for most of the First War. It was a small plot of bloody ground on top of a hill, where more than seven thousand Frenchman lost their lives. Thereafter, the Americans late in the War took it from the Germans. One of the participants was none other than a young tank officer by the name of George Patton. There was the Vaux, a fortress at Verdun. And then the Douaumont, named for still another defensive fortress at Verdun, where, at the height of the War, some one thousand shells a day landed on its roof of reinforced concrete. It was taken by the Germans halfway through the War at a great loss to French national pride. American forces finally overran it as they pushed across Verdun in the Muse Argonne Offensive of 1918.

There were the General Margin, General Joffre, and other general officer heroes. And of course Foche, whose name, rank, and service to France was so well documented and remembered that there was never a need to include his rank for identification purposes. To this day, the name Foche is recognized and revered by all French schoolchildren.

It was as though we were watching a tableau of French history passing in review. Then a curious thing happened. A trio of French military motorcycle police pulled alongside of us and stopped. The sergeant in charge dismounted and saluted me. He spoke in French, telling me he had been ordered to escort us to the next crossroad and onto the autobahn. Obviously, one of their tanks had radioed back that we were being held up by traffic, and the mounted police were sent to investigate. The reason for the attention was the sign plainly visible on the front of our first truck.

The sergeant thought at first I was a Frenchman. I would be very surprised if he ever figured out where I came from. But no matter, we understood each other perfectly. And he treated me with more courtesy than usual, thinking I’m sure, that I was some kind of an undertaker.

At any rate, the empty Red Balls were asked to move off the road and make way, as was the next twenty-five vehicles in line. The tank column was stopped at the crossroad, and we were allowed to turn right on a small road leading to the autobahn. As our French escorts pulled onto the highway ahead of us, we took another right turn, and before they realized what had happened, we were a mile or so down another country road and out of their sight. We never saw them again.

I had planned to push east for about fifty miles while trying to make up my mind what to do. But we were starting to encounter elements of Simpson’s First Army, moving towards Austria in brigade strength. First, there were a few scout vehicles, whose passengers looked at us curiously. They never waved but just looked at us, as if to say, I wonder how those poor devils drew that detail? Then we came upon the first of his tanks. It was in our best interests to look for another small road, one that would eventually take us away from Simpson’s advance and away from the inevitable traffic jam.

I couldn’t help but compare the names painted on our tanks to those driven by the French. Ours were high-school-frivolous, carefree; some were downright silly, and some others were given over to gallows humor. For instance: girl friends there were in profusion; others were named for a cartoon character known far and wide as The Sad Sack. Then there was a virtual plethora of Kilroys, he of the large proboscis; a much traveled, imaginary character, whose sole claim to fame was his countenance gracing the walls of men’s rooms from one end of the world to the other. There were also a number of Boot Hills, Tombstones, Dodge Cities, Purgatories, and the like. You get the idea.

I’m not sure what all this means. But it set my mind to thinking once again: maybe Eisenhower was right; maybe we hadn’t been taking the War as seriously as had some of the other participants. Maybe we Americans did see it as one big football game, unless, of course, you or one of your buddies just happened to be lying mutilated in some field hospital somewhere.

I suppose I had not been following the map and keeping myself properly oriented, as I should have. We had taken several turns, and I wasn’t sure where we were. I wasn’t even sure of the direction we were headed. The land was flat with no visible checkpoints other than the sun. And the sun was of no help, since it was almost directly overhead.

So far, we had been lucky. But I was taking a chance running around on this between-armies odyssey of ours. Eventually, we were going to encounter motorcycle headhunters. They were not hunting for motorcycle heads, if I might be allowed a little frivolity of my own. They were looking for trucks like ours, which were not part of a convey and were being driven around suspiciously.

Misappropriated vehicles and soldiers on foot who had deserted occasionally inhabited the roads. Not so many now, since the War was winding down. But there had been enough to keep the hunters occupied before the Bulge. And, like a lot of things in large organizations, once implemented, they were slow to be shut down when no longer needed.

These so-called headhunter activities were taken from the pages of the German tactics book. The Wermacht had been faced with deserter problems early on and had started patrolling their roads shortly after the Invasion.

These roving teams of American military police would stop you. They would ask for identification and your unit designation, things like that. Then they would ask to see your trip ticket. This last was a form that had to be signed off daily by somebody in authority from a motor pool. The purpose was to ensure vehicles were receiving proper driver maintenance and to ensure accountability.

In a combat zone, this trip signoff was often delayed by necessity–sometimes for weeks. In most combat units, there were mobile maintenance crews traveling around checking on such things as proper tire pressure, radiator coolant level, oil level, and oil changes. When this inspection was accomplished, they renewed your trip ticket.

If we encountered one of these maintenance crews or head-hunters, I figured we might be hard-pressed to explain what we were doing in the middle of Simpson’s sector when we were attached to General Patton’s headquarters, especially with a hopelessly outdated trip ticket and a German civilian in tow. Some eager soldier might be interested enough in us to find out why. And he might well ask why we were headed in the opposite direction from the new cemetery at Luxembourg.

I recall it was close to chow time. We stopped for a K ration or two, approximately three miles from the last gingerbreader we passed through. One of my German speaking replacements approached me and asked where we were. I gave him a name off the top of my head, not even thinking. What difference did it make? And of what concern could it possibly be to him.

I had to say something. Ignoring squad members bent on making casual conversation could only go so far without being seen as me not knowing where we were. This translated into not caring where we were, which meant I had no plan and was confused. The worst thing that can happen to any commander is to be thought of as being confused. To satisfy his curiosity, I gave him the first name coming off the top of my head.

Now that I think about it, it must have been in my mind to do this all along. And this was an excellent location for what I had been planning since we started out.

Without thinking, I replied: Ravensbruck. As I said, it was spur of the moment; it was right off the cuff, pulled right out of the air, right out of my kidneys. I had no idea where or if there was such a place; it just sounded German. I knew the true identity of the last town or village, all right. I had read it on a storefront as we passed through. But I doubted anybody else had seen it, or if they had, they would have cared enough to remember. The name of the place didn’t sound remotely like the one I had just given the inquiring corporal. Still, I knew he would tell everybody in the group what I had just told him, if for no other reason then to make more conversation. But I smiled, knowing this is exactly what I wanted him to do.

And I also knew the order I was about to give would have serious consequences; once spoken we could never turn back. I was about to change our lives forever. Like Julius Caesar and his Legion, we were about to embark on a journey that would take us across the proverbial Rubicon.

“You men, finish up; man your trenching tools. Everybody, bear a hand. I want a trench big enough to bury this load of gold. I want the trucks pulled off the road. I want any passer-by to think we are burying bodies to be later dug up by the proper authorities. And I want to be out of here shortly after dark.”

They had been digging about an hour when Ralph stepped out of the trench. He came over to where I was standing, as if to say something. I thought he was going to tell me he had plans to bury Steinmann’s box alongside of the gold. This might have been the case, but that’s not what he wanted to talk about. He wanted to say something else and then changed his mind. But I would have to wait more than five years to find out what it was.

I stopped them about an hour later, telling them the trench was large enough. This statement was met with curious looks all around. The corporal who had asked me where we were said something to the effect that it wasn’t big enough. I ignored him and walked away.

I had a new plan. I had been thinking. Why did we need all the gold? Wouldn’t it be more prudent to turn half of it over to Bernstein and Patton and bury the rest? After all, they had been expecting only half the cargo we were carrying. Why not come in with the amount Intelligence had told them was at the Obersalzberg and keep the rest. That way we were all free to walk away. And it would let Patton have his day with the press.

But what about Oddlie? Why did I request the extra truck and the men? No problem. I would simply tell him I was a poor estimator. I had overestimated the amount we had taken from the Germans.

But what about Ralph and the new guys? I can’t speak for Ralph, but my replacements were not going to be a problem, not as long as they were going to get a share.

I had Eric and Carl feel them out. They reported back: the replacements would not say anything if they were going to be admitted to the club. In fact, they were elated at the prospect of never having to seriously work again for the rest of their lives.

Now, here’s the kicker, which I figure will lower the risk of them ever saying anything if we let them in. If they don’t report the entire incident to Colonel Bernstein immediately upon our arrival, they’ll be unable to change their minds and do it later. And if they have a change of heart and chicken out when we arrive, I’ll counter by telling Bernstein that we had a legitimate reason for burying it. I couldn’t make it back with the entire load, don’t you know? The now-emptied truck had been acting up, you see. We thought we heard engine bearing noises, or the clutch felt as though it was slipping, or something else was haywire. We obviously couldn’t be wandering around the countryside in a vehicle loaded with a fortune that was going to poop out on us at any minute. If it did, we were going to be discovered and relieved of half our cargo, which would have made General Patton very unhappy. In fact, my orders were to bury it if at any time I thought I might be in any danger of losing control.

It was not important what was actually wrong with the truck, or whether anything was, only that the four of us tells Bernstein the same story. The replacements would have gained nothing by having a twinge of conscience and telling on us. This way, they stand to gain a fortune.

Our hesitancy to include them in the first place was not because we were stingy; quite the contrary, there’s plenty for all of us. In the case of gold, you don’t have to give most of it to a fence in the same way you do diamonds. Then, too, another three in the split was not that big a deal. You see, we intend to get three times more for it than the set government price.

You have to understand that the value of gold worldwide is established by the United States. That is, there is a set price at which our government will buy and sell. This amount is thirty-five dollars an ounce, an arbitrary figure they’ve held to for the past twelve years. However, everybody knows this restriction is going to be lifted eventually. Anybody with an interest in gold is speculating that it’ll rise astronomically when it happens. And then, too, many people are hoarding gold as a hedge against inflation. So far, American currency has remained fairly stable, but this could change overnight. These things make gold all the more valuable and easy to sell.

And another thing, gold can be peddled most anyplace in Europe in almost any form. It can be melted down into smaller, more manageable nuggets or made into coins or even made into objects such as bookends or knick-knacks; it can be made into almost anything, which makes it easy to hoard. So the problem is not that we don’t have enough to go around; the problem is they simply can’t be trusted. We’re afraid if they don’t get their share when they think they should, they’ll start causing trouble. As I mentioned before, we agreed between the three of us to wait five years before spending any of the diamonds, and the same goes for the gold. Including the replacements in our scheme means there’s just that many more people to complicate things. And this eventually is going to cause us problems. What I’m trying to say: more isn’t the merrier. Now it can’t be avoided. Now they are going to get a cut, whether we like it or not.