The Kammersee Affair

by John Holt

  Six months later Bartelli and Laura were married. He then had everything that he had ever needed. He gave no more thought to the Sergeant and his legendary gold bullion, or to the ramblings of Private George Scott.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Corporal Tom Bannister

  Centerville, Texas – June 1945

  As Tom Bannister walked out of Rooney’s Bar, he started to make his way to the station, which was a short distance away. As he hurried along he kept thinking of the conversation that he had just had with Kadowski. Out in the fresh air, out of the smoky atmosphere of the noisy tavern, the whole conversation seemed somehow different. Suddenly it seemed a little unreal. You couldn’t speak properly in there anyway, not with all of that noise going on. You could hardly hear yourself speak. Even thinking was difficult under such circumstances. Maybe, in that kind of a situation, you didn’t really know what you were saying anyway. Perhaps you said a lot of things that you didn’t really mean. Maybe you said a lot of things that weren’t properly thought out. Maybe a lot of things that should have been said went un-spoken. All in all, he concluded, a noisy, smoky, bar was the last place in which to have a sensible, meaningful, conversation.

  All of that talk about Scott seeking revenge for his dead buddy. It was nonsense, just plain stupid. And then there was all that talk about recovering Nazi gold hidden deep in a lake almost four thousand miles away. Utter madness. Crazy talk, that’s all there was to it.

  Bannister mentally kicked himself. Had they really spent all of those hours talking like that? He couldn’t believe it. What a total and utter waste of time. Too much to drink, that was the problem, plain and simple. But it was just talk, he decided, nothing more. As such it was not to be taken too seriously. Not to be taken seriously, period.

  But what a story it would make, though. Not that anyone would ever believe it? No one with half a brain, that is. It was good enough for Hollywood perhaps. Pure make believe, fantasy. The Studios would certainly make something out it. They were good at that sort of thing. Probably turn it into a drama, or a thriller. Add some action, a fight scene or two, maybe even a small battle. A car chase would be good. There’s always a car chase. And, of course, there is always the race against time as you get nearer to the end of the picture. The clock ticking, the seconds going by, and then at the very last moment, one second remaining, and the hero enters, and it’s all over.

  Bannister had to admit that he wasn’t too sure who would be the hero. Then he continued with his theme. Pad it out a little. Put in some love interest. Bannister was beginning to really enjoy himself. Perhaps Spencer Tracy would take the Sergeant’s role. He would be ideal. Now, who would play Scott? Alan Ladd. No, he’s always the good guy. No it would have to be someone like William Bendix. Not really a good guy, but not really bad either. Yes, Bendix’ll be fine. No, better yet, James Cagney, just that little bit paranoid. “Top of the world, ma,” Bannister said trying to imitate Cagney. He would be perfect. That’s that settled.

  Now, more to the point, who would play me, he wondered. After a few moments he decided that Tyrone Power would be perfect. He’s good looking, and brave. Just like me, he thought, and started to laugh. What about Bartelli? Who could play his part? He couldn’t think of anyone, not right away, except perhaps Richard Conte. He might be all right, he was part Italian wasn’t he? And finally there was Hartman himself. That would have to be Conrad Veidt, or Curt Jurgens. He suddenly realised that he didn’t know too many German type actors.

  He stopped suddenly, mentally kicking himself once again. The broad smile quickly left his face. He felt cold, and shivered. That’s enough of this nonsense. “What a fool I am,” he rebuked himself. “Sadly this is no joke.”

  He had to admit that although it seemed like a fantasy, it was real enough, and it was serious enough. Frank had been so concerned about Scott. About what he said, and what he might do. There was no doubt about that. From the moment George had started talking in the bar, Frank had been fearful. You could see it in his eyes; hear it in his voice. It wasn’t rational, but it was there nonetheless. Clear as anything. Frank wasn’t normally the worrying kind, unless there was a very good reason. Bannister had tried very hard to put Kadowski’s mind at ease, to show that he was worrying needlessly.

  “I hope I’ve stopped Frank from worrying too much about Scott,” he muttered thoughtfully. Kadowski really did think that George would hunt down that Nazi, that SS Major, to find him and then kill him. He’s worrying for nothing, there’s no justification whatsoever. There was no possible reason, surely. Bannister tried hard to convince himself. Nonetheless, despite everything that he had said, everything that he had thought, Bannister was now beginning to feel unsure, and slightly uneasy. Doubts were beginning to form in his mind. Perhaps there was something in it after all. What if Frank was right? What if George really did mean to find Hartman and kill him?

  What could he do about it? What could anyone do about it? There was absolutely nothing anyone could do. They didn’t even know where Scott was right at that moment. He could be anywhere. Perhaps I’ll get Frank to mention the whole thing to the authorities. “That’s it,” he told himself. “That’s the answer. Let the authorities deal with it.” They would be able to do something surely. “I’ll call him as soon as I get home,” he decided.

  Then he dismissed the whole idea almost as quickly as he had thought of it. “Frank would never agree to that. Certainly the MP’s would pick Scott up easily enough. That wasn’t the problem. There would be a lot of difficult questions, raised. That’s where it could get very tricky.”

  He changed the subject, and turned his attention to the matter of the hidden gold. The alleged hidden gold, he reminded himself. After all, it was only Frank who really thought that it actually existed. What an afternoon. He had done all he could to stop Kadowski, to put him off. He had raised every obstacle, every difficulty, he could think of. He was convinced that the matter relating to the gold was over and done with, at least.

  I might not have persuaded Frank about Scott, but I’m sure I said enough to persuade him to forget about that gold. “Surely, I’ve told him enough to put it completely out of his mind,” he said to himself. “I’m sure that I have.” It could have been a very difficult, and possibly dangerous, mission. There was no guarantee that he would find anything. In fact it was more likely that there was no gold, and it would have all been for nothing. It could be a very costly waste of time, and effort. No, Bannister was convinced that it was much better to just forget about it. “I’m not absolutely sure that Frank believes it anymore, anyway, not now,” he mumbled, trying to convince himself. Forget it Frank; just forget it, he whispered, as he looked back in the direction of Rooney’s bar. Just report the whole thing to the authorities. Let them get on with it. Let them take the risks.

  Anyway they will have all of the necessary equipment, and manpower. Who knows, they might even pay out a small reward. That would be good, and there would be no risk involved. I like the sound of that.

  “Suppose there had been gold, just for a moment,” Bannister thought. “And suppose we had found it.” Just imagine returning home, to Centerville, as a wealthy man. Never in its entire history had anything of such excitement happened. Then he shook himself and smiled. “But of course there is no gold, never was, so why worry.”

  * * *

  He checked his watch. It was later than he had thought. As he hurried along he felt a sudden shiver run through him. It disappeared as quickly as it had come. He looked up at the sky. It was beginning to cloud over. Although it was still fairly warm, he could feel rain in the air. The sun was slowly disappearing, gradually being hidden by dark thick storm clouds. He wrapped his coat tightly around him, and quickened his pace.

  A few moments later he reached the imposing entrance to Grand Central station. As he did so the first drops of rain started to fall. He stopped and looked up at the ornate pilasters, and the granite columns forming the long portico, leading to the entrance. “Cen
terville Junction was nothing like this.” He started to laugh loudly, as he mentally compared the two places. The station at Centerville didn’t have an elaborate main entrance. In fact it didn’t have any proper entrance. There you just walked on to the single platform, straight off of the street. There was no proper ticket barrier, just an open canopy, at the end of a small timber building that doubled as the ticket office, and the waiting room. That’s where Ben Wheeler, the stationmaster, would position himself to collect the tickets from the incoming passengers.

  There had been a station at Centerville Junction, since 1872. The station was exactly the same now as it had been back then. Nothing had changed, except that a second section of rail had been provided back in the early twenties. Why even old Ben looked as though he could have been there when it had first opened. Bannister laughed out loud once more. Then he suddenly realised that people were staring at him. He looked down to the ground, trying to avert their gaze. Nonetheless he had to admit that it really was quite an amusing thought. He cleared his throat, and quickly walked into the station. He was still laughing, although now it was quietly to himself.

  He hurried across the wide concourse, and over to the platform. His train was already there waiting. He got on board, and found an empty compartment, and settled down for the journey. He had a long journey ahead, something like a forty-hour trip he had calculated, maybe longer. He would need to change trains four or five times. The last train was a small local shuttle service that provided a link to the local villages. Centerville was the last depot on that line.

  Why was he doing this? Why was he taking such a long, tiring trip? Julie, his wife, had specifically told him not to arrive until the 22nd of June. He didn’t know why, but she was insistent. “Please, for my sake,” she had said. He had faithfully promised her that he would do as she asked. So he had two days to kill. But why hadn’t he stayed the extra time in New York? Perhaps if the rest of the guys had been there he would have. But they were all leaving that same day; and he didn’t want to be in New York alone. He really wanted nothing more than to get home. Why hadn’t he just taken the plane instead? No he had foolishly promised to delay his arrival, and had decided to take the scenic route.

  Well, it was too late to change the arrangements now. Now that he was actually sitting on the train. There was nothing he could do about it, except grin and bear it. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad after all. Anyway he would just have to make the most of it. At least he would get to see a lot of the country. And, hopefully he would sleep for most of the time. Fortunately he had had the good sense to book a sleeper. Perhaps, considering everything, the time would pass quite quickly.

  At seven fifteen the train left the terminal, with a whoosh of steam, and a loud whistle, and slowly gathered speed. Bannister stared out of the window and watched as the city slowly rolled past, and gradually gave way to the rolling hills and fields of the countryside. Bannister looked at the sky. It was beginning to get quite cloudy now, completely hiding the sun. Thunder could be heard in the distance. The rain was quite heavy now. Suddenly there was a bright flash of lightning, quickly followed by a violent crash of thunder. With the sun obscured Bannister could feel a slight chill beginning. It was certainly getting colder. He looked around for the carriage heater control. It was currently turned off. Bannister pulled the switch to the on position, and made a few adjustments. After a short time he could feel the air blowing out, gradually getting warmer. He sat back down, and made himself comfortable once more. The day was almost over. And what a day it had been. He shook his head, “I’m not going over all of that again,” he declared. He decided to read for a while. Later he would go along to the dining car for a meal. Then he would settle down for the night.

  He took out the newspaper that he had bought earlier, and started to read. The main news was, naturally, about the troops coming back from Europe. As far as he could see there was nothing about the home front. Certainly there were no major news items that he could see. Suddenly he realised that he had no idea of what life was like in the States anymore. For example, was there enough work for all of these returning soldiers? Was there enough food? Was it expensive? He realised that in many ways, he and thousands of other G.I.’s were virtually strangers in their own country. What had life been like for the past four years he wondered? He realised that he had no idea. Yes he had received letters from home, but they had generally only been concerned with family matters. How was he? They were missing him. He was to be careful. That kind of thing.

  But there had been nothing about everyday things. Certainly, he realised that there would have been many changes in the last three or four years. There just had to be. Perhaps there had been major changes. He would have been surprised if there hadn’t been. Some of those changes may have been for the better, but some might not have been. Maybe there would have been changes that he personally wouldn’t like. Changes that were plainly wrong. He would certainly have a lot to learn, a lot to catch up on.

  He returned to his newspaper, and started to read the front page. Uncle Sam welcomes his boys back home. That was the headline. Underneath was a large photograph of the troop ship that he had been on earlier that day.

  He lay the paper down, and stared out of the window. The sky was now almost covered with thunderclouds. The rainfall had increased. Suddenly the sky was lit up as streaks of lightning flashed all around. Bannister looked away, and looked down at the front page of the newspaper. Were those returning troops really welcome, he wondered. Sure, there had been hundreds, perhaps thousands, at the dock today, waving and cheering for the troops, as they disembarked. But they had been wives, fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, or cousins. They were saying hello to their own people. People they cared about. People they had not seen for four long years. Naturally, they were glad that they had returned. But, what about Joe Public, he wondered. The ordinary man in the street, the average American, what did they think? Would they be so welcoming? Bannister didn’t know the answer to that question.

  Many of those soldiers would be returning home permanently injured, or crippled. They would probably require intensive medical attention, or long term care. Many of them would be unable to return to work. What would they do? Would they really be welcome? Or were they going to be an expensive drain on the country, and of no real value. He didn’t know the answer to that question either. He suspected that the answer wouldn’t be that simple. Furthermore, it was possible that it wasn’t the answer that he would like. If I’ve come back to take somebody’s job, then obviously he won’t be too pleased to see me, will he? If I’ve come back to take the little enough food from his table, he won’t welcome me with open arms, will he?

  Bannister looked out of the carriage window. There in the semi-darkness, he could see scattered houses, and small villages. Out there, are ordinary people getting on with their ordinary everyday lives, going to work to earn a living, bringing up children, and generally surviving. What do they all think about the homecoming soldiers? Are they thought of as returning heroes? Were welcome home parties taking place, out there in the darkness? Or were they just so many extra mouths to feed, another burden that the country could barely afford.

  How about the people who were not welcoming their son, or husband back home? Whose men weren’t coming back; not today, not tomorrow, not ever. What about them? How do they feel? Are they bitter, resentful? Do they wonder why their men died, whilst other men lived?

  More questions to which Bannister did not know the answers. But he knew instinctively that although the war was over, the future would hold many problems for a lot of people. He wondered if that would include himself. He turned his face from the window, and rubbed his eyes. It was almost eight thirty. He was beginning to feel quite tired. It had been a long eventful day. “I’ll just get a little shut-eye. Half an hour, forty-five minutes tops, no more. And then I’ll see about some dinner.”

  * * *

  Bannister woke with a start. The train had shuddered noisily to a halt.
He had a raging headache. He felt hot, and short of breath. His mouth felt dry. His hands were sweating. He had been sleeping fitfully, a myriad of thoughts going through his mind. Everything was getting mixed up. Thoughts of Scott, and hidden gold were intermingled with thoughts of unwanted returning soldiers. He saw visions of crippled and maimed men coming down the gangway of the returning troopships. They were all carrying wooden crates. At the front, leading them was Scott. Hartman was to his left, a little way behind. And there was Frank on the right side. On the quayside were thousands of people yelling angrily. Several were erecting barriers, trying to prevent the men from coming ashore. All around were placards, held high, telling the men that they weren’t wanted, and that they should turn around and go away. At the front of the barriers he could see two men with their hands raised. They were yelling something, but he could not make out what they were saying. He recognised both of them. One was Tony Bartelli. The other was himself.

  He was shaking violently. He went over to the small hand-basin in the cloakroom section of his compartment, and splashed his face two or three times. Thankfully it was only a dream, he thought, as he looked at himself in the mirror, a bad dream. Slowly he began to recover, and his breathing gradually returned to normal. Then he realised that the train was not moving, and he wondered why they had stopped. He looked out of the window. It was quite dark outside, and he could see nothing significant. At least the rain had stopped.

  Suddenly there was a lurch, and the train started to move, although quite slowly. A few yards further down the track it stopped once again. Bannister looked at his watch. It was two thirty in the morning. He hadn’t meant to sleep for so long. He had planned to go to the dining car. It was too late now. He wondered if he would be able to get anything. He rang the buzzer.