The Kammersee Affair

by John Holt

  A short while later there was a tap on the compartment door. It was the porter. “Yes sir,” he said. “Can I get you anything?”

  Bannister thanked the Porter, and placed his order. “Incidentally, do you know why we’ve stopped,” he asked.

  The Porter explained that it was nothing serious. “I believe that they are carrying out track repairs just along this stretch,” he said. “We’ll be moving quite soon, I’m sure.” He then left the compartment, closing the door behind him.

  Ten minutes later the porter returned, bringing a large pot of coffee, a plate of doughnuts, and an aspirin. Slowly, Bannister began to feel a lot better. The coffee tasted good, and the doughnuts were very welcome. The aspirin was doing its job, and his headache gradually eased. All of the graphic images, from his dream started to fade. All thoughts of hidden gold, and Nazis started to evaporate, finally disappearing completely. There was a sudden loud hiss of steam, and a whistle blast. The crankshaft started to turn, complaining loudly, and the great iron wheels began to turn. The train started to move once more, although still very slowly. He looked out of the window once again. Now he could see bright spotlights along the trackside. In the glare of the lamps Bannister could see a number of workmen carrying out repairs on the adjacent track. He lay back in his seat, and closed his eyes, and very soon fell into a deep restful sleep.

  * * *

  As the train slowly pulled into Centerville Junction the Town Hall clock was striking eleven. Bannister looked out of the compartment window. The population of the town was a little over eleven hundred people. It seemed that the whole town was waiting at the rail depot. The sky was clear, a brilliant blue. Not a cloud in sight. Flags and bunting were draped on every building, barn or shed, as far as you could see. The local dignitaries were there, dressed in their finery, and wearing their seals of office. The local brass band was assembled close to the station building, Ed Malone, the conductor, waiting for the signal to commence playing.

  The fire brigade, police force, and the boy’s brigade, all had groups in attendance. All were on parade in their very finest uniforms, and displaying their ceremonial badges, and medals. There were contingents from the local Farmers Union, the Women’s Institute, and every imaginable organisation in the area. There were representatives from each of the three churches that served the town, even though Bannister never ever attended any of them, except for the obligatory births, marriages, and funerals.

  Finally, there were the inhabitants of the town. There they were, all dressed in their Sunday best, even though this was only a Tuesday. Centerville had never seen a day like this before. Nobody, not even Todd Martin, the oldest resident, at 96 years old, could remember a day like this. The nearest that he could remember was probably the celebrations in 1872, when the railroad first came to Centerville.

  Though he wasn’t really too sure of that either. “Memory ain’t what it used to be,” he said. “There weren’t so many people then, neither.”

  The town intended to make this a day never to be forgotten.

  * * *

  As the train pulled into the platform, the signal was given. Ed Malone raised his baton, and the band commenced playing The Star Spangled Banner, with great gusto and enthusiasm. This was quickly followed by a couple of military marches and some popular songs of the day. A bewildered Corporal Bannister shyly stepped down from the train. So this was why Julie was so keen to delay his return. He would have something to say to her – later.

  The town Mayor and the chief of police both started to walk forward to greet him at the same time. The Mayor glared at the police chief, who, in deference to rank, stepped back one pace. Joe Turner played a trumpet fanfare, which was terminated with a loud clanging of the cymbals.

  The Mayor walked toward Bannister, and warmly shook him by the hand. “Welcome home, son,” he said, his face beaming, full of pride as though it were he who was the so-called hero, and not Bannister. The Mayor then proceeded with a formal welcome speech.

  “This town is proud, indeed this town is honoured, to welcome its son, Corporal Tom Bannister, safely back to its bosom,” the Mayor pronounced pompously. With every high sounding phrase, there were loud cheers from the crowds. Flags were held high and waved. At the end of the speech the crowd broke into spontaneous applause, and the band played louder than ever. Bannister could not believe what was happening. He had never been treated so well. And he had never, ever, felt so important.

  Complete strangers approached and shook his hand, or slapped him on the back. “Well done son, we’re proud of you,” said somebody unknown to Bannister.

  “Welcome back, we’ve missed you,” said another unknown.

  Now the Mayor was talking to him again, and suddenly there was the flashing of bulbs as photographs were taken. Then somebody was tapping him on the shoulder. Bannister turned. It was Mr. Davies, his old boss from the Hardware Store. “Hello Tom,” he said, offering his hand. A huge beaming smile spread across his face. “Welcome home. It’s been a long time.”

  “Mr. Davies, it certainly has,” Bannister replied, grasping the outstretched hand, and shaking it. “How are you sir? It’s good to see you. You’re looking well.”

  “Oh, I can’t complain,” he replied. “A touch of rheumatism in the knees, but, generally I’m pretty good. But I’m not as young as I used to be. Look I won’t delay you. This could go on all day, you know.” He looked around, and then back at Bannister. “Just to let you know that your job is still there waiting for you, with one or two changes. There’ll be a small promotion, and a little extra cash. Come in and see me, when you can.” And with that he turned and hurried away. Bannister stared after him, as he merged back into the crowd, and disappeared.

  “Corporal Bannister,” somebody yelled from the crowd. “I’m from the Centerville Gazette. Could we have your story, sir?”

  My story, thought Bannister, this is exciting. Nobody ever bothered with him before he went away. He looked into the crowd to see where the voice had come from.

  “Over here, sir,” came the voice, a hand waving in the air. “We would be very interested to hear about it.”

  “Certainly you can, absolutely,” Bannister responded enthusiastically. “No problem, I’d be glad to tell it,” although he didn’t really know what story he had. He had no idea as to what he was going to say.

  The reporter made his way through the crowd, and came over to him. “Colin Bradbury, sir. Here’s my phone number,” he said, as he handed over his business card. He suggested that they met in the town square, later that day, or the day after. “Call me when you get away from all this,” he continued, as he looked around, hands held out, and shrugged his shoulders. Bannister merely nodded. Bradbury turned, and walked away.

  As he looked at the card with the telephone number, Bannister suddenly became aware of someone else calling from the crowd. He looked all around, and then he saw who it was. Mum and Dad, and Julie, his wife, there they were. Then he noticed that his baby brother was with them. Baby indeed, Jethro was now seventeen, and he had certainly grown while Bannister had been away. He was quite the young man. He looked at Julie. She looked great. It had been a long time.

  He waved frantically. He quickly brushed past the Mayor, and jumped off of the platform, and ran into the crowd to meet her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Homecoming

  The following day Bannister arranged to meet with the reporter. Why anyone should suddenly be interested in his story though, he didn’t really know. Nobody had ever been that interested in what he had to say before. So why would they be interested now? What was he going to say anyway? He hadn’t been particularly brave. He hadn’t done anything that thousands of other G.I.’s hadn’t done. Nothing unusual, or special, he was no different to countless others. He had been conscripted into the military, like thousands of others. His name had come up at the Draft Board, and that was that. He hadn’t volunteered. He wasn’t given a choice. Nobody had asked him if he had wanted to go. Nob
ody had said “Tom, if you like you just stay here, we’ll manage without you.”

  Just like thousands of others he had been called by Uncle Sam, called up to do his duty. It was as simple as that. He was told that his country needed him, in this the hour of need, and that was that. He had been given his uniform, his weapon, ammunition, and his equipment. After six weeks basic training he was put on board ship and sent overseas to Europe. He was an ordinary guy before he had left for Europe, and he had only carried out orders. Yes he was just an ordinary guy, but in a totally extraordinary situation. Perhaps it was by being ordinary in a certain situation, that you too became extraordinary. Maybe it was that test of your character, and how you dealt with that test, that made you different. He shook his head. This was all getting too philosophical. It was all far too deep for him.

  Anyway, back to the question at hand. What was he going to tell that newspaper reporter? Exactly what could he say? Whatever else he said he could not say a word about the lake, and about how Roberts had died. And he definitely could not say anything about Nazi gold. It was only a rumour anyway. There’s no such thing really. Poor old Kadowski, he was really taken in by it all wasn’t he? What a guy. Talk about gullible.

  “We’re all going to be rich,” he had said. “I know where the gold is,” he said. “We’ll all come back to the lake in a year or two, and get it,” he said. He had promised to keep in touch, and that was that. Bannister doubted if he would ever hear from him again. Whatever happens, hopefully our long conversation had persuaded him not to pursue his crazy idea.

  What about the others, Bartelli, or Scott? Scott, boy oh boy, he was a tough cookie. He frightened the life out of me, sometimes. Then at other times he could be as gentle as a lamb. Glad he was on our side, though. Then there’s Bartelli. He smiled as he thought of the loveable rogue. He was okay, a good guy. They weren’t bad days, not really. Sure it was war, but you had to get on with it, try to make it bearable. You were a long way from home as well, away from your family and your friends. It meant a lot to have friends, the other guys, with you. You all needed support, and help.

  All right, so he could tell the newspaper that kind of thing. That should go down okay. I can tell about our march through Italy – Sicily, Anzio, Salerno, and Monte Cassino. Not just about the battles, and fighting though. I’ll tell them about the people we saw along the way. About the ordinary Italian people; the farmers, the peasants, the people in the villages. I can tell how we liberated the towns as we went through. I can tell about the German troops who surrendered to us. They were mainly young boys, many miles from their homes. They were missing their families, and friends. They were cold, hungry, and frightened, just like he had been, and thousands like him. And I can tell about how the war had affected the ordinary people. More than enough for a local small town newspaper, probably the biggest story that they’ve had, since Joe Jackson’s barn burnt down in 1926.

  He suddenly thought of the many soldiers who would not be coming home. He stopped walking, and looked up at the sky. It was bright blue, sunny and clear, not a cloud in sight. There was a slight breeze gently rustling the trees, all in all, a glorious day. It was good to be alive, and it was good to be home. He looked at the flowers and the trees in the gardens close by. He was amazed at the vast range of colours and shapes. He watched butterflies and bumblebees as they busily darted from bud to bud. He had never really taken the time to watch them before. He had always taken such things for granted. He saw the birds flying in the air. Across the road, in the school playground he could see the children playing. He could see all of that.

  There were hundreds of others who would never see such things again. Perhaps he wasn’t so ordinary after all.

  * * *

  He reached the town square shortly after ten thirty. It hadn’t changed much. Opposite the Town Hall, was the small library, then there was a small parade of shops – Davies Hardware Store, where he used to work before he had left for Europe. Next there was the Drugstore, and then the General Store, still run by old Mr. Macready. He must be getting on, Bannister smiled mischievously. “He has always been old. I can’t remember him any other way.”

  At the corner was Tom Reynolds feed store. Tom had died some fifteen years previously, and the store was now owned by Jack Dean, but it was still known as Reynolds feed store, probably always would be. Jack had tried and tried to get things changed, without success. He had now given up on the idea. He reasoned that as long as the store was known, it didn’t matter what name it was known by.

  A short distance further on was Mabel’s Ice Cream Parlour. He stopped at the doorway and peered in. It all looked the same, as far as he could remember, but he did not recognise anyway serving at the counter. They were all youngsters, no more than sixteen years old, may be eighteen. He did not know any of them, but naturally they would have been at school when he had left for Europe. There was certainly no sign of Mabel herself. He hoped that she hadn’t died. Perhaps she was just home sick, or on a holiday. Then suddenly a door opened at the back of the store, and out she walked. He was gratified to see that she hadn’t changed. A little older, that was all, although she had put on a little weight, probably too much of her own ice cream. She saw him standing at the doorway, and called out.

  “I’ll drop by later,” he said. Then he moved on.

  Bannister continued on his way until he came to Martha’s Bakery. The smell of the fresh bread brought back memories, wonderful memories. He wondered if the jar of cookies was still there, on the side of the counter. Martha had always kept some small cakes to one side, to give to the town children. Every Saturday morning his mother had sent him to buy the bread. He would run as fast as he could, so that he could get the pick of those cookies. It seemed so long ago. “It was so long ago,” he said. “At least twelve years, maybe fourteen.”

  He was tempted to go in, but decided that he didn’t have time right then. “Besides I don’t qualify anymore. I’m too old,” he said sadly. “Martha only gave the cookies to the children.” He walked past the store, glancing inside as he did so. It looked exactly the same as he remembered. He decided that he would go in later. Maybe Martha would make an exception in his special circumstances? After all he was a returning hero wasn’t he? It was worth a try anyway.

  It was good to be home. It all looked so familiar, and so reassuring. On the opposite side of the square was the Post Office, and next to it was Pete’s Garage. Further along the street, at the corner, was the newspaper office, the Centerville Gazette – “We campaign for freedom and justice,” the slogan was emblazoned across the large shop window. Mighty big words for such a small paper, but then George Egan, the owner of the paper, had always thought big, and aimed high.

  In the middle of the main window there was a copy of the current edition of the newspaper. The newspaper was normally published weekly, on a Friday. However, a special edition had been produced to cover the events of the previous day. There on the front page was a large photograph of himself, with the town mayor. The huge banner headline read “Welcome Home Tom.” The sub heading read “Good to Have You Back.” Underneath there were two more photographs. One showed Bannister as a young schoolboy at the local junior school, almost fifteen years ago. The other showed him playing football at the high school, almost ten years later.

  He looked at the photographs for some while. The memories came flooding back. They had been happy times. Such a lot has happened since. He closed his eyes momentarily, and then he looked back at the photographs. “Where on Earth did they come from?” he wondered. “How did the newspaper get hold of them?” Then instantly he knew the answer to that. “From mom, that’s where. Who else would it be?” He would have something to say to her when he saw her. Then it suddenly occurred to him, why all of this fuss and bother anyway? Why him? He continued to look at the photographs for a while. He then turned away, and walked through the door, and into the newspaper office.

  He walked over to the reception counter. Behind the counter was
a young lady, who was obviously in the middle of doing her nails. “Can I help you?” she asked politely.

  “Oh, yes, I hope so. Tom Bannister to see Colin Bradbury,” he replied. “He is expecting me.”

  She told him to take a seat, pointing to a small waiting area opposite. “I’ll tell him that you are here,” she said. “He shouldn’t be too long.”

  Bannister took a seat, and picked up the newspaper that had been provided. Meanwhile the receptionist had contacted Bradbury. “Oh, Mr. Bannister,” she called over. “He’ll be with you as soon as he can. About ten minutes. Is that all right?” Bannister nodded his agreement, and resumed reading. The receptionist returned to attending to her nails.

  Ten minutes later Colin Bradbury arrived at the reception area. He had a brief word with the young lady, and then walked over to where Bannister was waiting. “Hello Tom, it’s good to see you again,” he said. “Getting over all of the excitement yet?”

  “Well I suppose so, but it was quite a surprise,” Bannister replied. “More of a shock really, I suppose. It was totally unexpected.”

  “Well anyway, you’ll soon get back to normal I expect,” Bradbury replied, as he sat down next to Bannister. “I’ve asked Sheila, over there, to find a room somewhere, where we can talk. It shouldn’t be too long.”

  A few moments later Bradbury was told that there was a room available upstairs. “Shall we go?” said Bradbury.

  * * *

  “Here we are,” said Bradbury, as they reached the designated room. He opened the door, and beckoned Bannister to enter. “After you,” he said. “Can I get you a coffee, or something?”

  That sounded a good idea to Bannister. “Fine,” he replied. “Coffee would be good.”

  Bradbury picked up the telephone in the corner of the room, and arranged for the coffee. “While we are waiting for the coffee let me just briefly explain what I had in mind.”