The Kammersee Affair

by John Holt

  Scott repeated these words over and over, as he wandered through the New York streets. “I wasn’t there. I let him down.” He shook his head in despair. “It might not have made any difference if I had been there, but I’ll never know will I?” He could not accept that. There was always the possibility that he could have prevented it. “If I had been there it might not have happened. Terry might still be alive.” He would never know would he? He would just have to live with that thought. He continued to walk aimlessly, not knowing where he was, or where he was going. One thing he did know though. One fact he was completely and utterly certain of. He would find that SS Major, Deitrich Hartman. He would hunt him down, wherever he was, and he would certainly kill him. Of that, there was no doubt in his mind, no doubt whatsoever. It might take weeks. It might take months. It might even take years. So be it. It didn’t matter.

  * * *

  As Scott continued to walk slowly through the New York sidewalks, he gradually became calmer, more rational, as though things were beginning to straighten out in his mind. As though he were putting them into some kind of order, and evolving some kind of plan of action. Somehow it seemed that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His anger started to gradually subside. He began to feel better, more relaxed, more focused. He now had a purpose, a goal. Now he knew precisely what he was going to do.

  * * *

  Scott knew that there would be a special welcome waiting for him when he got home. At least he was ninety-nine percent certain that there would be. He was willing to bet that his father would definitely have arranged it. After losing his wife some three years earlier, George was all that he had left. He had been immensely proud of his son the day that he had left for Europe, to do his duty, to serve his country. Joe Scott had watched with pride the day Private George Scott, United States Pathfinder, had put on his uniform, and had marched away to war. Just as he himself had done some twenty-five years previously.

  Less than six months later his wife had died, and he had been left quite alone. Sure he knew people down at the Legion hall, but that was not enough. They were friendly enough, but they weren’t actually friends, merely acquaintances. The odd game of cards, perhaps a little bowling, and that was that. Scott senior was now a lonely man, who longed to see his son again. He had prayed every day for his safe return. That prayer had now been answered, and soon they would be reunited.

  Yes there would definitely be a special welcome waiting for him. Scott knew that he would have invited several of the neighbours, some of the guys from the factory, and maybe one or two from the American Legion. But Scott wanted no part of any planned celebrations. He wasn’t interested. What was the point? What did he have to celebrate anyway? Did his friend have anything to celebrate? No. His friend had nothing, not now. His friend was dead, and would never celebrate anything, ever again. So why would he want to celebrate?

  He decided that he would not be there. He planned to deliberately avoid it. They could celebrate without him, if that’s what they wanted. He knew that his father would be bitterly disappointed, but he couldn’t help that. He knew that his father would be deeply hurt, but he’d get over it. He would have to. They were never really that close anyway. At least I was never that close, he conceded. They had very little, if anything, in common. They never agreed on anything. They were always bickering, constantly arguing. It wasn’t his father’s fault. Scott knew that. He had tried, but Scott either refused, or was unable, to meet him halfway.

  It wasn’t anyone fault. It was just one of those things. “No, that’s not true. Not true at all,” Scott murmured. “It was my fault, entirely my fault. Mine alone, nobody else.” He had never really given his father a fair trial. Then the relationship had suffered even further following the untimely death of his mother. Scott missed his mother so much. She was only forty-one years old when she had died. The death certificate showed the cause of death as Pneumonia, but Scott knew that she had actually died from a broken heart because Uncle Sam had taken her son away from her.

  Scott had been nineteen years old at the time, and almost four thousand miles away. He felt cheated somehow. Cheated out of so many years when she should have been there. So many years they should have had together. Why he had even missed out on the last six months of her life, because of the war. He couldn’t even attend the funeral. The Army was sorry, but there was nothing they could do about it in the circumstances. They hoped that he would understand. Well Scott didn’t understand, but he had no choice. Sure, his father had tried to make up for the loss, but how could he? How could anyone take her place? It wasn’t possible.

  * * *

  Was he crying? Was that a tear running down his cheek? Of course it wasn’t, it must be raining. He looked skyward. Certainly dark clouds were beginning to form, but there was no actual rain, not yet anyway. His eyes were merely watering that was all. Perhaps there was something in them, a piece of grit, or dust, or something. Or perhaps it was the wind. Yes, that was it. It was the wind.

  He shrugged, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. That should clear them. Then he coughed a few times, attempting to clear his throat. No, he had no intention of celebrating, he concluded, none whatsoever. He planned to get off of the train at the stop just before his own station, just in case there was a crowd waiting for him, with their stupid banners and flags. Welcome home.

  He didn’t want to see anyone, not just yet anyway. He would leave the train and make his way home by cab, and walk the last hundred yards or so. But he would wait until later that evening, much later.

  * * *

  It was very late, near eleven thirty, and it was quite dark, when Scott finally arrived at the corner of his street. He had got off of the train almost ten hours ago at the previous station, where he had spent the day. Thirty minutes ago he had taken a cab, and here he was. A light drizzle of rain had just begun to fall. A light breeze was beginning to stir, rustling the leaves in the trees along the sidewalk. He stopped at the corner, and carefully peered round, not wishing to be seen. He noticed that one or two of the street lamps were not working. Along the roadway, in the gloomy haze he could see a number of trestle tables laid out in two parallel rows.

  They had originally been laden with food and drink. For the homecoming party no doubt. Now the tables lay abandoned, neglected, covered with the remains of the food. Banners were strewn across the street, haphazard. One torn section had fallen, and was now partially lying across one of the tables. A number of streamers were hanging down, and fluttering loosely in the breeze. Then another banner suddenly tore loose, and fell to the ground. Paper napkins were lying in the street, being gently blown around the table legs. Along the sidewalk he could see discarded cigarette packs, and empty cartons, which had just been casually thrown down.

  Plates containing half eaten sandwiches, and portions of cake, could be seen lying on the tables, next to several discarded drinks. A number of glasses were lying on their sides. Either they had blown down, or had been accidentally knocked over, their contents slowly draining from the glass, and running across the table, staining the table cloth. Some of the liquid could be seen dripping over the edge of the table onto the ground below, falling into the rainwater pools below.

  The street was now almost deserted except for one or two stragglers, including his father. He could see him quite clearly. He was standing in the middle of the street, unsmiling, with his head bowed down. He looked old, older than his years. He suddenly looked up, and glanced toward the corner of the street. For a brief moment Scott thought that his father had seen him. He quickly moved back around the corner, into the shadows, and waited. Five minutes went by. Ten minutes. Nothing happened. Nobody came. No one called out. Obviously his father had not seen him. Then he could hear voices trying to console his father.

  “He was probably delayed. He’ll be here soon,” one voice said. “You know what the army is like.” Mr. Bernstein from the apartment above theirs, Scott thought.

  “Perhaps his train was late,”
said another. Sounded like Mr. Joplin, from number forty-seven, across the street.

  “Yes, that’s it for sure,” said the first voice. “His train was delayed, that’s all.”

  “There’s nothing to be concerned about,” added Mr. Joplin.

  “Nothing to be concerned about,” repeated Mrs. Simmonds sarcastically. “What rubbish. Joe, why do you ever bother about him?” As she spoke she was looking directly at the corner, as though she knew Scott was there. She turned and looked directly at Mr. Scott. “You know he’s no good, don’t you. He’s never been any good.”

  “You mustn’t say that, I won’t let you,” Mr. Scott feebly protested. Mrs. Simmonds stood silently, shaking her head. “He’s a good boy,” Mr. Scott continued. His voice becoming weaker, gradually fading away, then there was silence once again.

  Scott watched for a few moments longer. The rainfall was gradually getting heavier. A slight fog was now beginning to form. It was definitely getting colder. Scott looked up at the sky, and turned up his tunic collar, against the chill in the air. There’ll be a frost tonight. He looked back toward his father. He looked so vulnerable, so fragile. The figure turned to face the corner and Scott could clearly see the man’s face. It was the face of a sad and lonely man.

  Scott turned away quickly. Was that another trickle of rain running down his face? He brushed his face with his hand, and looked back. As he watched, Mr. Joplin walked over to his father and took hold of his arm.

  “Come along Joe,” he said gently. “It’s late, and it’s getting cold. Let’s get you out of this rain.” The two men slowly walked toward the apartment block. Mrs. Simmonds stood impassively by, watching.

  Scott had seen enough. He turned around and quickly walked away. He couldn’t face this, not right now. He couldn’t handle it. “I’ll find a local hotel for tonight, and I’ll go home tomorrow,” he decided.

  * * *

  After Scott had arrived back in Detroit, in that summer of 1945, he had tried very hard to settle down to a normal routine, but with little success. He had tried to develop a better relationship with his father, but he had found it difficult. His fault, of that he had no doubt, but he was just unable to do anything about it. He had tried to explain how he felt, but failed. He wasn’t really sure how he felt anyway, so how could he explain it. He didn’t really have the patience. He didn’t really know what to say.

  As he had expected, his father had been bitterly disappointed over the welcome home party. “When I didn’t see you, I thought that you weren’t coming back,” he had said. “I thought that the War Department had made a dreadful mistake, and that you were really dead. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  Scott shrugged off his father’s words, with little regard for his feelings. He dismissed them as though they were of little, if any, value. “Oh do stop worrying. I missed the train that’s all, no big deal,” he replied offhand. “So I spent an extra day in New York, what about it? Anyway, I’m here now aren’t I?”

  His father went over to his son and put his arms around him. Scott sighed, and pulled away. Yes I’m certainly here now, he thought bitterly.

  He returned to his old job on the assembly line at the Chrysler factory, but because of his aggressive manner, and his moods, he was fired after a few short weeks. He tried other companies, but did not stay for more than a few weeks at a time. He could not settle down. He had a fiery temper, which he found hard to control. He was consumed with the thoughts of revenge for the death of his friend Terry Roberts.

  Every waking moment he would spend thinking of Hartman, thinking of finding him and killing him. His friends stopped seeing him. They were not prepared to put up with his temper, and his mood swings. He argued constantly with his father. Eventually he decided to leave home, to leave Detroit, and to start afresh somewhere else. His father tried to change his mind, but without success.

  “It’s best for everyone,” Scott had said. “I’ll call you when I’m settled in.” His father said nothing, and just walked away. Scott packed his belongings, and headed west, to San Francisco. Frisco would be a complete change to Detroit. Maybe the drastic change might be enough to bring about a change in him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  George Scott – San Francisco

  For a while Scott appeared to be right. There was a difference. He was different. For a time it looked as though it might just work out exactly as he had imagined. He had found a comfortable apartment, down by the Bay, close to Pier 39. It was small but more than adequate for his needs. He had got a job working as a mechanic in a small garage close by, and he began to settle down. He had established a small circle of friends, and life was starting to look good to him once again. He gradually stopped thinking about Hartman, and all thoughts of revenge had slowly, but surely, started to ebb away. Slowly his life began to return to something like normal. He started to correspond with his father, promising to visit him quite soon. There was even the possibility of Mr. Scott senior coming to San Francisco for a short holiday.

  Scott had been in San Francisco a little over six months, when all of that was to change completely.

  * * *

  Scott had been visiting his bank located on Market Street regarding a savings account he wanted to set up for his father. Having completed his business, and the necessary papers signed, he left the building, at about four in the afternoon, and turned down toward the bay. It was a beautiful day, and he had time to spare. He had decided to walk back to his apartment. Perhaps he would make a stop at the Pier. A quiet relaxing drink down by the bay sounded quite a good idea. As he walked along he was startled by the loud clang of the trolley car behind him. It thundered past, and headed down the steep road leading toward Beach, and the Bay. He watched it as it passed him.

  A short distance further on the trolley stopped at the corner. Two men got off. One turned down toward the bay. The other turned in the opposite direction, and started to walk up the hill toward Scott. Scott could see him quite plainly. He thought that the man was familiar, although he could not place him. He spent a few moments trying to remember who it was, the man gradually getting closer and closer. Then Scott suddenly remembered. It was one of the guys from his old army unit. Not the Pathfinders, but the main spearhead group. But what was his name? Millhouse, Milton, Mill something. He couldn’t quite remember. As the man drew closer he saw Scott, and stopped a few yards from him, a look of complete surprise on his face. He was stocky, a little overweight some would say, red faced.

  “Scott?” he yelled. “George Scott, is that really you? It can’t be. I just can’t believe it!”

  “I’m George Scott,” Scott replied. “I’m sorry, but I can’t quite recall…”

  “Milner, Jack Milner,” the other retorted, with mock indignation, “Now you couldn’t possibly forget me. No sir. There’s no way you could forget good old Jacko, your old buddy. Why I’m mortified, and deeply wounded.” He laughed out loud, and then walked closer to Scott. He placed his arm around Scott’s left shoulder, and gave a hard squeeze. Scott winced, and tried to pull away, but Milner held firm. “Fancy seeing you here,” he said.

  Scott knew the name, and he knew the face, and he knew that sickly Southern accent. He tried to pull away once again.

  Milner finally released his grip, and stepped back. His arms outstretched. “Come on, now,” Milner was saying, a huge smile on his face. “Eh, you must remember? Sure you do. Remember Sicily? Better yet, remember Naples? How could you forget Naples? What an evening that was?”

  Scott did not wish to remember Naples, or Sicily, or anything else. But suddenly he remembered everything about Jack Milner, and he remembered that he didn’t like him.

  “Oh, yes, sure,” Scott said, without any enthusiasm, wanting to get away as soon as possible. “I have to go …”

  “See Naples and die. That’s what they say,” Milner said triumphantly, completely ignoring what Scott had said. “Well we certainly saw Naples. What a time we had, yes sir.” Milner started t
o laugh, a roguish look in his eyes, and a large grin on his face.

  He slapped Scott hard on the back. “You know, I can’t believe it’s you. I mean, of all places. Why let me look at you.” He held Scott at arms length and nodded. “You’re looking good fellow, mighty good. Take care of yourself, I can see that. So tell me, what are you doing with yourself?” But before Scott could answer, Milner was off once more. “I’m into tractors, you know, and harvesters, that kind of thing, farm machinery. Travel all over the west coast selling them. I’m the Company’s top salesman, not bad in just a little over six months. What do you say? Am I right?”

  “That’s great. Good to hear it,” said Scott, although not really meaning it. He wanted to get away from this man, and to get away quickly. “It’s been good to see you again,” he lied. “I’m sorry but I can’t stop, I have to …”

  Milner was not listening. “I’m living down on the coast at Malibu. Big beach front property. Swimming pool, you know, it’s got everything. I’m doing real well. Yes sir, real well. You know I make two thousand a year in expenses alone,” he said with smug satisfaction. “And that don’t include hotel bills neither.”

  He was perspiring quite heavily. He took out a handkerchief, and wiped his forehead. “It sure is hot,” he said. “Could sure use a drink.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and took out a small silver flask. He held the flask aloft. “Carry my own, everywhere. Be prepared that’s my motto.” He unscrewed the cap, and placed it to his lips. “Pure Bourbon, eighty percent proof,” he said, licking his lips. “Nothing but the best is good enough, not for old Jack. Care for some?” he asked, as he offered the flask to Scott.

  There was no response from Scott, who wanted nothing more than to get away.