If we were to make it through to Munich in the one day, we would have to start off early the next morning. Accordingly I left word that the trucks were to be lined up outside the monastery entrance at seven-thirty sharp. Then I went down to the colonel’s quarters to see about an armed escort for the convoy. I found Colonel Sheehan and Major Thacher making preparations to “go out on the town.” They looked very spruce in their pinks and were in high spirits.
“We missed you at supper,” said the colonel. “How’s the work coming along?”
“My trucks are loaded and ready to roll first thing in the morning if I can have an escort,” I said.
“That calls for a celebration,” he said. “Pour yourself a drink. I’ll make a bargain with you. You can have the escort on one condition—that you join our party tonight.”
I didn’t protest. I thought it was a swell idea. A few minutes later, the captain with whom I was billeted arrived and the four of us set out for an evening of fun.
In the short space of two days I had grown very fond of these three officers, although we had met only at mealtime. They were, in fact, characteristic of all the officers I had encountered at Hohenfurth—friendly, good-natured and ready to do anything they could to help. That they were all going home soon may have had something to do with their contented outlook on life, and they deserved their contentment. As members of the 26th Division, the famous “Yankee Division,” they had seen plenty of action, and as we drove along that night in the colonel’s car, my three companions did a lot of reminiscing.
While they exchanged stories, I had a chance to enjoy the romantic countryside through which we were passing. We were, the colonel had said, headed for Krummau, an old town about fifteen miles away.
The road followed along the winding Moldau River, which had an almost supernatural beauty in the glow of the late evening light. The bright green banks were mirrored, crystal clear, on its unrippled surface, as were the rose-gold colors of the evening clouds.
We crossed the river at Rosenberg, and as we went over the bridge I noticed that it bore—as do all bridges in that region—the figure of St. John Nepomuk, patron saint of Bohemia. The castle, perched high above the river, was the ancestral seat of the Dukes of Rosenberg who ruled this part of Bohemia for hundreds of years. One of them murdered his wife and, according to the legend, she still haunted the castle. Robed in white, she was said to walk the battlements each night between eleven-thirty and twelve. Major Thacher thought that we should test the legend by paying a visit to the castle on our return from Krummau later that evening.
When we arrived in Krummau it was too dark to see much of the old town except the outline of the gray buildings which lined the narrow streets. Our objective was a night club operated by members of an underground movement which was said to have flourished there throughout the years of Nazi oppression. There was nothing in any way remarkable about the establishment, but it provided a little variety for the officers stationed thereabouts. My companions were popular patrons of the place. They were royally welcomed by the proprietor, who found a good table for us, not too near the small noisy orchestra. Two pretty Czech girls joined us and we all took turns dancing. There were so many more men than girls that we had to be content with one dance each. Then the girls moved on to another table.