After this triumph, the loading of the remaining trucks seemed an anticlimax, but we kept hard at it for the next six hours. By seven o’clock, all ten of them were finished. All told, we would be a convoy of eighteen trucks.
We were on the point of starting down to the village for supper, when Dr. Mutter, even more agitated than he had been before, rushed up and implored us to grant him a great favor. Would we, out of the kindness of our hearts—oh, he knew he had no right to ask such a favor—would we take him and his wife and little girl along with us to Linz the next day? Linz was his home, he had a house there. He had brought his family to Hohenfurth only because the Nazis wouldn’t allow him to give up his duties as custodian of the collections at the monastery. Now the Czechs were going to be in complete control. He and his family were Austrians and there was no telling what would happen to them.
How news does get around, I thought to myself. We hadn’t said a word about the Czechs taking over, but when I expressed the proper surprise and asked him where he had heard that rumor, he wagged his head as much as to say, “Oh, I know what I am talking about, all right!”
My heart wasn’t exactly bleeding for Dr. Mutter, but at the thought of his little girl, who was about the age of my own, I couldn’t say no. I told him to be ready to leave at seven the next morning. I didn’t tell him how uncertain it was that we would ever get to Linz at all.
It was pouring when I crawled out of my bed at six A.M. I seemed to specialize in bad weather, particularly when starting out with a convoy! At the monastery everything was in order. At the last minute I decided to tell Dr. Mutter there was a possibility—even a probability—that we would not be able to cross over at Linz, and I told him why. He was terrified when I mentioned the prospect of being stopped by the Russians. I assured him that we would drop him and his family off at one of the villages on the other side of the Austrian border, if we found there was going to be trouble. It was cold comfort but the best I had to offer.
I climbed into the lead truck, Lamont into the tenth, and Leclancher, as usual, took over the last truck. Leclancher, with his customary ability to pull a rabbit out of a hat at a critical juncture, had found among his drivers one who spoke some Russian, so we had put him at the controls of the first truck. It might make a good impression.
Once again we had a jeep escort to the border, and there we picked up three others to conduct us as far as Linz. The cocky little sergeant in the jeep that was to lead came over to my truck, squinted up at me and said, “You look nervous this morning, Lieutenant.”
Well, I thought, if it’s that apparent, what’s the use of denying it? “I am,” I said. “This is a big convoy and it’s filled with millions of dollars’ worth of stuff. I’d hate to have anything happen to it.”
He whistled at that. Then, rubbing his hands briskly, he retorted, “And nothing is going to happen to it.”
He took off and we swung in behind him. The first hour was a long one. There was more traffic than ever before—a steady stream of carts all moving toward Linz. At last we shifted into low gear, and I knew that we were on the steep grade leading down to Urfahr. If there were going to be trouble, we’d know it in a minute. At that moment, the sergeant in the lead jeep turned around and waved. I thought, There’s trouble ahead. But he was only signaling that the road was clear.