Deutschland über Alles (Chapter 2 - Past Munich, Germany)

We were sorry to forsake the luxury of the Hotel Post as guests of NSU and to relinquish the rich living and return to our spartan road once again, a very bad second-class road which took us south to Munich. The highways in Germany-apart from the Autobahnen-suffer badly during the winters, which are severe, and each spring and summer are spent on frantic road mending to prepare these routes for another winter onslaught. Hence we found the going very rough in patches, and somewhere along the way we lost our camera tripod and two water bottles, which must have bounced unseen from the pile of luggage behind us. This stretch was a good test and it was obvious-despite our whittling down-that we should have to arrange our packing more securely before long.

In Munich we called at the transport agency to pick up our first batch of cine-film from RedifIusion in London. I still had a few hundred feet left in the valise, which was fortunate because there was no stock for us to collect. Something (inevitably) had gone wrong with the system, and we had arrived too early for the dispatch department of ITV. There was nothing we could do and our exasperation was futile.

It was Saturday morning, and our tight budget would not stand a week-end in Munich. Belgrade was the next pick-up point for film, so we would just have to be economical with our existing stock. Five hundred feet of material went back to London; mostly departure sequences taken at Dover, and establishing shots of France being assailed by two Britons on a German scooter bound for Australia-which given the right scriptwriter could have been made amusing. Anyway, we should have to be very selective in photographic subjects until we reached the Yugoslav capital.

So on a sunny Saturday morning, after gazing at the ornate Hofbrauhaus (where the Big Plot was alleged to have been hatched) and the site of the infamous Beer Hall (where it all started), we let our imagination run riot for a while and saw the throngs of leisurely shoppers, strolling around their virtually rebuilt city, as jack-booted conquerors marching to war. For some reason, however, the centre of Munich reminded me a little of Bath, so we turned our Fatherland product (1956 vintage) in an easterly direction to continue with our Wanderjahr.

We were now, of course, in the American zone of Germany, so I suppose we could not consider it surprising when a couple of mornings later we overtook an empty helicopter parked in the middle of the road: a military hover-plane with large white letters proclaiming that this apparently discarded property had belonged at one time to the USAAF. We had the road to ourselves, and as we moved carefully past this strange metal beast I felt that there must be an explanation for it. I had heard that our transatlantic allies were prosperous, but surely not so much so that they could afford to simply leave the odd helicopter strewn along the highway, not in peace-time, anyway. And it appeared they could not, for, as we stopped to admire this unique road-block, two burly, khaki-clad figures clambered from a nearby ditch, wearing Hollywood expressions-complete with gum-of cynical toughness, accompanying stubble haircuts, calf-length assault boots, and neat little white labels sewn over breast pockets: labels that announced for all to see that here before us were Lieut. S. Antonio and Sgt. Kirschner of the U.S. Army Air Force.

Sergeant Kirschner turned his back modestly to finish his adjustments when he saw Nita. He need not have worried, however, for we were both absorbed in trying to read every one of the literary appendages on the lieutenant's uniform. We dragged our eyes away reluctantly from the captions and looked him straight in the face.

They both nodded grimly at us, replaced their steel helmets, hitched their revolvers, picked up two rifles from the ground and set off to push the helicopter on to the gravel verge. They were evidently on a very important mission. We waited unashamedly to see how it would all end, half-expecting them to make a spinechilling take-off, with ethereal strains of 'Into the Wide Blue Yonder' welling stereophonically from the surrounding hills. We waited, almost at attention, with bated breath.

But we waited in vain. Instead of the soul-stirring musical crescendo there was a dirty little noise from the hooter of an impatient Volkswagen at our rear. We moved hastily from our viewpoint on the crown of the road. Our two heroes, far from leaping athletically into their sky chariot, sat down heavily on a nearby hump of ground and lit cigarettes in stony silence.

Me. 'What's the trouble? Has it broken down?'

Lieut. S. Antonio. 'Outa gas.'

Sgt. Kirschner (glancing at enormous chronometric wristwatch). 'Boy'll bealawng frawm the Deepoh bah thirdee-afIder wi' mower gass.'

Me.'Oh.'

Lieut. A. to Nita. 'Yeah, we gotta be back in Munich by sundown. Say, you two hikin' that heap to Australia?'

Me. ' Yeah. Er, yes.'

Lieut. A. 'Howja go for visas through all these countries?'

Nita. 'Just collect them from the various embassies in London.' Sgt. K. (idly surveying Union Jacks on scooter). 'You English?' Me. 'Yes. You American?' (Exchange of meaning glances, pregnant pause.)

Them. 'Ha, ha.'

Us. 'Ha, ha, ha.'

Me. 'How do you like Germany?'

Lieut. A. 'Not much. I just come from Japan. The people here are sullen and unfriendly. In Japan everything was great, just great.' We all stared at the fuelless helicopter, conjuring up a Japan that was Great. An elderly, bespectacled man with a little boy holding his hand had sprung from somewhere and were peering into the cockpit.

'Kirsch,' said the Lieutenant. 'Better fetch those carbines over here. You know how these Krauts'll go nuts over weapons.'

'Sure,' said the Sergeant, walking over and retrieving the lethal weapons from the reaches of a tempted grandfather. The Lieutenant suddenly became quite garrulous.
'You English are really gone on crazy stunts, ain't you? We had that guy in the States for a while who thrashed across the Atlantic in a waterproof jeep. Benny Carlin or sump'n his name was; and a girl who came across in a rowin' boat.'

Nita said, 'Ben Carlin is an Australian. But then, the love of a challenge is really Commonwealth-wide. Ann Davison is English, though.'

'Yeah, that was the one, Ann Davison.'

'Did you ever read their books?'

'Naw; too busy policin' Nips.' (Our vision of a Japan that was Great wilted a little.)

'Here'za gasswaggon now, Lootenant.'

A large khaki tanker drew up with a flourish and three G.I.s in fatigue uniforms, sans name-tags, jumped down and with perfunctory salutes started to drag the fuel line up to the helicopter.

'Jeez, Lootenant,' said one of the newcomers, 'the Cap'n's wild as a hornet. He's sure gonna chew yore-' Nita coughed diplomatically right on cue, 'an ef'n you ain't back at base in one hour dead, he's markin' you and the Sergeant there down Awol.'

Our Lieutenant received this verbal message from his superior with an inscrutable expression. 'O.K., you guys. Let's have the gas an' you can keep the bull to yourselves.'

The operation was quickly completed. The tanker, with feedpipe recoiled and stowed, backed around and shot off at high speed back towards Munich, and the two aviators climbed into the cockpit and started up.

As the rotor began to whirr round at increasing speed, a steelhelmeted head appeared at the open side window.

'Don't try breaking any speed records on that thing, will you?'

'No fear,' I shouted above the roar. 'We can't afford to run out of petrol!'

They both grinned and rose vertically above our heads. A hand waved and soon the 'copter was just a speck in the distance.

'I've got a feeling,' said my wife, 'that in the not too distant future we'll be wishing we could do that.'