THE next morning I was up before six and had early breakfast. It
was a wonderful day for the trip, brilliantly clear. The corporal
in our office took me out to the airfield, the one near Hanau where
Craig Smyth and I had landed weeks before. It was going to be
fun to see Craig again and find out what he had been up to since
we had parted that morning in Bad Homburg. The drive to
the airfield took about forty-five minutes. There was a wait of
half an hour at the field, and it was after ten when we took off in
our big C-47. We flew over little villages with red roofs, occasion-
ally a large town--but none that I could identify--and now and
then a silvery lake.

Just before we reached Munich, someone said, "There's Dachau."
Directly below us, on one side of a broad sweep of dark pine trees,
we saw a group of low buildings and a series of fenced-in en-
closures. On that sunny morning the place looked deserted and
singularly peaceful. Yet only a few weeks before it had been filled
with the miserable victims of Nazi brutality.

In another ten minutes we landed on the dusty field of the
principal Munich airport. Most of the administration buildings
had a slightly battered look but were in working order. It was a
welcome relief to take refuge from the blazing sunshine in the cool
hallway of the main building. The imposing yellow brick lobby

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