And after all that planning nothing had happened, until three weeks ago. Then everything had happened at once. The orders directed me to report to SHAEF for duty with the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives Section, G-5, and additional duty with the Allied Control Council for Germany. The papers had been full of stories about German salt mines—the big one at Merkers where our troops had found the Nazi gold and the treasures from the Berlin museums. I was going to Germany. Would I find anything like that? I had flown to Washington to receive last-minute instructions. I was to make the trip across by air and was given an extra allowance of twenty-five pounds to enable me to take along a dozen Baedekers and a quantity of photographic paper for distribution among our officers in the field. I had been introduced to Craig Smyth while in the midst of these final preparations. Like me, he was a naval lieutenant and his orders were identical with mine. He was a grave young Princetonian, formerly on the staff of the National Gallery of Art in Washington. It was raining when we reached Stevensville, Newfoundland, early the next morning. After an hour’s stop we were on our way again. Shortly before noon we struck good weather and all day long sea and sky remained unvaryingly blue. Late in the afternoon we landed on the island of Terceira in the Azores. We had set our watches ahead two hours at Stevensville. Now we set them ahead again. We took off promptly at seven. This was the last lap of the journey—we’d be in Paris in the morning. Presently our fellow passengers settled down for the night. Two of the cushioned chairs were empty, so Craig and I took possession. They were more comfortable than the cots, and as soon as the steward turned out the lights I dropped off to sleep. It was still dark when I awoke hours later, but there was enough light for me to distinguish two black masses of land rising from the sea. On one, the beacon of a lighthouse revolved with monotonous regularity. We had just passed over two of the Channel Islands. The dawn came rapidly and a pink light edged the eastern horizon. It was not long before we sighted the coast of France. We flew into rosy clouds and, as they billowed about the plane, we caught tantalizing glimpses of the shore line below. The steward pointed out one promontory and told us it was Brest. Soon we had a spectacular view of Mont St. Michel and the long causeway over which I had driven years before on a sketching tour in Normandy. I wondered what had become of Mère Poulard and her wonderful omelettes and lobster. Some people said they had brought more visitors to Mont St. Michel than the architecture. Very likely she was dead and the Germans had probably disposed of her fabulous cuisine.