January 1944

Somewhere along rural Route 110, near Berlin, New Hampshire

The two-and-a-half-ton GMC truck bounced and jittered along its route and thudded against the frost heaves with which the heavy New Hampshire winters imposed on the unpaved roads. His head banged against the backboard. Another pain shot through his temples. It had been a hard and slow drive from Boston. All this, after a harrowing journey across the Atlantic. All that, after a seeming eternity in the desert. And he never got to Bavaria.

He was ready to call it quits. Auspiciously known as one of the Monuments Men, Capt. Eugene Pierce was for all his 42 years, ready to retire. The wrinkles around his eyes tightened with every lurch as the deuce-and-a-half rippled across the wooden bridge.

“How many, damned,” he thought out loud, in this maddening journey from Boston to the thick woods of central New Hampshire, trying to recall the events that led him here in the dead of winter.

“Sir?” The driver, perky as a kid, happy as a songbird. Safe from the devastation that raged across two oceans.

“…damned bridges are there in this state?” The truck slammed hard against another frost heave. Ice picks jammed against the inside of his skull. He drew into himself and focused on the pain.

The kid laughed. “Oh, there’s a bunch, sir. But it ain’t too much longer. You’ll see”. He grinned. Toothy. Red hair. Eyes ablaze as he swung the wheel to the right and left, rarely looking at the road.