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Amazon Drive Cloud storage from Amazon. He has lodged a claim with the German finance ministry to receive a reward of ten percent of the treasure's value should someone get to it before him.
And he is appealing to the Central Council for Jews in Germany to put pressure on Berlin for a dig to go ahead as property looted from Jews during the war is among the loot buried in old - and booby trapped - mine workings near the village of Arrach close to the border with Czech Republic.
Mr Glueck's hunt for the treasure reads like a thriller and has had as many twists and turns as one down the years. Hardline Nazis plotted their postwar resistance fantasy in the Alps with the Werewolf units and this treasure was intended to fund them.
The plan was for the train to cross the border at Passau into Austria and the loot to be stored in a salt mine.
But Allied air attacks and advancing Russians made the train with its valuable cargo hide for three days in a tunnel at Tittling in Bavaria.
The SS had a functioning radio post in the forest at Arrach. This, says Glueck, was where it was to end up - and where it still lies.
A few days after the transport, Soviet troops were able to intercept a Nazi radio statement: Ask for further instructions.
Kaltenbrunner made it to his Austrian homeland where he was arrested on May 12, by a US military patrol. In the garden of his villa, buried among the beetroot, was found 76 kilograms of gold in six bars - a small portion of the train's cargo.
On October 1, , three days before his 43rd birthday, Kaltenbrunner was found guilty of war crimes at Nuremberg, sentenced to death and executed on October 16 without revealing the whereabouts of the loot.
In Glueck, from Heidelberg, was giving an interview to Bavaria TV about his various worldwide treasure hunts that had taken him to Greece, Portugal and America and made him well known among the world's metal detecting fraternity.
Afterwards he was contacted by a man who said he had an old map that he might find "interesting. The map, he was told, had belonged to an SS officer captured by the Russians and shipped to Siberia.
Before he was executed, says Glueck, he handed the map with the details of the Arrach treasure on it to a Wehrmacht soldier POW in his camp called Willi Jahnke.
Mr Jahnke survived his harsh captivity to return to his home which lay in what was to become Communist East Germany.
In he stood with his wife in the Bavarian Forest and poked around in the ground. But he did not understand the map and the markings upon it. Locals, however, told him of the "night and fog" action that took place there early in May when Polish forced laborers had to reload heavy ammunition crates on to 20 available hay carts.
The inhabitants of Arrach had to stay in their houses, keeping the shutters closed. Those who did not obey the order were punished - like a teenager who had crept into the forest and was later found shot dead.
The twelve forced laborers who had brought the laden wagons into the forest were shot in Arrach three days later.
He stayed at his post, helping to usher in the era of M1 electrics, high level platforms, and electric service up the Port Jefferson branch. He wished no retirement party, but the guys threw one anyway.
He received a watch, along with one for my mother. He sold the house in Syosset and moved to rural Maine where he raised laying hens, a few lambs, and spent quiet hours fishing from his first and only boat.
He became a member of the town ambulance squad, raised prize pumpkins, and got to see deer browsing in his field each morning. One of his friends in management stayed on, got a great retirement, and died of a stroke on his first vacation, never having lived long enough to enjoy the fruits of uninterrupted tranquility.
When Dad died, we had a memorial service, heavily attended by local residents. We cremated his remains, and scattered the ashes around his gardens.
Four hundred miles away in New York, thousands of commuters raced back and forth over the rails he tended, never having known the contributions of one man who made the trains run.
Glueck retired from the LIRR after 43 years of service, in One story I did not put in the piece was how he put the slow order on the K4s , my baby prior to the derailment near Amott.
Frank Aikman, who my father deeply disliked, ordered him to take the slow order off the train, but my father told him, "Mr.
Aikman, if you want the order taken off, you do it. Goodfellow wanted to make a big publicity bash about it and called out the news media to document the first train through this modern improvement.
An enormous floral wreath had been constructed at great expense over the track where the first train would arrive. Instead, a freight was sent through.
An oversize box car hooked the wreath and carried it the rest of the way into Jamaica, with Goodfellow screaming and raving about the loss of the expensive arrangement.
I guess some shipper got a thrill out of being recognized with flowers! Until , we lived in Mineola. I was born in Nassau Hospital, which probably explains a great deal about my love of trains.
Harrington was always interested in what we were going after, where we were going to rent a boat, and wished us good luck. The whole place smelled of hot ties and creosote, warm air, old bait, and Diesel oil.
That place always intrigued me because of the stacks of tug parts, cabins, wheel houses, and sheet steel.
They almost always had something interesting in the berth, whether it was the H. The beach was a joke, since it was mostly broken clam and oyster shells, or broken concrete with hunks of twisted re-bar sticking out of it!
My brother took some of his earnings from driving deliveries for Jackson Pharmacy in Syosset, and purchased a box of sandworms.
They were nasty things! Oh, how we fished! I doubt there was anything as much fun as catching flounders from a rowboat with your big brother, then occasionally stopping for a drink of Pepsi out of the bottle and scarfing down some ten-cent chocolate Hostess cupcakes.
When the fishing part of the day was done, two very brown, tired, but happy boys would head back to the Oyster Bay yard.
One trip I specifically recall put us in the P54 combine at the rear of the outgoing train. Dan Harrington had us hang our burlap bag of fish in the baggage section, while we sat in the passenger compartment on the dark green leatherette seats.
Harrington told me that he had something for me if I wanted it after he made his way through the train. When he returned, he handed me a huge rubber banded wad of punched ticket stubs, collected after the coach string had made its outbound trip from Jamaica to the Bay and on the return.
It must have held ticket checks in every conceivable color of which they were printed. It was the only time I remember purple ticket checks amongst the more familiar reds, greens, and oranges.
I kept that wad of ticket checks from that trip until I was into high school. To this day, I have no idea what the different colors represented, but I remember Dan Harrington, and I remember changing trains at Mineola.
From that point on, the best part of the trip was over. For the record, we filleted the flounders back at home and yes, we ate the pure white meat.
And I wonder if boys today have that same chance with men who represented the Long Island Rail Road in the manner of great railroaders, like Dan Harrington?
Steam lines kept the cars alive. Amidst the tracks little B-1 boxcabs raced back and forth, assembling and cutting trains for imminent delivery to the heart of Manhattan.
Occasionally, the overhead catenaries would crackle and sparks flew. I have to be honest here, and tell you, I don't remember seeing the big P5 and P5a motors.
I think they were relegated to freight service by this time. What I do remember, and vividly so, were the GG1's, in an assortment of colors.
You couldn't separate Sunnyside from the GG1 fleet. I recall seeing the big G's in Brunswick green, what appeared as black, with huge keystone's, a few in cat-whisker stripes, some in red, and almost always, one waiting for "The Keystone", painted silver, with a Tuscan red stripe, running hip to hip.
When you consider the vast size of the fleet, a high percentage was always waiting, humming, available, at Sunnyside.
The assignments could be to tow anything from a Jersey local, a Washington express, or "The Broadway". Here I might make the admission that they were so common too.
Each GG1 looked much like another, excepting paint, as I mentioned. When I started seriously taking pictures, I neglected the G's - not entirely, but seriously.
Why wasted film on a locomotive that would be around forever? Oh yes, I took pictures of the GG1's, but by the time I started in earnest, they were being defaced with the letters "PC".
Who would want a pictures of those? Look, I was a purist! I imagine the same was said of K4's and J2 Hudsons prior to the death of steam.
We rode the Long Island into Pennsylvania Station, then found our track assignment. We had a sleeper, placed about midway through the train.
There was a lounge car, and ahead of that, the diner. My sister was a college Junior, an English major, knew everything, so to my disgust, she exercised experimentation with "the sophistication of tobacco" on that trip.
Of course that was supposed to be aboard the "20th Century Limited", and we were on Pennsy tracks, and besides, Cary Grant wasn't on this train.
Who was on this train was the wife and daughter of actor Jose' Ferrer. Molly Ferrer was my age, and we became companions on the trip south.
Other than Molly's friendship, I can say the train was the best part of the trip, family dynamics being what they were.
Another funny story was at the conclusion of the Floral Park elevation. This is set between the age of seven years, up to about fifteen, so that places it between and Realize that up until , the accepted way of travel across the Atlantic was by ocean liner, and the back of National Geographic always carried advertising for the Northern Pacific or Great Northern railroads.
The Boeing was not yet a "come on", and passenger service was still profitable, along with contracts to haul the mail. Railway Express Agency still thrived.
There was no other description that could do it justice. The tracks were never empty, always filled with a rainbow of passenger cars.
At anytime of day, you could easily identify Union Pacific sleepers in yellow, Atlantic Coast Line Pullmans in purple, stainless steel strings for Seaboard's "Silver Meteor", MoPac cars in blue-gray, and Tuscan coaches, diners, and sleepers for the home road.
I'm not talking about fifty active cars, either. I mean, perhaps two-hundred or more. When I was not exploring the train with my new friend, I rode in our compartment, watching the railroad yards, seeing some of the worst sides of towns from New York to Florida, and at one point, seeing strings of wooden refrigerator cars being scrapped.
I always looked for steam locomotives, but I saw none. Once I decided to try washing, using the pull down sink in the car.
It filled by push-button, and there were tiny bars of soap wrapped in blue Pullman paper. I still have one of those, forty-five years later.
The track was not conducive to holding water in a steel sink, and pretty soon our compartment floor looked like the foredeck of the "Titanic".
I used a huge number of paper towels to mop up that mess. My mother preferred the lounge car, as did my dopey sister. Mom would order a drink and started to argue Civil Rights and racism with some geezer from Georgia.
The geezer claimed to be a professor of psychology and being a smoker himself, told my mother he wanted to do a study of my anger with my sister's lighting up.
He called the black staff on the train "darkies". I didn't like him and the geezer was full of hot air, anyway.
There was no study. I still don't like him, and I'm certain he's been dead for decades! Someone else I remember was the Porter assigned to our car.
He was a black man, as I guess they all were in A very deferential man, he was dedicated to the Seaboard Line, and anxious to make us as comfortable as he could.
It seems to me that he not only made up every bed, he was on call 24 hours a day, for any need or want from a passenger. He brought tea, and at night, we left our shoes outside the compartment door and he shined them.
It seemed to me, they couldn't pay me enough money to do half the work with which our Porter was saddled. At night, I slept near the window, or as close as possible.
I recall rolling through towns, past blinking crossings, past headlights, against north-bound freights, and standing for periods without motion.
My mother told me to leave the shade down so strangers couldn't look in and watch us. Nobody was going to watch us unless they stood about nine feet tall and were extremely bored!
Eventually, however, I fell asleep. In the morning, we awoke with the train moving at a steady pace through endless orange groves.
It was an amazing sight, and still registers with me today. We endured a week with my Grandparents, second degree sunburns, and no swimming, because my grandparents didn't like it.
When we took the train home, I remember two things; One, Boca Raton was a flag stop, and some guy stood out on the track, lazily dragging a handkerchief left and right at crotch level to flag the train, and two, spraying Bactene on my sister's back all the way home.
So what does the story about my Florida trip have to do with Sunnyside Yard? Nothing, other than the train originated there, and it opened the secret of what those innumerable strings of colored cars contained.
It is probably worth saying that this was railroad passenger travel in the old sense, prior to Amtrak, and while management still believed a comeback was possible.
Like a patient with some lingering terminal disease, "The Silver Meteor", "Southern Crescent", and even "The 20th Century", were doomed, while ridership grew thinner and thinner.
The last time I visited Sunnyside, it was late at night, and I was in the company of an adult railfan, on our way to Pennsylvania to photograph a steam fan trip.
This was when I saw the hidden gem, last of the species, reduced to work train status, the last DD By this time, she had a black rectangle on her side, with huge white numerals for the Penn Central.
I walked over and touched the side, just so I could say I touched an active member of the species. I didn't have my camera or tripod, so no picture.
As far as the tracks of the yard were concerned, they were still in place, but vacant. No passenger cars staged a comeback any longer, and the big show was over.
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