u/11thCavTrooper

Cold Warriors: A Prologue Short

Episode 0: Guten Morgen Deutschland

We left Gander Air Base in the middle of the night; one filled with a depressing combination of fog and rain. Our subsonic flight to the east seemed to shift the darkness into fast forward as we flew headlong into the rising sun. I nudged Morel awake as we cleared the clouds on our descent into Frankfurt. Everything not covered with buildings or plowed pavement was white. Morel, a native Floridian, was stunned.

“How come it's all white?” he asked.

“That is snow,” I answered, watching his face as he tried to gain some understanding.

“That much?” he said, more to himself than an actual question.

Frankfurt was indeed buried under at least 10 inches of new snow. He was silent until we neared the runway.

“Is it cold?” he said with his face pressed to the window.

I could have tried to explain, but the explanation would be self-revealing all too soon. As we jolted onto the runway, the notion of who I was, what I was, and where I was all melted into an adrenaline-charged lump in my throat. Take the hill! Survive! Go back to the world!

After waiting around in the terminal for our bags to show up, and for the Army to figure out all the paperwork necessary to claim its human baggage, we boarded a bus for the Transient Barracks. Even with the relatively good German language skills I had acquired from Frau Bell in high school, culture shock was a hard, sudden reality. Everything was foreign except the “Trink Coca-Cola” signs. Some things, like life, death, taxes, and evidently Coca-Cola, are universal.

The Transient Barracks complex looked more like a prison compound. Located somewhere in what I estimated to be central Frankfurt, they were surrounded by stone walls at least 15 feet high and strung with barbed wire along the top. Four large, three-story buildings occupied the rear portion of the compound. The front area had two or three smaller buildings (I learned later that one was a mini PX / barber shop) and to the right as you entered the main gate were two other large buildings. One housed the mess hall and a dingy little NCO Club (serving cheap pizza and beer), the other was a gymnasium.

We fell out of the buses into a loose formation with all of our bags, about 45 of us. As our names were called from a roster, we were assigned to different rooms and given transient orders specifying when to report to the admin room. Morel was assigned to a different building. I never saw him again.

I felt alone, and the sense of self-preservation made me cautious about locking everything anytime I even turned my back. At the appointed time, I reported to the admin room for processing. A very bored Sergeant reviewed all my paperwork, then determined I was “duty specific,” meaning I was already assigned to a unit. He gave me a brief description of the facilities, chow times, a time to report to the gymnasium the next morning, and a strict warning not to leave the post.

There were still a few hours till dinner mess, so I sat out in the commons area hoping to catch a glimpse of Morel. Seated across from me at another table were a group of MPs that had evidently all trained together. I could hear their conversation as they nervously joked together. An officer came into the room, looked around, and approached their table. It seems they had all trained as canine handlers. All their dogs had died from a failure in the oxygen supply on the plane over from the US. They were being split up and reassigned to regular MP posts throughout Germany. Their disbelief devolved into blind rage and then stunned silence.

Feeling like I was an intruder on their grief, I returned to my room to check on my gear. I wrote a short letter home. My roommate came back to grab his hat and said he was on his way to the chow hall, so I joined him. After dinner I went back to my room, took stock of my belongings once again and repacked a few items. I had agreed to meet my roommate in the NCO club for a few games of pool, so I checked my locks and walked across the lot to the club. Cheap pizza never tasted so good. We played pool, plugged the jukebox, shared the camaraderie of transients, and clung unknowingly to anything American. Breakfast and assembly was scheduled very early the next morning so I got up to leave. Walking toward the door, I recognized the MP group from earlier in the day. Together in a semi-circular booth, their grief had evolved into flowing tears, cursing, and beers.

Halfway across the compound, I stopped in the cold, clear January night and looked skyward. Although I don't claim to be an astronomer, I could tell that this was not the same night sky I was used to seeing in North Loup, Nebraska. North Loup seemed like a long way away, in both time and distance. I pondered just how far away as I lay in my bunk, looking out the window over the top of the barbed wire. Checking my locks once more, I set my alarm clock close to my head and tried to sleep. I think I did.

My one-night roommate was still asleep when I left for breakfast. He was still asleep when I returned to pick up my bags and head to the gymnasium. He wasn't scheduled to ship out for another two days. I checked the area for anything I might have left unpacked, grabbed my duffel bag, suitcase, and gym bag and hauled everything over to the gym. There were at least a hundred other GIs sitting in the bleachers. A group of sergeants and officers down on the floor talked to each other, hurried in and out, shuffled papers, and talked on phones for no less than two hours.

Finally, they turned on a PA microphone and told us to “take seats and listen up—as your name is called, bring your gear to the floor and report to Sgt. Bell.” Sgt. Bell raised his hand and stepped a couple paces to the side of the group. Gradually, in lots of two, three, or four, names were called. The GIs would report to Sgt. Bell, listen to some instructions, and exit through a side door with one of the other NCOs.

“Neary, Michael... Keown, Thomas... Davis, Harry.”

Of course, no one ever pronounces my name correctly, but this was the closest I'd heard all day so I grabbed my bags and made my way down to the floor. Two other GIs got there about the same time I did. We eyed each other like grade schoolers picking sides for a kickball game. Sgt. Bell read off our names again and I confirmed I was indeed part of this group. He quietly studied some paperwork in his hands, then looked up at us.

“You three are reporting to the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment, 3rd Squadron, in Bad Hersfeld.”

I knew I was going to the 11th ACR, but Fulda was the town on my enlistment papers, so I questioned the Sergeant.

“The headquarters is in Fulda, but the 3rd is in Bad Hersfeld. That’s where you boys are going.”

I was trying to decide if this was significant when he handed me three large manila envelopes.

“Your poop sheet says you have some German language skills, so you're going to help me make sure all three of you make it to your post. Grab your bags and follow these two Sergeants to the van outside, they'll take you down to the bahnhof (train station) and get you squared away. Good luck, Troopers.”

During the van ride to the train station, it became evident that Neary and Davis knew each other. They had trained together in Artillery School at Fort Sill. Harry Davis was a big brute from West Virginia with a wild look in his eye that said, “I'm gonna raise hell and there ain't nothing you can do about it.” Michael Neary was a natural as his sidekick, average in stature, the son of a hard-working blue-collar family in Buffalo, NY.

I'm sure we made some small talk, but I wasn't part of their team yet and my thoughts were racing by faster than the shops and street signs on the road we took to the station. Everything I thought I knew seemed absurd in relation to the overwhelming combination of antique architecture and shiny new buildings. I had taken two train trips as a very small child but remembered nothing from the experiences other than the fact that I had ridden on them. The notion of taking a train to our post was such a sudden reality I didn't have time to form my expectations. As it turned out, no expectations could have prepared me for the Frankfurt Bahnhof. The station was of such immense proportions I was stunned. As the van stopped along the curb by an entryway, I couldn't even see the building’s full dimensions.

All understanding is accomplished by interpreting what we see or experience in terms of what we have previously seen or experienced. I had nothing in my past that allowed me to relate to what I was seeing. The Frankfurt Bahnhof has 14 railroad tracks that lead to its seemingly infinite interior. The translucent ceiling appears to hang in space, hundreds of feet above the platform. The volume of space contained in the station is such that one hardly notices the massive infrastructure of steel beams that support the building. Entire passenger trains seem no more significant in this space than trucks at a loading dock.

One end is completely open where the trains enter. The enclosed end houses a ticket office, baggage handling rooms, various shops, and doors that led to other, unknown places. Up a flight of stairs was a USO station. I already had our tickets, so the two escorts led us up the flight of stairs and we locked our bags in some lockers. Back downstairs, they took us on a brief tour of the platforms, acquainting us with the track from which our train would depart. One of the Sergeants pointed to a man behind the desk in the USO and told us if we had questions to ask him. With that they were gone, and our isolation from familiarity grew more intense.

We had a good three-hour wait for our Abfahrt (departure), so Davis and Neary went straight back to the USO. I retraced our steps to Track 12 where we would board our train. A vendor was selling hot bratwurst and brötchen from a pushcart. Another was selling flowers. I did not yet understand that most German businesspeople would gladly accept US dollars and provide Deutschmark change (they enjoyed a healthy profit on their makeshift exchange rate). The bratwurst smelled delicious in the cold air, but I rejoined the guys upstairs and settled for a bag of chips and Coke from the vending machines.

The crowd of GIs thinned out as the afternoon wore on. Without betraying my concern that I might cause our threesome to miss the train, I confirmed our departure details with the man at the desk. Everything was as I thought, but he did caution me on the punctuality of the German train system. If a departure is scheduled for 4:00 PM, the train will be well on its way by 4:02!

At 3:30, I suggested to Davis and Neary that we grab our bags out of the lockers and go wait on the platform. They were just as bored with waiting as I, and we struck up a conversation about our upcoming train ride. To this point, the three of us had been polite strangers, like people sharing the waiting room at a doctor’s office. However, the Army has a certain structure that dictates to some extent how you choose your friends. In basic training, we were platooned in alphabetical order and consequently my friends had names like Kelley, Kading, Kendra, Louderbach, and Johnson. Camaraderie of circumstance was now beginning to forge its special bond between Davis, Neary, and me.

The steady coming and going of trains, and the attendant bustle of people boarding and de-boarding can create a lot of commotion and with it, anxiety and confusion. A train pulled onto the track behind us. Was this the one? Were we facing the wrong side of the platform? Convinced I was correct, we held steady as the other train loaded and pulled out. Right on time, another arrived on Track 12. As it slowed to a steamy stop in front of us, I noticed a “2” on the side of the car, right next to the doorway. Correctly assuming this indicated 2nd class (our tickets were for 2nd class), we hurried to board the car directly in front of us.

The train car had a narrow corridor on one side which allowed access to four individual cabins along the opposite side. Struggling down the corridor with our bags, we peeked into each cabin till we found the third one to be empty. The entry door slid open to the right. Each cabin has two rows of three seats, facing each other. Above the seats were luggage racks, a larger one on top and a narrower one below it. The outer wall of the cabin had a large window extending from the ceiling to approximately three feet above floor level. The window was divided into three panels. The center section was one solid pane of glass while the two side sections could be opened by sliding the top half down.

I took a seat next to the window, stowing my suitcase up top and forcing my duffel bag under my seat. Neary took the center seat on the opposite side and Davis took the seat nearest the door on my side. We had only barely had time to get seated when the train jostled to a start. The jolt of the train beginning to move also seemed to have brought us to a new realization. The past few days had been one blunt awakening after another. Leaving home after the holidays with family. Processing for overseas deployment. Flying over. A day in the Transient Barracks. Orders to go. The trip to the train station. The train station. And now, the three of us, pretty much strangers, on a train heading to some place named Bad Hersfeld.

We cleared the station, slow at first, making a few stops on the way out of Frankfurt at smaller stations. The sun was hanging low in the west as the suburbs gave way to the German countryside. A lot of it looked familiar. Scattered houses, small farms, pastures, and hillsides. Yet everything was just a little different. Maybe it was the architecture, or the more compact nature of the farms, or the look of the farm animals, but it was different. Between taking in every new thing we could see and fighting the fear of the unknown, it was hard to maintain a coherent pattern of thought.

In what seemed a moment, the sun was behind the hills and darkness settled outside the train, kept from entering our cabin only by a couple of small fluorescent tubes and a light from the hallway. Davis was the first to break the silence.

“Hey Keown, didn't they say you spoke German? Let's go find some Kraut babes and you can rap with them for us!”

His words shook me from my trancelike stare out the window into the blackness. “Uh... yeah. Sure.”

With that, he was up and opening the door out into the hallway of our train car. Neary was right on his heels and their momentum kind of carried me along with them. I took a quick look around to make sure I could remember our cabin since ALL OF OUR WORLDLY POSSESSIONS were in there, unguarded. Little did I know that would be the first of uncountable occasions on which Harry would lead us away from reason and into the world of “why shouldn't we?”.

As we made our way down the narrow corridor of a hall, we looked into each cabin and made comments on each of the inhabitants. After passing through two cars, the inevitable happened... Kraut babes... three of them, were headed down the corridor our way. The distance between us closed and when the timing was right I blurted out, in German, “Hello, my name is Thomas, what are your names?”

Hearing the words come out of my mouth startled me. Their response was even more startling because I could understand them. Frau Bell had taught me well! Then it hit me... what do I say now? Our canned conversations from class did not involve trying to hit on girls. “We are in the basement, don't bump your head on the lamp when you come down” isn't exactly a pick-up line!

I struggled through any phrases I could conjure that might apply, but all I could do was elicit giggles and polite looks of surprise. The moment was over, and they moved down the corridor, giggling and casting occasional glances back at us, then more giggling.

“What'd they say, Keown... what'd they say?” Davis wanted to know.

“They liked me and Neary but wanted nothing to do with you!” I teased, feeling emboldened from the seemingly successful first foray into the German language.

“No they didn't!” He shoved me a little to make his point.

For some reason, it seemed like we all took heart from the encounter. We'd pretty much failed miserably. But we had communicated with German girls—we had a chance. We walked along to the next car... didn't see anything interesting and headed back to the safe familiarity of our cabins. Our bags were untouched.

Settling into our seats, we were just starting to wonder how the post would be when the conductor knocked on the door to our cabin.

“Your tickets please,” he spoke in very good English with just a hint of his native accent.

We handed him our tickets, which were nothing more than little cardboard rectangles about half the size of a stick of gum. My confidence was still high from our recent experience with the girls.

“Wie viel mehr halten bis zum Bad Hersfeld?” (How many more stops till Bad Hersfeld) I blurted out.

The conductor stopped cold still. He looked at me, first in surprise, then nodding his head as if we'd just become the best of friends. With a broad smile, he said slowly and clearly, “Es gibt noch vier mehr halten bis zum Bad Hersfeld.” (Four more stops before Bad Hersfeld). He handed Neary back his ticket, nodded in my direction again, and left our cabin.

Frau Bell was, in that instant, my hero. However much fun we made of her back in high school German class, that woman had taught me how to speak German. I could, at some level at least, communicate in this new world.

We counted the stops as the train began to clear out the further we got away from Frankfurt. At one point, the conductor stopped back, stuck his head in the door, and looked directly at me.

“Bad Hersfeld am nächste Halt. Warten Sie neben der Ausgang.” (Next stop is Bad Hersfeld, wait by the exit door).

He smiled, nodded, and went on his way. He was a few steps down the corridor before my brain was able to finish the translation. Remembering the warning earlier in the day about the punctuality of the German train system, I told Neary and Davis our stop was coming and that we should grab our bags and wait by the exit door.

“Damn, Keown... you can really rap that Kraut crap!” Davis said as we hauled our stuff down the corridor. I didn't yet realize that being able to “rap that Kraut crap” would open doors to me that were closed for most G.I.s.

Alerts!!!

Cold War Memoir Prequel - Free on Amazon Till Sunday night

Free Prequel to my Cold War army memoir

Free Memoir Prequel about my time in the 11th Cav during the Cold War in Germany, pulling border guard in the mid 1970s.

Book Idea

Memoirs of Cold War service in the 70s

Prequel to memoir. Here are a few pages to the prequel for my memoir about my time in the army during cold war of the mid 1970s. I'd really like any feedback.

Greetings and Halo!