u/11thCavTrooper

A majority of my memoir about my Army life durin the mid 1970s cold war is harsh and ugly. I have this chapter as a "breather" chapter to let readers catch a breath from the heaviness of the rest.

How does this chapter land with you? Suggestions? Feedback?

Chapter 18 

The Eis Cafe

 On occasion, I just wanted to get away from the Army. Get away from my army friends. Get away from my “Killer” persona. I wanted to be old Tom. On one such spring Sunday afternoon I walked downtown, taking my time, stopping on the bridge to watch the river flow underneath. Time to feel the warm sun, breathe the fresh air and just be alive.

Walking down main street, across from Bratspies food stand, and maybe a block further down the road, I noticed a little shop with an open door at the top of half a dozen steps. The sign above the door was “Eis Cafe”. I wasn’t wanting ice cream, nor coffee, nor anything to eat, but I was drawn up the steps and in by the sounds of Elvis crooning “Teddy Bear” from inside.

Two older ladies gave me the standard once over glare reserved for GIs, but then just as quickly went back to their quiet conversation. They didn’t look like the “Teddy Bear” type, which I now saw was coming from a juke box in the corner across from the door.

Still trying to just take in the place, a young lady emerged from behind a door at the counter and smiled invitingly.

“Will you be wanting to sit down? Choose where you would like.”

So, I sat at a small table near the juke box. Noticing a menu on the table I began to read. A selection of ice creams, hot chocolate, coffee drinks, tea, sweet rolls and hot lemonade. Hot lemonade! I’d never heard of it. I don’t drink coffee or tea, but it immediately struck me as something that I’d like.

The young lady came back shortly and asked what I’d like.

“Heiße Limonade, bitte,” I replied with my best German inflections that would have made my high school German teacher, Frau Bell, very proud.

She looked at me in a pleased manner and replied

“No, I’m thinking you want a beer!” and snatched the Budweiser stocking cap I was wearing off my head, waggling her finger at me

“Good men don’t wear hats in such places.”

And was off to fetch my hot lemonade. She took my hat. In a moment she was back with my drink, but not my hat.

“I am Krista. I will keep your hat and you must come back another time to ask for it.”

Her manner was so polite, and innocent and delightful that I simply nodded

“OK.”

I took my time and thoroughly enjoyed the hot lemonade. Krista let me be, just looking and nodding or raising her eyebrows from time to time as she waited on other guests. When I was finished and ready to leave, I placed four Mark coins on the table, although the Lemonade was only 2 Mark 10 pfennig. I waved a greeting and started to leave.

“You mustn’t need to tip as in America,” she said, grabbing the coins from the table.

I laughed and said

“It’s not a tip, it is for protection of my hat till I come back.”

She smiled, nodded, paused for a second, then turned away and said nothing.

Leaving the Eis Cafe back out onto the familiar main street, it was almost as if I’d been in a different world. It was a place that was quiet, peaceful and, well, not meant to cater to GIs.

I came back often. Krista was almost always working there. She was maybe 18. Probably the owner’s daughter I thought. She was always cheerful to see me and never failed to mention that I “wasn’t ready to get my hat back yet”. We flirted innocently, but not seriously. I learned it was her that liked Elvis, so I always made a point to drop some coins into the juke box and let her pick her favorites. It was a relationship that wasn’t a relationship at all. A connection maybe.

On one occasion I came to have a hot chocolate and just sit and read in the quiet. I greeted Krista as always, ordered hot chocolate and gave her some coins for the juke box. To the strains of “Are You Lonesome Tonight”, I pulled my paperback version of the Odessa File from my backpack and opened it to start reading. Krista came back with my hot chocolate, set it on the table, then sternly said

“Thomas, this is something you cannot do!” with a bit of shock and a trace of disappointment in her face. I questioned what she meant. She took the book from my hand, closed it and pointed to the cover. On the cover was one of the German Army eagle emblems encompassing a Swastika.

“One cannot display the Swastika in public!”

I tried to pass it off

“It’s only a book,” but she was adamant.

“It is a book with a Swastika on the front!”

Seeing how upset she was I took the book and put it back into my bag.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t know.”

“Many people has died because of that evil thing. Now you know.”

In a flicker of a moment, her demeanor returned to Elvis loving Krista and mocked me

“And for that, you do not get your hat today.”

That incident stuck with me, and I’ve thought about that moment often. Perhaps her family had experienced deaths in the war. A large portion of the population hadn’t really been for the war, but they were loyal Germans.

I was a regular visitor to the Eis Cafe and had nothing but enjoyable interactions with Krista, along with the best hot chocolate and hot lemonade I’ve ever had. Then, about 2 months before I left for the U.S., Krista was not there. I tried to inquire from the new waitress but just got a simple

“She’s not here anymore.”

The juke box was silent.

I have often wondered what Krista’s future was like.

I wonder if she still has my stocking cap.

I published a one chapter prequel on Kindle/Amazon did very little marketing or advertising outside of affinitiy groups and got OK results. I've got the full memoir completed now and will be publishing it on the same platform in about a month.

For others who have used Kindle/Amazon, have you done both online and printed orders? If you choose to do both, do you need to have a minimal number of paperback or hardback orders, or can you let the buy choose and then Amazon/Kindle delivers what the buyer wants, one order at a time?

Have you had more success with online orders or physical books?

Thanks for you input and advice.

I see a lot of posts here regarding word counts.

"I'm trying to cut my word count by 25K words."

"My first draft is only 80K words, how do I boost that to 100K"

" Is 150k words too many?"

etc.

I'm not an experienced writer, just doing my first.

Is there a formal guidance in the craft that suggests word counts?

I've just kind of felt there are two boundaries:

1. Write enough to tell your story

2. Omit needless words (actually, pretty, that, and any words / passages not related to the story).

Thanks in advance for sharing your knowledge.

Chapter 9

Kusack Says Goodbye

 

Spring decided to stay. April warmth filtered from the sunny blue sky, no clouds to be seen. Belton perched in his stoop. That’s what he called the window ledge..his stoop, transporting him back on the street in Jamaica, Queens. He’d sit there for hours when he not strung out. Puffing occasionally on a Kool, watching dudes walking back and forth from the barracks to the snack bar, coming back from the hill, or turning left and heading out the front gate. Mostly he’d just sit and watch, and I sensed him seeing things far away, or not seeing anything at all. Somehow, I knew not to bother him when he was on the stoop.

 A key jostled the door and Kusack entered, only about three steps. He looked over at me and shook his head.

 “Cruit, you need to get it together. I mean it, get your stuff together. Belton and Hicks can’t carry you forever!”

 I’d been there about four months, so I felt pretty comfortable with all the commo guys. Kusack, assigned special duty at the front gate since I arrived didn’t visit us often. I hadn’t really melded with him yet. My trip to Wildflecken in February meant I was not a cruit anymore, in the strictest sense of the word.

 “I went to Wildflecken in February while you were laxing here on that sham gate duty…I ain’t no cruit!”

 He smiled that all-American killer smile.

 “You’ll always be a cruit in my book Keeeewon.”

 For a long moment he paused and just stared at me. No emotion on his face, but I could see a thousand thoughts passing over his mind. Then he looked away, toward Belton, in a way that made me feel as if I’d been summarily dismissed.

 “Nice day for the stoop Bo,” he said.

 Belton had looked over when Kusack entered but had as quickly turned to look out the window, ignoring Kusack’s exchange with me. He continued to look out the window for an awkwardly long time, drew deep on his Kool, held it, blew a smoke ring, slowly exhaling the rest of the drag. He turned his head toward Kusack as if he was facing a firing squad.

 “What the hell a country boy like you know about hanging on a stoop?”

 Belton seemed serious.

 “Damn man, nice day, sun is shining, no weekend duty, good times!” said Kusack, unaffected by Belton’s tone.

 “Yep, just another freaking day in paradise Kusack, you got it.”

 Their eyes locked in a silent exchange. During the silence I noticed Kusack had a pair of jump boots dangling from one hand.

 “Well, whenever you manage to drag your lazy butt out of the stoop, put a shine on these boots and take care of them for me.”

 With that, Kusack tossed the boots on Belton’s messy bunk. Ike watched the boots fly, staring at them for another uncomfortably long, quiet moment.

 “Damn Bo, Kusack can take care of those boots his own self!” I jumped in.

 “Get this mouthy kid to help you take care of the boots Belton, he’s got to be good for something.”

 Kusack gestured toward me, but kept his gaze at Belton.

 “He’s just a cruit, you know, he ain’t good for nothing except screwing things up..”

 Belton responded, also keeping his eyes fixed on Kusack.

 “He just don’t know what he don’t know.”

 They both looked at me for an instant, then locked eyes again. Quiet followed by quiet, yet the room roared with some unspoken message I couldn’t hear.

 “Anyway, those are good boots. Take care of ‘em. I gotta go, my ride is waiting.”

 Belton looked at the boots, at the floor, back out the window for a long time, then back at Kusack.

 “Yeah Kusack, I’ll keep ‘em shined. No worry. I got your back.”

 “OK Bo, I’m out. Shape up Keeowon.”

 I started to open speak, but Belton seemingly punched me in the mouth from his stoop before I could say a word.

 “Shut up cruit, just - shut - up.”

 He shook his head and slowly moved his stare back out the window.

 About then Hicks came dancing into the room.

 “Was that Kusacks I just seen going down the hall?” he asked.

 Ike nodded his head without changing his empty stare.

 “Yep, he stopped by, gave me his jumps and asked me to take care of them.”

 He gave Hicks a long-faced look for a second, dragged his fingers through his weekend ‘fro, shook his head and looked down.

 “Damn!” Hicks said, also becoming long faced. “He gone then.”

 “Of course he’s gone, you saw him hiking down the hallway to the exit. What a jerk coming in here telling Belton to shine his shoes!”  Obviously, my naïve intent was to show support for the brothers, but the tag-team stare I got crashed into me hard.

 “He’s gone Killer,” Bo said.

 “Of course he is, he just walked out, I saw him leave!” I still was puzzled at such obvious things that weren’t obvious at all.

 “Hicks give this damn fool a clue else I’m gonna smack him upside his idiot dome,” Bo shook his head, but I noticed a fleeting glimpse of a distant smile flicker by as well.

 “Kusack’s gone Killer! Gone, as in left the building. Gone as in down the hall, out the gate, cab to the train station, a train ride to Frankfurt and then FTA!…Frankfurt to America.” Hicks lectured. He sat down heavy on his bunk. Then, almost to himself

“Damn, Kusack is done gone.”

 “What the hell, he didn’t even say goodbye, that ain’t right!” I said, unmistakably, still a cruit.

 Belton took another drag on his Kool, nodded his head for his own benefit and drilled me with his harshest, serious stare.

 “The man gave me his boots…his best damned jump boots. What’s he supposed to do? Kiss me like one of your queer buddies? He..gave…me…his….boots cruit.”

 I learned that day that troopers leaving for good never said goodbye directly. But they always said goodbye.

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 adrenalin 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 juke box, shared the comradery 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.

 

Half way 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, 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 GI's 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 GI's 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 GI's 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 11^(th) Armored Cavalry Regiment, 3^(rd) Squadron, in Bad Hersfeld.  I knew I was going to the 11^(th) ACR, but Fulda was the town on my enlistment papers, so I questioned the Sgt.  “The headquarters is in Fulda, but the 3^(rd) 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 Sgts. 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 entry way, 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 Sgts. 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 “Abfarht” (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 brotchen 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 GI's 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 4:00pm, the train will be well in 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.  Comradery 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 2^(nd) class (our tickets were for 2^(nd) 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 peaked 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 small fluorescent tubes and a light from the hallway.  Davis was the first to break the silence.  “Hey Keywon, 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...year. 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 WORDLY 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 Kewon...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 are 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 nachste halt.  Warten Sie neben die 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 Kewon..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.

 

“Coming to Bad Hersfeld next stop, be careful when you exit” the voice came over the intercom. (I'll dispense with the German translation, I'm sure by now I've impressed you with my language skills.)  We huddled near the exit like racehorses at the post.  We could see the lights of the city slow from a blur and start to take on the appearance of store windows, streetlights, houses and parking lots.  Our train stopped between two platforms, the doors opened and we jumped out onto the platform with our bags in tow.  Emerging from the car ahead of us I spotted another guy in Army fatigues.  As he walked our way I stopped him.  “Are you stationed here in Bad Hersfeld?” I asked.  Panic had suddenly overcome any confidence I had gained on the train ride.  Our instruction set ended with our arrival in Bad Hersfeld.  I had no information on where the post was or how we were to get there.  “Yeah..are you guys 'Cruits?” he offered.  “We're being stationed at Bad Hersfeld. Our instructions don't give any info on how to get to the post once we get here” my voice betrayed the calm I was trying to portray “do you think there will be somebody here to pick us up?”

 

“I doubt it” he said walking away with his bags “you'll probably need to take a taxi” 

 

By the time we got our bags in hand, he was gone.  We walked from the platform into the small station, crossed the open lobby and stepped out back into the night.  A clean plaza fronted the station, with a circular drive on the far side.  A cab was just leaving, probably with the GI we’d seen getting off the train. Another was waiting in line.  We approached like the lost foreigners we were.

 

Before we were halfway across the plaza the taxi driver was out of the cab headed our way.  “To Green Hotel?” he said.  Then, seeing our blank stares he added “the kaserne…Army post?”  “Yes” I replied, “we want to go the Army post”.   He grabbed my small bag and waved us on.  “Ok, good, I take you.”

“Well, we just got here and we don’t have any German money” I said, a bit too tired and shook to try my German.  “Is ok, if you have American dollars, I make the change for you”.  Not sure how that worked exactly, I was just glad to have a ride.  We loaded the rest of our bags into the trunk and climbed into the car.  Once we started to move, Davis spoke up “Dang…never been in a nice Mercedes.”  Our cab was indeed a very nice Mercedes sedan.

 

The streets flew by and in a few short minutes, we were parked in front of the post, across the street from the gatehouse and single draw bar gate that was down.  Staring like the new kids in school, we hadn’t moved to get out before the driver had the trunk open and was unloading our bags on the ground behind the car.  I got out and walked up to him, with a $20 bill in my hand.  “Will this work?”  He grabbed the bill “Ja, sure.  One moment”  He stuffed the bill into his wallet and pulled out several odd D-mark notes and a few coins, then handed them to me.  “Ok?”  I had no idea what I’d paid for the fare, but it didn’t matter.  We’d made it to the post. “Ja, vielen dank!” I said, my confidence returning.  3961

 

“Welcome to McPheeter’s Barrack - -Home to the 3^(rd) Squadron of the 11^(th) Armored Cavalry” read the sign above the lowered gate.  We were in the right place, 3^(rd) of the 11^(th).

 

As we walked toward the guard shack a soldier stepped out to meet us.  “New guys?” he said without much interest.  “Yes, were you expecting us?” I blurted out.  “Uh, no” long pause, then “which unit are you supposed to be in?”  “How Battery” Neary said.

 

“How Battery is the first floor of that building right over there”, he pointed to the first building on the right side of the road leading into the post.  Even in the dark, the sickly green color of the paint was visible. I remembered the cab driver had referenced “The Green Hotel”.  On that side of the road were four identical buildings arrayed one after the other, going up the slope of the hill into the post.  The guard was already heading back into the guard shack “go into the second door at the far end of the building, somebody should be at the desk.” 

 

As we started to walk across the street towards our assigned barracks, Davis nudged me and pointed to a second-floor window, where a guy had his head sticking out, vomiting violently.  Steam was trailing down through the cold air, following his disgusting output. After another couple steps, a first-floor window in the next building up opened and a trooper stuck his head out, yelling in our direction “Cruits!  Cruits!  Go back!! Turn and run now while you can..hahahahahaha!!!!”  Then the window shut.  

 

“Hell of a welcome huh guys” Harry added, laughing.

 

Quietly I thought to myself.  “Was my mom right?  What am I doing here?”

 

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 adrenalin 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 juke box, shared the comradery 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.

 

Half way 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, 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 GI's 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 GI's 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 GI's 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 11^(th) Armored Cavalry Regiment, 3^(rd) Squadron, in Bad Hersfeld.  I knew I was going to the 11^(th) ACR, but Fulda was the town on my enlistment papers, so I questioned the Sgt.  “The headquarters is in Fulda, but the 3^(rd) 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 Sgts. 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 entry way, 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 Sgts. 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 “Abfarht” (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 brotchen 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 GI's 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 4:00pm, the train will be well in 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.  Comradery 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 2^(nd) class (our tickets were for 2^(nd) 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 peaked 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 small fluorescent tubes and a light from the hallway.  Davis was the first to break the silence.  “Hey Keywon, 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...year. 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 WORDLY 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 Kewon...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 are 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 nachste halt.  Warten Sie neben die 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 Kewon..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.

 

“Coming to Bad Hersfeld next stop, be careful when you exit” the voice came over the intercom. (I'll dispense with the German translation, I'm sure by now I've impressed you with my language skills.)  We huddled near the exit like racehorses at the post.  We could see the lights of the city slow from a blur and start to take on the appearance of store windows, streetlights, houses and parking lots.  Our train stopped between two platforms, the doors opened and we jumped out onto the platform with our bags in tow.  Emerging from the car ahead of us I spotted another guy in Army fatigues.  As he walked our way I stopped him.  “Are you stationed here in Bad Hersfeld?” I asked.  Panic had suddenly overcome any confidence I had gained on the train ride.  Our instruction set ended with our arrival in Bad Hersfeld.  I had no information on where the post was or how we were to get there.  “Yeah..are you guys 'Cruits?” he offered.  “We're being stationed at Bad Hersfeld. Our instructions don't give any info on how to get to the post once we get here” my voice betrayed the calm I was trying to portray “do you think there will be somebody here to pick us up?”

 

“I doubt it” he said walking away with his bags “you'll probably need to take a taxi” 

 

By the time we got our bags in hand, he was gone.  We walked from the platform into the small station, crossed the open lobby and stepped out back into the night.  A clean plaza fronted the station, with a circular drive on the far side.  A cab was just leaving, probably with the GI we’d seen getting off the train. Another was waiting in line.  We approached like the lost foreigners we were.

 

Before we were halfway across the plaza the taxi driver was out of the cab headed our way.  “To Green Hotel?” he said.  Then, seeing our blank stares he added “the kaserne…Army post?”  “Yes” I replied, “we want to go the Army post”.   He grabbed my small bag and waved us on.  “Ok, good, I take you.”

“Well, we just got here and we don’t have any German money” I said, a bit too tired and shook to try my German.  “Is ok, if you have American dollars, I make the change for you”.  Not sure how that worked exactly, I was just glad to have a ride.  We loaded the rest of our bags into the trunk and climbed into the car.  Once we started to move, Davis spoke up “Dang…never been in a nice Mercedes.”  Our cab was indeed a very nice Mercedes sedan.

 

The streets flew by and in a few short minutes, we were parked in front of the post, across the street from the gatehouse and single draw bar gate that was down.  Staring like the new kids in school, we hadn’t moved to get out before the driver had the trunk open and was unloading our bags on the ground behind the car.  I got out and walked up to him, with a $20 bill in my hand.  “Will this work?”  He grabbed the bill “Ja, sure.  One moment”  He stuffed the bill into his wallet and pulled out several odd D-mark notes and a few coins, then handed them to me.  “Ok?”  I had no idea what I’d paid for the fare, but it didn’t matter.  We’d made it to the post. “Ja, vielen dank!” I said, my confidence returning.  3961

 

“Welcome to McPheeter’s Barrack - -Home to the 3^(rd) Squadron of the 11^(th) Armored Cavalry” read the sign above the lowered gate.  We were in the right place, 3^(rd) of the 11^(th).

 

As we walked toward the guard shack a soldier stepped out to meet us.  “New guys?” he said without much interest.  “Yes, were you expecting us?” I blurted out.  “Uh, no” long pause, then “which unit are you supposed to be in?”  “How Battery” Neary said.

 

“How Battery is the first floor of that building right over there”, he pointed to the first building on the right side of the road leading into the post.  Even in the dark, the sickly green color of the paint was visible. I remembered the cab driver had referenced “The Green Hotel”.  On that side of the road were four identical buildings arrayed one after the other, going up the slope of the hill into the post.  The guard was already heading back into the guard shack “go into the second door at the far end of the building, somebody should be at the desk.” 

 

As we started to walk across the street towards our assigned barracks, Davis nudged me and pointed to a second-floor window, where a guy had his head sticking out, vomiting violently.  Steam was trailing down through the cold air, following his disgusting output. After another couple steps, a first-floor window in the next building up opened and a trooper stuck his head out, yelling in our direction “Cruits!  Cruits!  Go back!! Turn and run now while you can..hahahahahaha!!!!”  Then the window shut.  

 

“Hell of a welcome huh guys” Harry added, laughing.

 

Quietly I thought to myself.  “Was my mom right?  What am I doing here?”

 

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 adrenalin 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 juke box, shared the comradery 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.

 

Half way 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, 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 GI's 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 GI's 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 GI's 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 11^(th) Armored Cavalry Regiment, 3^(rd) Squadron, in Bad Hersfeld.  I knew I was going to the 11^(th) ACR, but Fulda was the town on my enlistment papers, so I questioned the Sgt.  “The headquarters is in Fulda, but the 3^(rd) 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 Sgts. 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 entry way, 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 Sgts. 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 “Abfarht” (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 brotchen 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 GI's 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 4:00pm, the train will be well in 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.  Comradery 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 2^(nd) class (our tickets were for 2^(nd) 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 peaked 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 small fluorescent tubes and a light from the hallway.  Davis was the first to break the silence.  “Hey Keywon, 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...year. 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 WORDLY 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 Kewon...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 are 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 nachste halt.  Warten Sie neben die 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 Kewon..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.

 

“Coming to Bad Hersfeld next stop, be careful when you exit” the voice came over the intercom. (I'll dispense with the German translation, I'm sure by now I've impressed you with my language skills.)  We huddled near the exit like racehorses at the post.  We could see the lights of the city slow from a blur and start to take on the appearance of store windows, streetlights, houses and parking lots.  Our train stopped between two platforms, the doors opened and we jumped out onto the platform with our bags in tow.  Emerging from the car ahead of us I spotted another guy in Army fatigues.  As he walked our way I stopped him.  “Are you stationed here in Bad Hersfeld?” I asked.  Panic had suddenly overcome any confidence I had gained on the train ride.  Our instruction set ended with our arrival in Bad Hersfeld.  I had no information on where the post was or how we were to get there.  “Yeah..are you guys 'Cruits?” he offered.  “We're being stationed at Bad Hersfeld. Our instructions don't give any info on how to get to the post once we get here” my voice betrayed the calm I was trying to portray “do you think there will be somebody here to pick us up?”

 

“I doubt it” he said walking away with his bags “you'll probably need to take a taxi” 

 

By the time we got our bags in hand, he was gone.  We walked from the platform into the small station, crossed the open lobby and stepped out back into the night.  A clean plaza fronted the station, with a circular drive on the far side.  A cab was just leaving, probably with the GI we’d seen getting off the train. Another was waiting in line.  We approached like the lost foreigners we were.

 

Before we were halfway across the plaza the taxi driver was out of the cab headed our way.  “To Green Hotel?” he said.  Then, seeing our blank stares he added “the kaserne…Army post?”  “Yes” I replied, “we want to go the Army post”.   He grabbed my small bag and waved us on.  “Ok, good, I take you.”

“Well, we just got here and we don’t have any German money” I said, a bit too tired and shook to try my German.  “Is ok, if you have American dollars, I make the change for you”.  Not sure how that worked exactly, I was just glad to have a ride.  We loaded the rest of our bags into the trunk and climbed into the car.  Once we started to move, Davis spoke up “Dang…never been in a nice Mercedes.”  Our cab was indeed a very nice Mercedes sedan.

 

The streets flew by and in a few short minutes, we were parked in front of the post, across the street from the gatehouse and single draw bar gate that was down.  Staring like the new kids in school, we hadn’t moved to get out before the driver had the trunk open and was unloading our bags on the ground behind the car.  I got out and walked up to him, with a $20 bill in my hand.  “Will this work?”  He grabbed the bill “Ja, sure.  One moment”  He stuffed the bill into his wallet and pulled out several odd D-mark notes and a few coins, then handed them to me.  “Ok?”  I had no idea what I’d paid for the fare, but it didn’t matter.  We’d made it to the post. “Ja, vielen dank!” I said, my confidence returning.  3961

 

“Welcome to McPheeter’s Barrack - -Home to the 3^(rd) Squadron of the 11^(th) Armored Cavalry” read the sign above the lowered gate.  We were in the right place, 3^(rd) of the 11^(th).

 

As we walked toward the guard shack a soldier stepped out to meet us.  “New guys?” he said without much interest.  “Yes, were you expecting us?” I blurted out.  “Uh, no” long pause, then “which unit are you supposed to be in?”  “How Battery” Neary said.

 

“How Battery is the first floor of that building right over there”, he pointed to the first building on the right side of the road leading into the post.  Even in the dark, the sickly green color of the paint was visible. I remembered the cab driver had referenced “The Green Hotel”.  On that side of the road were four identical buildings arrayed one after the other, going up the slope of the hill into the post.  The guard was already heading back into the guard shack “go into the second door at the far end of the building, somebody should be at the desk.” 

 

As we started to walk across the street towards our assigned barracks, Davis nudged me and pointed to a second-floor window, where a guy had his head sticking out, vomiting violently.  Steam was trailing down through the cold air, following his disgusting output. After another couple steps, a first-floor window in the next building up opened and a trooper stuck his head out, yelling in our direction “Cruits!  Cruits!  Go back!! Turn and run now while you can..hahahahahaha!!!!”  Then the window shut.  

 

“Hell of a welcome huh guys” Harry added, laughing.

 

Quietly I thought to myself.  “Was my mom right?  What am I doing here?”

 

I know we had "Alerts" on a regular basis along the East/West German border during the 70s. Did other units in other parts of the European theater also have regular alerts? If so, what did they entail?

I have the prequel published on Amazon and it is on the 5 day FREE tour through Sunday night. Let me know what you think, and if you like it, please leave a review.

Hello again - - As I mentioned last week I’m excited to share that the first part of my memoir is finally out in the world. To celebrate crossing the finish line, the Kindle edition is completely free on Amazon from right now through Sunday, June 28^(th) at midnight.

Feel free to ping me if you need help or have questions or would like more info.

Once the full memoir is finished, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Thanks,
Thomas Keown

Hello again - - As I mentioned last week I’m excited to share that the first part of my memoir is finally out in the world. To celebrate crossing the finish line, the Kindle edition is completely free on Amazon from right now through Sunday, June 28^(th) at midnight.

Feel free to ping me if you need help or have questions.

Once the full memoir is finished, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Thanks,
Thomas Keown

Here's one for the taking since I doubt I'll get to it. A solar EMP engulf earth, knocking out all technology. No internet, no cell phones, no cable and electricity only if you know, or know someone that can used old fashioned generators to produce enough for short tasks. Not a full blown apocalypse, but pretty close.

How would society adjust. What percent of society would just disappear. Would lawlessness prevail. Would we live tribal existences like centuries ago.

Would we begin to label time BE and AE for Before EMP and after EMP?

Most of what I've read with respect to lived experiences in the 70s cold war era are mainly focused on historical story telling, or, to be honest, "hey look at me, I was a hero" type of narrative.

Are there any more gritty accounts of what military life was like in the combat ready units in Germany or such? I was there from 75-77, stationed on the border between East/West Germany with the 11th Armored Cavalry. We performed highly, but every day life, barracks life, was not a pretty picture, rife with drug use, alcoholism and bad attitudes. There were quite a few Nam hold overs as well.

I'm thinking of writing a memoir. Here is a section I've been working on. Do you think this type of narrative is worth telling? Thanks in advance. Sorry if this is considered self promotion, I'm just seeking opinions right now.

Assigned to foot patrol, Joe Hain, Skip Husky , Sgt Scooter and I covered a length of the fence 400 meters to the south of the OP.  Halfway through our second circuit the prick 77 radio on my back buzzed and hissed with our call sign. “Hacienda to Redleg 3, alert.  Potential activity in your vicinity.  Cover, observe and report”  “Roger, Hacienda”. I responded according to the hand sign from Sgt Scooter.  Normally the calls we received were just comm checks, like “Redleg 3, this is Hacienda, how do you read me” with the standard response “We read you 5 by”.  

 This was different.

 Sgt Scooter had us withdraw from the open pathway and take stations in the brush, where we could still observe, but also gain concealment.  Almost simultaneously with our retreat into the bushes, we heard a commotion approximately 30 yards downhill from us, just out of sight. Nothing terribly significant, yet noticeable, abnormal noises, like one or two deer crashing through the brush. 

We looked at each other, and Sgt Scooter put his finger to his lips and then his eyes, finally pointing to the border.  Keep quiet and keep your eyes open.

A moment of silence followed by the definitive whine of a jeep approaching in the distance.  Then more silence.

Loud shouting from the East German guards was followed by gunfire, coming from them, aimed toward the fence downhill from where we watched.  Sgt Scooter, in a voice I didn’t recognize as his “Suppress fire!” he growled as he raised his rifle.

Instinct, from years of hunting kicked in, I was quickly sighted on the front one of the two guards running and shooting.  Two other guards had joined them, racing uphill from their post, also firing.

I fired, the front guard fell hard.  I fired again, as did Sgt Scootter and Hain and the second guard staggered a few feet, turned back toward us and collapsed to the ground.  More quick firing from us and the two charging up the hill.  If they were firing at us, I couldn’t tell.  I suspect they were firing in the direction the first two guards had been. One of them stumbled backwards into a sitting position, then slumped sideways.  The fourth was sprinting away for cover.

Fifteen seconds of gunfire, maybe.  Three East German guards engaged.  I was in adrenalin shock.

Sgt Scooter hissed “I said suppress fire!!” his eyes flashing as he came close to our faces.  “Shoot in the air!  Suppress their action!!!  Cover fire!! Damn it!!”

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.

Just joining today.

I served with the 3/11th Armored Cavalry Regiment from 1975 to 1977. Our mission was to patrol the inner border between East and West Germany. Cold War years right after the end of Vietnam were rather unique in many ways.

Hoping to discuss experiences, opinions and share my own.

11thCavTrooper