Weekday warriors Part 2: Strangers in a strange land...

Weekday Warriors

Part 2 - Strangers In A Strange Land

By

Mike Brown

Published by BigPencilGroup on Smashwords

Weekday Warriors Part 2– Strangers In A Strange Land Copyright © 2011 by Mike Brown

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Welcome to Germany

Once we got to McGuire Air Force Base, over in New Jersey, the Leibermanns decided not to do the long good-byes. They were gone about five minutes after we got our bags out of the station wagon.

Momma will probably cry all the way home and then on and off for a good two weeks, Jake observed as his folks car pulled away from the terminal. You should have seen her when Sarah left for college a couple of years ago. He turned and looked at the terminal building. No skycaps. Typical.

Between the two of us we had really discovered the meaning of the `lug' in luggage. I now had three duffle bags and a flight bag while Jake had two duffle bags, a medium sized suitcase, a camera bag and a flight bag. The Air Force guy at the counter looked at my duffle bags.

Got your girlfriend in one of those?

Nope. I shook my head. Don't have one of those any more,

Smokey found us as soon as we finished checking in.

Good to see you guys! He glanced around quickly and leaned toward us. Let's get out of here. I could use some air.

We put our flight bags in a locker and followed him outside. He started walking toward a branch PX a few blocks away. I want to get a Coke.

Jake frowned. There's a pop machine in the terminal, man, what's wrong with that?

Smokey pulled out a Marlboro hard pack of cigarettes and flipped it open. We can't smoke those babies in the fuckin' terminal, that's what's wrong. We need a little privacy.

Nestled in with the cigarettes were two large joints.

Jake's eyes bugged out. Where the hell did you get those?

My goodbye party last night. I saved a couple for you guys. Smokey closed his eyes and shook his head, remembering, Man, what a party! I barely made my flight.

Are you crazy or something? Jake hissed. This is an Air Force Base!

No shit? I thought it was fucking Knott’s Berry Farm.

Do you want to get us all busted? I asked.

No big deal. Smokey shrugged. The worst they're going to do is give us an Article 15. He looked at me. Don't tell me you're a solid citizen, too.

I dunno, Smokey, I shook my head and looked around, half expecting an Air Force MP to pop out of a trashcan or something. I don't really feel like getting an Article 15 this morning.

What’s with you two? He looked at our faces closely in turn. You turn into Baby Lifers on me or something?

I just don't think it's a good idea, here and now. If I weren't standing here in my dress greens, in the middle of a fucking Air Force base waiting for a flight to go to Germany, yeah, then I might. But not here and not now.

Really, Jake said, Use your head, man.

Smokey shrugged.

I tried to think of you guys and what do I get for my trouble? he sighed. You gonna keep me company while I smoke ‘em, then?

Jake and I exchanged glances.

I guess. I said for both of us.

We got drinks and sat down on the steps of a boarded up building not far from the terminal. While Smokey killed his two joints, we smoked regular cigarettes and drank pop. Three guys sitting, smoking, drinking pop and talking outside the terminal looks fairly innocent from a distance, since we weren't passing one cigarette around.

Smokey got so fried he couldn't keep a straight face for more than a few seconds. We ended up sitting out there for about three hours, almost until our flight left. That was about 2 PM. Smokey was still pretty loaded by then.

The flight can be described in a few well-chosen words: LONG, boring, cramped, and lousy food. I managed to sleep for over half of the non-stop 9 hours. When we finally landed in Frankfurt it was the middle of the night. Those of us who were not going directly to specific units were herded onto buses and delivered to a place in downtown Frankfurt called the 97th General Replacement Depot. The place took up a city block. It was kind of like one big building except that the building part was more like a castle wall. There was a big open courtyard in the middle. We put our luggage into big cabinets, got issued bed linen and directed to some bay rooms with double bunks. I for one promptly crawled out of my greens, into a bunk and crashed.

Which turned out to be a good plan, since at 0530 we started processing in to VIIth Army Europe. On about three hours sleep. Fortunately it was all boring paper shuffling, but towards the end of the day there was an interesting lecture. We were marched into what passed for an auditorium with a small stage. Two guys were waiting for us. An American Military Police Sergeant in fatigues and a guy in a forest green kind of dress uniform with white trim I didn’t recognize at that time: Polezei or German Police.

The MP Sgt introduced himself and the Polezei, then sat back and let the German take over for a while.

Wilkommen auf Deucheland. I am Sergeant Paulus from the Polezei here in Frankfurt am Main. I am here to make sure that those of you who have never been to Germany before know who we, the Polezei, are. We are the Police, the Law, the Man, the Heat or if you want to start some trouble, the Pigs. We can be your best friend or your worst enemy. Which is up to you. 99% of you will never deal with a Polezei except to ask directions. Here in Frankfurt and most towns of any size, almost all Polezei speak some English. Lights please?

A slide projector came on and he flashed a picture of a gloss black Porsche Turbo Carerra. Nice car?

If you like Porches it was: whale-tail spoiler and all. Cramped, mechanically finicky and over-priced, in my opinion. There was a murmured chorus of agreement. He flipped to the next slide. It was the same car, except now it was green and white, said POLEZEI on the side in BIG black letters on the white and had a blue light bar.

Want to try outrunning that?

Not after the first quarter mile. The Goat could probably take it off the line, though. We’d blown off more than one ‘Vette down at the Gardens. Not that I’d be stupid enough to try and run from a cop in the first place. You can outrun the motor but not the Motorola. A certain asshole punk in a Camaro I knew back home had tried once. His daddy the lawyer had pulled lots of strings and gotten him off.

Herr Polezei flipped slides to a picture of the interior of the Polezei Porche.

Notice the twin 9MM H&K MP-5 submachine guns clipped to the dashboard. The MP Sgt tossed in from the darkness. These guys do NOT fuck around, people. They play hardball, for keeps. If you’re out on the street and someone tells you to halt I highly recommend you halt unless you want to go home in a plastic bag.

The MP Sergeant took over for a question and answer period but waved us to a stop as a flurry of hands went up.

Now, I know the first question I'm gonna get, so I'll save someone the trouble of embarrassing themselves by asking it. Yes, hookers are legal in Germany. If all you want to do is get laid, just a few blocks from here over on Kaiser Wilhemestrasse there are any number of women who will be more than happy to oblige you at reasonable rates. No muss, no fuss, no diseases, no problem.

There's even something out there for the ladies, the Polezei spoke up, though I've never known a woman to have trouble finding a man. Any ladies out there with that kind of problem, see me after this class. The class chuckled, but there were two WACs talking to the Polezei after the class. They were both MPs, but still...

That afternoon, we were transferred from the Repple Depple to our designated Division's Headquarters and Replacement section for specific battalion assignment. Uniform of the day became fatigues. To our disappointment, we found out that black berets were not authorized uniform in the division and we had to dig out the OD baseball caps that we'd originally been issued.

The Division Personnel Assignments officer, a 1st Lieutenant, called us all three into his office.

I noticed that the three of you are on the Buddy System, so I figured you all three better have a say in where you go. He looked at Smokey's nametag. Do you have any relatives in the service, Pritchardt?

Several, sir. This seemed to be drill for Smokey wherever we went.

Related to a Doug Pritchardt, West Point, Class of `73?

Yes sir. He's my step-brother, sir.

Really! You're Doug's little brother? I guess this is your lucky day!

Um, how's that, sir? Smokey started to look a little worried.

I saw him the other day at the Main PX, here in Frankfurt. He's running a platoon of M60A2s with 3/33rd Armored, over at Kirch Gons. Right next door. The lieutenant looked thoughtful. I could arrange to transfer the three of you over there, if you like.

Did you say A2's, sir? Jake asked.

The lieutenant nodded. Yes, with the 152 MM gun and Shillelagh missile system off the Sheridan.

We didn't get any training on those, sir. I said. Smokey had mentioned his step-brother once or twice, always referring to him as ‘Dip-shit Douggie’. They hated each other’s guts. Anything I could say to keep me out of the middle of a situation like that sounded like a good idea.

Besides, sir, I'd really rather not work for a relative. Smokey added quickly.

Why not?

Either they've got to be twice as rough on you as on anyone else, just to show that they're not being soft on you or everyone thinks they're being soft on you, no matter what. On top of which, we used to share bedrooms when we were kids. I'd hate to get mad at him about something and forget he's an officer since I'm an enlisted man now, you know what I mean, sir?

That could be a problem. The lieutenant chuckled, nodding in agreement. I've got six battalions out there that all scream at me daily, begging for fresh privates to put on their tanks. So, He pointed at me, You, O’neil. Pick a number between one and six.

There's three of us, so… 3.

He looked up at the board behind his desk. Three, huh? That's, umm... 2-47 Armor at Gibbs Kaserne in Bad Kirtdorf.

Gibbs? Smokey smiled and shook his head. It figures. Boot Hill.

Um, why do they call it Boot Hill, sir? Jake asked.

You'll see when you get there. The lieutenant said.

Transportation to our new home was the next morning. We loaded our bags into a van and took off just after morning formation. The driver had three stops to make on his run, and our new home was the last one. Me, Jake and Smokey were the only three passengers left.

To get to Bad Kirtdorf itself you took the main Autobahn from Frankfurt for about forty miles then get off and go through a cleft in the hills to the east of the Autobahn. There’s what's left of a castle (Schloss Kirtdorf) on the hilltop to the left as you go down towards the town on the other side of the hill. The town of Bad Kirtdorf sits along both banks of a narrow river. The Bad part means Baths and there is a spa and hot springs complex at one end of town, below the castle on the hill. The transportation driver told us all this as we got to the town.

There's also several rip off hostess bars, a couple of decent gasthauses and bierstubes, a small shopping district and a banhof, where you can catch a train to Frankfurt. He pointed out through the windshield. That's Gibbs, over the other side of the river there.

Now I understand why they call it Boot Hill. Jake said, snapping a picture of the first view of our new home as he did.

The hill on the other side of the river was low and broad, sloping fairly gently down to the outskirts of the town. A medium sized apartment complex off to the right on the outskirts of town turned out to be the local Army housing area. Sprawled across the top part of the slope facing us was Gibbs Kaserne (barracks in German). Actually, sprawled is the wrong word. Like anything military, Gibbs was laid out in neat rows, almost at `dress, right, dress.' for an inspection. There were four rows of long white three story buildings with orange tile roofs. A broad grass parade field divided the barracks into two groups. There was a cluster of smaller buildings at either end of the parade field. Several more smaller one story buildings were strung around the outside of the four rows of barracks like a necklace, all surrounded by a chain link fence on concrete posts topped with coiled concertina razor wire. The road switchbacked once going up the hill and ran along the right hand side of the perimeter fence. At a glance, it bore a distinct resemblance to a cemetery from an old Western movie, hence the nickname ‘Boot Hill’.

2-47 Armor (2nd Battalion of the 47th Armored Regiment: The Bulldogs) took up five of the three story barracks on the far side of the parade ground from the main gate. Battalion Headquarters was a smaller one story building midway down the row. The driver dropped us off there in the care of a clerk, who took copies of our orders and signed us into the battalion. Once we'd finished processing into battalion HQ, one of the clerks called over to the company we were going to.

A few minutes later the company First Sergeant showed up. His name was Huddleston. He was about my height, middle aged, sort of red faced, with the beginnings of a beer belly, a serious Southern drawl and an unlit cigar tucked into the corner of his mouth. Jake jumped up and got about halfway to attention before Huddleston started laughing.

God, I love 'em fresh out of AIT. he chuckled around his cigar. Makes you feel like someone special. Take it easy, troop, this is the real Army, not Fort Knox. You boys grab your shit and follow me.

We gathered up our bags and followed him down the street. Between the buildings was a company street area of gravel about forty feet across, used for formations. We turned in at the second building down.

The barracks were all identical, of course. Three story white stucco buildings with orange tile roofs and dark green trimmed windows and doors. Grass and a few currently leafless silver birch trees were planted around the barracks. There was a single door on the street end and a double set half way down the length of the building in the middle opening out onto the company street. We went to the door in the end of the second building. There were a couple of cars and an empty parking space at the end of the building and two camouflaged jeeps parked in the back corner of the company street against the wall of the next barracks. An orange construction paper jack-o-lantern hung taped in the window in the top half of the door.

I glanced at the date window of my watch. It was the 31st.

Halloween.

Hey Jake, Smokey? Happy Halloween, you guys.

Huddleston smiled. Let's hope it's a little more treat than trick for you boys here. Just dump your stuff in the hallway for now. Bring your files and orders in with you.

There was a tall skinny SP-5 sitting at one of the desks, typing something. Huddleston sat down behind the other desk.

This is Jerry Lee, our company clerk. Jerry, seein' as it’s Halloween, why don't you take a break and go an trick or treat the snack bar. He handed Lee a dollar. Bring me a bag of peanuts.

Lee got up and left, closing the door behind him. Huddleston got up and peered in a door in the side of the office.

Good, the CO's not here. I want to tell you boys something that's not exactly Army policy, He sat back down. Pass me your files, please.

We handed over our 201 files.

What I want to say right now is off the record. I know some of you younger guys might be inclined to smoke a little hash in your spare time. Don't bother denying it, I don't really give a shit one way or another, personally. Long as you do your shit when I tell you to an’ don’t cause me no trouble, I don't really care what you do on your own time. He leaned back in his chair and re-lit his cigar. As your First Sergeant, however, I'm required to bust your young asses if you fuck up, so if you get the urge to smoke some of that shit they sell down in Frankfurt, do it off post, where I won't find out about it. If you do it in my barracks, and I find out, I will bust your ass. As far as harder stuff goes, that kind of shit is chlorine for the gene pool. People that are stupid enough to use heroin should die before they breed. Nuff said?

All three of us nodded.

Right. He picked up our files. We'll do this alphabetically. Leibermann, Jacob. Did I get that right?

Yes, First Sergeant.

Damn, you do that so nice. Does my old heart good to be talked to like that once in a while. Huddleston smiled. I told you, this ain't Fort Knox, son. Top will do just fine. I'd hazard a guess that you might be Jewish, am I right?

Yes, Firs... er, Top.

That ain't so hard, is it? There's no rabbi at the post chapel, but I do know that the Division's got one that rotates around.

I can find a synagogue off post to go to, Top. Jake replied, I speak German.

Fluently?

Jake nodded. Read and write, too.

I'll make a note of that. We might have a few odd jobs for a good German speaker from time to time. He looked through Jakes file quickly.

Expert M16, expert .45, expert tank weapons, top trainee of cycle? He looked at Jake. You're a hell of a catch, son, judging by these scores. Your platoon Sergeant’s gonna be glad to get his hands on you.

He put Jakes file aside and opened mine.

O’neil, Patrick S. He looked at the file. Where's Lynnwood, Washington?

Just north of Seattle, Top.

Ok. Hmm. He leafed through my stuff quickly. Good scores here. Good stuff. No problems. Anything I should know that isn't here?

Nothing I can think of.

He put my file with Jakes and picked up Smokeys.

Pritchardt, Andrew J.

He stopped and looked at the name again, frowned, then looked at Smokey.

Pritchardt with a `T' on the end, huh?

Something wrong, Top?

You got any relatives in the Army?

Lot's of `em, Top, why?

How about a Lieutenant Doug Pritchardt, used to be at Fort Hood a year or so back? he asked, giving Smokey a decidedly unpleasant look. "You wouldn't be related to him, would you? He was a platoon leader in a