True Tales
War is Hell, everyone knows that...
By Frank Thomas Smith
I cycled slowly down a path on the Sachsenhausen side of the River Main, a branch of the Rhine, which runs through the city of Frankfurt. The path was divided in the middle � one side for pedestrians, mostly joggers � the other for cyclists. And woe to the pedestrian who stepped into the cyclists� way: a traffic violation endangering life and limb�limb anyway. I remembered how in years past I had jogged and cycled on that same path much faster than now. Middle age was catching up to me and I didn�t want to overdue it. I�d even ordered my first eyeglasses, which would be ready when I returned to Geneva.
I approached a young woman who was bending over her bike, pulling on the chain. As I passed her she exclaimed, Damn it! in English. I braked and turned around. Anything wrong? I asked.
She pushed the hair off her forehead and looked up at me, squinting in the sun, which was lowering in the west. Yeah, the chain came off, she said. Are you a Mr. Fixit?
No, only a diagnostician. I dismounted and fiddled with the chain. It must have been loose, I said, and slipped off. Now what you have to do is push this forward a little � I pointed to the gear-wheel � to put it back on, then push it back and tighten it. But you need a wrench for that.
Goodie. Do you happen to have a wrench?
Nope.
Me neither. What do you think I should do?
I looked at her more closely. Very slim, petite; from a distance I�d thought she might be a child. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Pretty face, blonde hair, aquiline nose, full lips. She wore khaki shorts and a t-shirt, no bra, small tight breasts. Do you have far to go?
Pretty far, Adigas Allee.
Military quarters?
She nodded. Are you in the army, too?
I shook my head firmly. Used to be.
Here?
Among other places.
She nodded, looked again at her bike leaning against a tree. How about taking me on the handlebars?
I was surprised, then saw the twitch of a grin and knew she was kidding. I decided to play it straight.
What about your bike? It�s nice, probably wouldn�t be here when you got back.
Yeah, I don�t even have a lock.
Otherwise I�d be glad to take you, even if I�m not dressed for it. I was wearing a dress pants and black shoes. I hadn�t taken any sports clothes with me. The Intercontinental, which was close to the river, provided bikes for guests free of charge and I had taken one on impulse.
Okay, let�s walk. I�m going that way too. I wasn�t going that way at all. I�d intended to ride to the bridge at AdennauerStrasse, then turn back to the hotel to rest.
Fine, she said. At least I�ll have company. Thanks. She started to walk her bike, still on the cycling path.
Over here on the pedestrian side, I said. Otherwise you�ll get run over.
Oh yeah, I�ve noticed that the Germans are very serious about right-of-way; Vorfahrt, they call it. Right?
They certainly are. We used to call their directional signals on cars �max nix sticks�.
Pardon?
Well, you know, I started to explain, Es macht nichts aus�.
Oh sure, that means it doesn�t mean anything, she interrupted.
More like �It doesn�t matter� or �so what?�
She nodded.
For short: Macht nichts, which American soldiers pronounced �max nix�. The old cars had these little arm-like things that flicked out instead of blinker lights to indicate that you were turning left or right. She had stopped walking, fascinated for some reason. I stopped too and continued: When a German driver indicates he�s going to turn and flicks the signal out, it meant, �Hey, I�m gonna turn whether you�re in my way or not, I�m not even looking.� So that�s why we called them �max nix sticks�.
She stared at me a moment as though thinking: Is that all? Then it sunk in and she smiled and said, Cool, do you think they�re still that way?
Worse.
She laughed and said, Hey, it�s nice of you to walk with me when you don�t have to. What other places?
What?
You said you were here in Germany in the army among other places.
Oh. Korea.
Oh, that one. Charming, right?
Yeah, I got wounded and they sent me to the military hospital here.
That�s where I work.
Oh? What do you do there?
I�m a doctor. When I just nodded, she said, Surprised?
A little, but most docs in the army tend to be young � those who do the work.
When you said �diagnostician� � about the bike I mean, I thought you might be one, too. Are you?
Nope, not even close. I work for the airlines.
Wow! Pilot?
I laughed. No, not that romantic, the commercial part, on the ground, although I fly a lot as a passenger.
We talked about her work and mine until we came to the bridge at AdennauerStrasse and had to lift our bikes up a short flight of cobblestone stairs to get on it. At the center of the bridge she stopped, propped her bike against the railing and leaned over. I did the same, standing close. We watched the barges passing beneath like bloated caterpillars.
How beautiful it is, she said, and what a day!
Yes, I agreed. There aren�t many days like this here.
Don�t I know it. Her shoulder touched mine, certainly not by accident, as it stayed there.
I took a deep breath and put my arm around her. She moved closer.
So you�re only here on a visit?
You might say that, on business.
When are you leaving?
I had a reservation on Swissair to return to Geneva the next day, but said: I�m not sure, it depends on developments. Not lying, it really did depend on developments, the newest one being her.
I�m thirsty, she said. How about a beer over there? She pointed to a circle of seventeenth century buildings at the other end of the bridge.
The R�merplatz, I explained. Almost completely destroyed by the bombing, now restored just as it was, has been, for centuries.
It�s like in a fairly tale.
Uh huh, but I have a better idea, I said.
She looked up at me, pushing the hair, which had become tussled by the breeze, from her forehead. Yes?
How about dinner tonight? It�s almost six.
She smiled. Now that�s what I call a better idea. We could go to the officers� club. I have time to change.
I shook my head and laughed.
What? The food is very good, American and cheap.
I was a sergeant, wouldn�t be seen dead in the officers� club.�
She seemed puzzled. But you�re not in the army now and you�d be my guest.
She didn�t get it�and why should she? Just kidding, I said. The food may be good, but it�s not very romantic there, is it?
She huddled in closer. Very good point. What would you suggest, a German place? Sauerkraut?
No, German food doesn�t entice me either, but I know a great Italian restaurant back there in Sachsenhausen.
Romantic? she smiled.
Very. And you�re my guest there.
I accept. Now we better get going so I can wash up and change.
We continued walking our bikes towards the R�merplatz. Were you badly wounded? she asked suddenly.
Just bad enough to get me out of there. Then, when I was cured, they transferred me to M.I. here in Frankfurt because I spoke German.
She didn�t speak for a few moments, then: Were there enough doctors in Korea?
Doctors? I guess so.
You know, I�m hoping to get transferred to Vietnam.
I stopped walking and stared at her. She looked up at me with big blue innocent eyes.
Why would you want to do that? I asked.
Well, I don�t know, but they must need doctors there.
Here too. Isn�t there enough to do here?
Oh sure, battered wives, automobile accidents, flu, an occasional accidental gunshot wound, but�
I wouldn�t recommend it, Vietnam I mean.
Why? Because it�s dangerous? I don�t think doctors behind the lines are in too much danger, besides�
Not only dangerous, it�s gruesome.
But you were in Korea.
Nam is a hundred percent worse than Korea � jungle, drugs, inept lying commanders, an implacable enemy�
Okay, so war is hell, everyone knows that. But we are at war and I think everyone should do their bit. She looked straight ahead, her jaw clenched.
So you think the war in Vietnam is just and winnable.
Of course. What happens if Vietnam falls�the domino effect, all Southeast Asia under communist domination. That wouldn�t be good at all. I know that some people oppose the war, but�oh, let�s change the subject.
Yes, let�s, I thought. But good God, whatever happens tonight after the Italian dinner, wine and candles, if I�m able to bed this delightful morsel of Midwest Americana, something which seems increasingly likely, will I be able to convince her not to go to Nam, teach her something of the real world, perhaps save her life, or at least her soul? A lost cause, probably, but worth a try anyway.
You know, she said taking my hand, I get the impression that you don�t like officers. You probably think it�s like a caste system or something. I understand that the Israeli army is much more democratic. Maybe that�s what we need: more democracy. What do you think?
What did I think? I thought of my suite at the Intercontinental. What I said was, It�s a mind-set, mine I mean, the mind-set of a non-com towards officers, not exactly dislike, rather disdain [an understatement], head-shaking, you know?
Not exactly.
Look, I�m not in the army anymore, so�
But you don�t want to go to the officer�s club.
Too many officers. (She laughed.)
Maybe it�s because I don�t want to admit to myself that I�m like them now. Anyway, I don�t think that democracy would work in he army � ours or Israel�s. And I love doctors because...who are only officers because...well, what else could they be?
She stood on tip-toes and kissed me on the cheek. That�s the spirit, she said.
We stayed in touch for a while. She did go to Vietnam, only one tour, and left the army afterwards. She worked in a hospital in Chicago and married another doctor, which is when our correspondence petered out. The last line of her last letter read: �By the way, you were right about Vietnam.�
