Upon arrival, I walked out of the train station intending to find out how to get to my new outfit, or at least to the Second Armored Division. A young German approached me and asked in German if I was Cpl. Frank T. Smith. Actually, he smiled and told me I was Cpl. Frank T. Smith, because I was the only uniformed passenger to leave the train.
He grabbed my duffel bag and led me to an army car. “Come,” he said, “I, Hans, will take you to the x Group,” as he tossed my bag into the trunk. You can imagine my surprise that the x Group, a part of the Second Armored Division, had sent a driver to pick me up, a mere corporal, at the station. It was so strange that I wondered if I was being kidnapped by the Soviets. I asked the driver, Hans, if it was usual that corporals are picked up at the station when they first arrive. He said, “O nein. You must be very important corporal.”
It took a while to figure out, but I finally understood the reason. They — the x Group had of course received a copy of my orders, so knew I was coming. How they knew how and when, I never did find out. In my orders my MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) was shown as “intelligence analyst.” What must the Commanding Officer (if he even knew) and the First Sergeant (who certainly knew) be thinking? Easy: Why are they transferring an intelligence analyst to this, our until now comfortable unit? Because, I eventually discovered, the First Sergeant was operating a 20% commission loan racket. Let's say a soldier of any rank needed some extra money for whatever reason. He could get it from the First Sergeant who, by the way, was the person who actually paid everyone in the company on payday. So, if you had borrowed $20, you received $4 less on payday. Did the C.O. know about it and receive a cut? Unknown, but possible. They probably thought that I had come to investigate the rumors. I realized this when, after a few months, I needed a loan, so I went to the First Sergeant. Of course, why not? Everyone else does. When I asked him for a twenty buck loan, he looked avuncularly at me and shook his head. "Sorry corporal, but I'm kinda short myself this month.”
We rode in a bus every morning to another building outside the 2nd Armored Division Kaserne across from a huge laundry building. It was one story high, half a block long with offices all along the hall. The Commanding Officer was a full colonel, a captain was Executive Officer. A major was in charge of the motor pool, etc. I was assigned to Lt. Colonel Moultrie Hanks, whose large office was on one side of the hall, and across the hall was another office inhabited by a Captain, a Sgt. First Class and now, me. Down the hall was the large personnel office run by a Chief Warrant officer, a Sergeant, a corporal and a couple of PFCs. All this to run a laundry? which we didn't even do. It was run by a bunch of Polish defectors, who not only worked it, but also managed it.
Colonel Hanks was intrigued by my MOS: “intelligence analyst.” He didn't ask me what I was doing there, for this was obviously an outfit for fuckups, one of which he must also have been. He put me in charge of the “safe room”: a large closet containing classified documents. I saw improvement was needed after reading the documents.
“Sir,” I said one morning without fear of disturbing him, “I have a suggestion about how the security of our safe room could be improved.”
“What is it, corporal? Improvement is always welcome. What do you suggest?”
“Well Sir, what's classified is the plan to evacuate civilian dependents in case the Russians invade from the east.”
“Hm, yes. Not much chance of that happening.”
“No, but you never know,” I frowned. “I guess that's why it's there.”
“Yes, of course. Go on.”
“Well, it seems to me, first of all, that confidential is a too low classification for something so important.”
“Does it now?” he said, thinking he had me there. “If I remember correctly — and I do — it specifies that dependents should have at least a half tank of gas in their cars at all times so they can skedaddle outta here at a moment's notice ... if necessary. Am I right?”
“Yes Sir.”
"So, we can't call something top secret that's known to every doggone dependent in the 2nd Armored Division as well as our own dependents.” He paused and smiled. “Can we Corporal?”
“No Sir, but what about the routes leading to the French ports? I mean it's pretty far and you could get lost. But in an organized convoy with a leading vehicle whose drivers know where they're going, that would have to be at least secret I think, just in case the Russkies ...”
“By God, you're right,” Colonel Hanks interrupted. “What are the routes anyway, I don't remember off hand.”
“That's just it, Colonel,” I answered histrionically. “There are none. All the plan says is that they should proceed to the French port. Looks like it's never been properly planned out.”
“By God in heaven, we're gonna do the planning that's been neglected for so long, Corporal.” He looked at me admiringly. “How long have you been a corporal?”
To make a long story short, I mapped out the route the dependents would take if the Russkies attacked us (which never happened of course) — even drove the route myself in an army vehicle armed with a colt 45 because I was carrying classified-to-be documents (my notebook). Before I knew it, I was a sergeant, although I never got to sew on the stripes, because just then the army decided to decree one of the dumbest measures in military history. The powers that be decided that non-commissioned officers — corporals, sergeants, etc. — as opposed to commissioned ones — lieutenants up to generals — weren't getting the respect they needed to be able to boss underlings around. So they decided that noncoms who had administrative duties (had to think occasionally) and didn't have any combat types to boss around would be called “specialists”: Specialist 1,2,3,4,5,6, or 7 (previously a Master Sergeant) according to pay grade. So, I became a “specialist 5” instead of simply “sergeant,” at the same pay grade. And to add insult to injury, we had a sickly-looking eagle on our sleeves instead of stripes. Col. Hanks kept calling me sergeant though, bless him.
Another of my contributions to defeating the communists, despite no longer sending inept spies over to east Germany, was something I feel obliged to relate here. The Commanding General of the 2nd Armored Division (of which we were a service unit), decided to play war games. You know, divide your army into Red and Blue armies and may the best army win. Officers took such things seriously (maybe they still do) because it looks good in their progress reports if they commanded something in the winning army. We fuck-ups were left out originally, until Col. Hanks had his brainstorm. He asked me how we could contribute to the game. Col. Hanks's brainstorm consisted of asking me for a brainstorm. Thanks to having read spy adventure novels and having a ripe imagination, I soon came up with an operational plan. According to the war game, a couple of 2nd Armored Division Blue companies were to be dumped in a wooded area in the northern sector of the Sub-Area, as though they were escaped American prisoners of war. The Reds were to hunt and capture them before they could reach Bad Kreuznach. Those who did reach BK. without being captured would receive a three-day pass and honorable mention in their records.
My plan was that we (me and PFC soon to be corporal Ted Jung — yes, I had an assistant by then, with whom I spent endless duty hours playing chess) would play the part of the local underground. We would assist the escapees by bringing them back to Bad Kreuznach in a vehicle, if they were able to contact us. If they had to walk all the way it would take two days and they only had k-rations and weren't allowed to have money on them.
Ted and I got a map of the area, followed the road north with a pencil to about a quarter of the way from the escapee’s drop-off point, measured three kilometers into the woods and marked an X. We copied the coordinates and decided it would take us about a half hour to walk to X from the road where we would leave the van which we would get from the motor pool. We calculated the time it would take the escapees to walk there to be about two hours, by which time we would be there waiting for them. We would then lead them back to the road and the van and then back to Bad Kreuznach. If there were more than we had room for we could always return for them.
Col. Hanks was delighted. He showed the plan to the Commanding General who, although he may not have been delighted, decided he had nothing to lose and approved it. We briefed the escapees the night before their drop-off, telling them if they could get to X (we gave them the coordinates and landmarks from the map) their troubles were over. We would transport them in comfort to freedom army style.
The next morning Ted and I slept in late; we didn't have to be at the rendezvous (X) for a couple of hours according to our calculations. I dressed in my Bogart getup, fedora hat and all, and was quite pleased with myself. Ted looked much more German than I in lederhosen, but we laughed at each other.
It took us two hours to reach the spot where we were to leave the van, almost an hour more than planned. How were we to know it wouldn't go more than 60 kms. per hour? Then what we plunged into was more like a jungle than woods, overgrown with bushes and trees and hard going. We had a compass which we hoped would lead us directly to the spot (X) where we were supposed to wait for the Yanks who had so cleverly escaped from the Krauts. Actually, Krauts weren't the enemy anymore, but it was hard to imagine Russians in a German jungle. We were hampered by hills and dales, rocks, shrubs and detours, but by sheer will and luck we finally reached the meeting point (X) although it took us three hours instead of thirty minutes. Four guys were lounging on a slope.
"Jeez," one said, "it took you guys long enough."
"What happened to the rest," Ted asked. "Captured?"
"Nah, they got tired of waiting and went south. You guys are four hours late."
"Yeah, well, the Krauts came to our village looking for you guys and we had to hide in a cellar till they left," I explained.
"What Krauts? I thought they were supposed to be Russkies," a runt with ears like Dumbo said.
"Whatever."
"Oh, I get it. All part of the war game, right?"
"Right," Ted said. "You guys gotta learn patience. We're glad you four got patience, so we'll give you a special mention."
"Fuck the mention," a wise guy said. "Let's get outta here. I'm freezing my ass off."
Ted and I were drenched in sweat. "Wait a couple of minutes," I said. "We have to rest."
"How far is the vee-hicle?"
"About two kilometers."
"But not as the crow flies," Ted added.
"What crow?" Dumbo asked.
We kept up the conversation a few minutes more in order to rest, but finally had to get started, and not only because our escapees were anxious to move. We had no idea how long it would take us to get back to the road and our van, and the day was waning.
"Hey, something's wrong with the compass," Ted said after we'd only gone a few steps.
"What now?" I groaned.
"The needle doesn't move."
"Lemme see that," Dumbo said. "He flicked it hard with his thumb as though he was playing marbles. He shook it a bit and said, "It was stuck, that's all. Which way we goin'?"
"West-Northwest," Ted told him.
"That's all? Nothin' more exact than that?"
"Well no, we came east-south-east, so we gotta go back the opposite."
"Yeah, you could find Paris that way. What are we lookin' for?"
"Never mind," I interrupted, "let's just go or we won't get anywhere." I figured we'd have to at least hit the road, even if not exactly where the van was.
It got dark much quicker than we expected, and our situation looked dark as well. The escapees were equipped to spend the night outdoors, but Ted and I definitely weren't. It was almost pitch black, no moon, when we spotted a light ahead. The others stopped complaining and one of them said, "Are we there?"
We didn't answer him, just stumbled towards the light.
It turned out to be a Gasthaus on the other side of a road. As we crossed it Ted said, "Hey Frank, this is a pretty skimpy road. The one we parked the van on was much wider."
I had noticed that but didn't want to think about it. "Maybe it narrows down farther up north than we got," I said, and hoped.
Inside the Gasthaus it was warm and cozy looking. Five or six Germans were seated around a Stammtisch drinking beer and playing cards. They were laughing and smoking and joking around, obviously not paying much attention to the game. We must have looked like men from Mars to them. They shut up and stared at us open-mouthed. A young beauteous Fräulein was behind the bar leaning over with her chin on her hand. She wore a dirndl cut low pushing up her breasts. Ted and I approached her.
"Is this the road to Bad Kreuznach?"
She smiled. "No, it's the road to the road to Bad Kreuznach."
"Oh," I said, puzzled. "And how far is it from the road to the road to Bad Kreuznach to the road to Bad Kreuznach?"
The Germans were all listening of course, and they burst out laughing. "Beer for the Amis!" one of them shouted. The girl moved to the middle of the bar and began pouring steins of tap beer. The grunts didn't speak German, but they understood Bier and Amis, so they rushed to the bar. We were all thirsty. We turned to our benefactors, raised our glasses and said, Prost! They returned the toast with deafening shouts.
"It's about ten kilometers to that main road," the barmaid said.
"Ten kilometers!"
"Yes, it's only about two through the woods, but no one would go through the woods at night."
We downed our beer and I said to Ted, "We should buy them one back. I have ten marks, how about you?" Ted was a thrifty person, I knew, and foreseeing. In other words, he always had money on him.
"No problem," he said.
"Beer for our friends," I told the girl, who looked familiar. "What's your name?"
"Heidi."
"Really?"
"Yes, it's a ridiculous name. I'm going to change it as soon as I get out of here. I'm going to the university soon."
"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet," I tried to say in German, hoping that it didn't get skewed. I guess it didn't for she smiled as sweetly as a rose.
"Which university is that?"
"Mainz," she replied.
"That's not so far."
"Not far enough," she said.
Then it hit me. "Do you know who you look like?"
"Who?"
"Ingrid Bergman."
"Oh? Who's that?"
"I'm starving," one of the grunts said. He had his knapsack full of k-rations and he was starving? No, but I was.
"What do you say we get something to eat," I asked Ted. "I'll pay you back my half on payday. These guys don't have any money."
"Well," Ted said, "we're the underground so I guess we can do whatever we want."
"Damn right. Heidi, do you have anything to eat?"
"We only have Wiener Schnitzel mit Kartoffelsalat," she said. "It's very good."
My mouth watered. "Great. Sechs Schnitzels mit Kartoffelsalat."
"Papa," she cried into the kitchen, and repeated the order.
One thing led to another, and we were soon fraternizing with our new friends, our bellies full and half drunk on real German beer, which is not the piss you get in the States with German labels. When Ted asked the Germans if they wanted to join the underground, I knew it was time to go. I had spent much of the time at the bar shooting the breeze with Heidi. I got her phone number and directions to the Gasthaus. She was only eighteen, but what the hell, I wasn't much older. I invited her to see a great movie with the beautiful actress whom she resembled. She wanted to know when and where.
"I'll find out," I said. "Maybe in Mainz." If I didn't have a girlfriend waiting in Frankfurt, I probably would have,
She called a taxi for us; we drove the roundabout ten kilometers to the main road and eventually found the van. We loaded our drunken living cargo into it and somehow made it back to the Kaserne in Bad Kreuznach without incident.
As we drove to the second rendezvous (X2) the next day Ted said, "What if the Reds captured some of those Blue guys yesterday and they squealed under interrogation?"
"Squealed what?"
"Where the second day meeting point is."
"Nah, they only have to give their names, rank and serial numbers. Geneva Convention."
"I guess you're right," Ted said, but he didn't sound convinced.
I wasn't right.
The meeting point was the square of a village not very far from Bad Kreuznach. We had never been there and weren't even sure it had a square. But we figured there was no reason for it to be an exception. All German villages have a central square with a statue of Goethe or Schiller, or if it had had Hitler, an empty pedestal. We parked the van on the side of the road in front of a curve in order to walk the rest of the way into town like two casual German citizens.
"You don't look very German in that getup, Frank," Ted remarked as we strolled towards the curve.
"Play it again, Sam," I rejoined and whistled As Time Goes By. It was a beautiful sunny spring day, and I was feeling good for the first time since being transferred to Bad Kreuznach. You should understand that compared to Berlin Bad Kreuznach is God's Little Acre. It had only one mechanical traffic light that was wound up like a clock. Although Americans were still gladly tolerated (there were more 2nd Armored Division troops than German inhabitants), we weren't loved like in Berlin, surrounded as it was by the Soviet army. And for a girl to be seen going out in Bad Kreuznach with an American soldier was not good for her reputation. They figured we had only one thing on our minds ... and they were right.
We strolled into the sharp curve and found ourselves being stared at by a squad of Red soldiers lounging around the Schiller statue. We froze. "Keep walking, act natural," I said. They waited until we tried to casually pass them by, then the sergeant stood up and rudely said, "Where do you guys think you're going?"
"Nix sprechen der English," Ted said, and the whole squad roared with laughter; one even fell down and rolled from side to side holding his belly.
They made us get into the back of a truck and we all proceeded back to headquarters where we were to be interrogated by a lieutenant.
"We gotta pick up the van, lieutenant."
"What van?"
"The van we got from the motor pool, government property. It's still parked outside that town where we were captured."
"Why didn't you bring it back when you were there?"
"Well, first of all, we didn't want it falling into enemy hands. And anyway, that asshole sergeant was laughing so hard he wouldn't have agreed."
The Lt. was shaking his head. "Okay, get the fuck outta here."
We didn't go back to the van that night, of course. PX beer had only made us thirsty for real German beer, so we went to the only bar in town to relax after a successful mission during which not a shot was fired. We returned to the van the next morning in my scooter and Ted drove the van back to Bad Kreuznach. The four guys we rescued got their three-day passes and Ted was promoted to corporal ... I mean spec 4.
To make a long story short, I got married. You see, when I was transferred to Bad Kreuznach I had to leave my German girlfriend in Frankfurt — the main reason I didn't want to leave — so I drove up there almost every weekend in my motor scooter. It had a U.S. Army license plate, which was an advantage those days. Most Germans basically loved us because, after all, we were protecting them from the Russians. Vietnam hadn't happened yet. Now, as my army time was getting short, I had some deciding to do. As you may know, when you're in love you do strange things.
Capt. Clark, the only nice guy officer I ever met, loaned me his tux and Renate and I got married in a Lutheran church in Frankfurt, and then in the city hall. Back in Bad Kreuznach, as a married non-commissioned officer I was entitled to free living quarters. So we moved into a three-room apartment in the 2nd Division housing area.
When my time was up we took the train to Frankfurt to say goodbye to Renate's parents, then another train to Bremerhaven and a boat to New York. It was the same kind of “liberty ship” I'd come across on, but this time instead of suffering the pangs of seasickness in the belly of the whale with the rest of the grunts, we had a cabin with private bath and ate our meals in the officer and noncom dining room. The food and the service were excellent. Our waiter, who was also from Brooklyn and with whom we remained friendly after the trip, was black by the way.