PAGAN

Pagan was their call sign –

Pagan was their creed –

Pagan was their religion

He fought like a pagan who defends his religion. – Stephen Crane

 Dedication

For the women and men who served the United States of America in uniform when no one else would – who fought and bled and died in the war that never happened. 

1.

Welcome

The stewardess announced the descent into Rhein-Main Airforce Base, and he nudged the shoulder of his best friend, a short blonde all-state wrestler from western Pennsylvania who had served with him for the last year and half. A practical joker, with a wry sense of humor and a ready wit, came to quickly, shook his head, and prepared to land. They were both Lieutenants commissioned in the armor branch of the Army, who had spent a year at Fort Knox Kentucky, as executive officers in basic training companies, turning raw recruits into light infantry soldiers and walking mile after mile on the “trail” as the drill instructors referred to the blacktop roads on hilly terrain that wound through the post. More importantly, they were cavalrymen, “pony soldiers” who had earned their spurs in the Third Armored Cavalry Regiment under the watchful eyes and none-too gentle voice of Major Charles F. Riley, known as “Chuck the Fucker”, “Uncle Chuck” and “Papa Gator.” He had received a battle field commission, promoting him from First Sergeant to Lieutenant in Viet Nam when all of the officers in his troop of the Eleventh Armored Cavalry Regiment were killed. The Lieutenant’s buddy, Scottie, who had a fierce temper, was known as “Baby Gator” while he was called “Gator Bait” because of his propensity to get chewed on by Papa Gator. Ten months with “Uncle Chuck” in the deserts of Texas and New Mexico that surrounded Fort Bliss, had taught them to work around difficulties and persevere in the face of an impatient Congress, hellish weather, AWOL troopers, and broken equipment. Over the preceding Christmas holiday, he struck up a relationship with an intrepid, petite red head who was formerly his former best friend’s girlfriend and was now engaged to her. So, besides being involuntarily transferred to Europe and extended for a three-year tour, he would also have to arrange for leave to get married in the States and bring her to West Germany.

Descending from the plane they shielded their eyes from the sun and walked over to an olive drab bus and stood outside, watching as the luggage from the plane, including their duffle bags and suitcases was transferred. Then they climbed up and sat side by side once again, as the bus made its way out of the airport and on to the autobahn.  Neither of them had been to Germany before so they did not know what to expect, still this wasn’t it. For one thing the land was flat as Indiana and the soil appeared to be mostly sand, with broken wooded areas and some fields. Both had orders to tank battalions in the Eighth Infantry “Pathfinder” Division – the Crazy Eight or Shaft of Gold.  He had been looking forward to making his application for the Army’s law school program after two years and Scotty was planning on spending another year or two at Fort Knox, between a staff assignment in one of the battalions there followed by advanced course and assignment to a line tank battalion or cavalry squadron. However, both had been diverted for immediate assignment to Europe because with the Shah falling in Iran and the Russians massing on the border with Afghanistan, President Carter was informed of the bad news – the units defending in West Germany were Category III – combat ineffective due to deficiencies in maintenance, training and officer strength, as a result of the destruction of the Army post Viet Nam, recruiting difficulties posed by transition to the volunteer Army, and cost constraints imposed by the administration. Of the line divisions, the Eighth was stationed the farthest to the rear and was arguably in the worst shape since it took transfers of problem soldiers from the forward divisions and the two armored cavalry regiments that patrolled the iron curtain in the Fulda Gap, along the border with East Germany and Czechoslovakia. So, the two Lieutenants were shoved into the breach to shore up the defense of the west.  The bus left the autobahn and rolled up to the transient billets where newly arrived and departing soldiers stayed while other arrangements were made for them. The Lieutenant shook hands with his buddy, walked to the door of the bus and jumped down to the ground, carrying his American Tourister attaché case and a suitcase with his duffel bag over his shoulder. Then he went into the transient billets, checked in at the front desk and dropped the duffle bag and suitcase inside his room. Then he took his attaché, he went out onto the street and walked to the entrance to Sullivan Barracks, where his battalion was stationed.

Hell in a Very Small Place

He walked past the guards at the gate and turned right into the very first building. The heavy oak door of the building that had once served as barracks for a German air defense unit during the war creaked slowly open for him. The Lieutenant peered into the dark entry way. The floors were black, and the walls were as well.  At the far end, beside the light from a single dim bulb sat a blonde gap-toothed Spec four who was apparently the CQ or charge of quarters.  At his feet was an Army cot chained to the desk where he sat.  Hand cuffed to the cot was a slender black man wearing a practically transparent black negligée.  “Good morning, Specialist,” said the Lieutenant, “I just arrived from CONUS and need to sign in.  Is the First Sergeant around?”  The Specialist looked up dully and then disappeared down a dark set of stairs to his left, remarking over his shoulder – “I’ll check with Top and see what he wants you to do?” The newly arrived officer peered down at the man in the cot and said, “Pardon me soldier – I assume that you are a soldier in the United States Army?”  “Yes Suh” the soldier replied.  “Then if I might be so bold as to inquire – what in the name of heaven or hell is going on around here?” “What do you mean sir”?  For one – why are dressed in a black negligée during duty hours?”  “Because I am gay sir.”  “All right – why are you handcuffed to that cot?”  “Well sir – you see, they are chaptering me out – I’m depressed, and I’m a junkie so they are afraid that I might get loose and shoot up and overdose and kill myself.”  “Very well. Why is the cot chained to the CQ desk?”   So’s they won’t drag me off and rape me – again.” “Thanks for clearing that up,” said the Lieutenant, as he turned to face the sound of steps on the stairs behind him.

The Spec 4 appeared in the stairwell and said, “Go up to Battalion Lieutenant – Top says the Colonel wants to see you.”  “Where is that?”  “Up the road to your right Sir.”  “Thanks trooper” said the Lieutenant who turned on the heels of his shined jump boots and walked out into the overcast grey morning.  The first of many. The insignia of the Seventh Army to which he was newly assigned was posted at the entry to the post. It had seven stair steps on each side – the old hands said it stood for “seven steps to hell.”  They were right.  

He would spend the next three years there – in a tank battalion with a silver lion on its crest. Pagan was their call sign.  Pagan was their creed.  Pagan was their religion.  Hell was their home.

Saddling up with Bravo

Having exited the barracks, his shined Cochran jump boots clicking on the floor, he entered the soft light of an overcast midmorning and turned right, along the sidewalk until he saw a low single-story building with a tank in front and the numerical designation of his new unit – 3-68 on a metal sign in front of the building.  He entered the side entrance to the building and walked down the hall to a door with Commander on a small yellow sign over it.  Turning right into the room he saw a desk with a Captain, the battalion adjutant behind it.  He walked forward, saluted and told the Captain that he was reporting in. The Captain looked up briefly, rose and motioned for him to follow.  He walked in and stepped forward, as close to the front of the desk, as he could, as it was connected to a table with five chairs, one for each of the Company Commanders in the battalion.  He stepped forward, saluted smartly and said, “Lieutenant Manteuffel reporting, sir.” The Lieutenant Colonel looked up from a map on his desk and saluted quickly, then rose and shook his hand and stood back.  “Lieutenant we’ve been expecting you.  Are you related to the German general?”  “Yes sir, distantly.”  “Interesting, said the colonel, – you went to VMI?” “Yes sir.”  “We have three line-companies, a West Point company, a VMI company and an all-others company.   Ordinarily, since you went to school there, you would go to Alpha company, commanded by Captain Doyle.  It is cross attached to the 2-13 Infantry to make Team Yankee and we get Charlie company from that battalion to form Team Mech when we deploy.  But I have a special request from the West Point Company Commander for you, so you are going to Bravo company.  The other Lieutenant coming in is from West Point and he will go to Alpha company.  Where are you in from by the way?” “Fort Knox Sir, the Infantry Training Center, and I spent a year with the Third Armored Cavalry Regiment at Ft. Bliss attached to USAOTEA testing the M-1 tank.” The Colonel then said, “Welcome to the battalion, sign in with the adjutant and then get down to B Company. And Lieutenant – See that?” He looked over at a large stake covered in black and white plastic. “Yes, Sir.” “That is a German road marker. They are placed along every road a hundred-meter intervals. During the last field exercise one of my tanks ran over ten klicks of them – at a hundred marks apiece. Don’t let that happen. Got it?” “Yes, Sir, I won’t.”

With that, the Colonel turned back to the map, so the Lieutenant saluted, and went to the S-1’s desk, where he handed over his field 201 personnel file and orders, and asked for directions to B Company.  After finding out that it was in the horseshoe shaped barracks to the west, he moved quickly down the hall and came up short for a couple of seconds. He could swear that he recognized the voice of a Specialist who had worked for him at Bliss and whom he thought was being chaptered out of the Army.  Shaking his head in disbelief, he assumed he was hearing things due to jet lag and lack of sleep, and stopped in to pay his respects to the Sergeant Major before heading out find B Company. 

The western leg of the horseshoe housed Bravo Company.  He pulled open a door of the same type he had entered earlier, walked in and took a slight left where a buck sergeant sat at the CQ desk.  He asked if the First Sergeant was in. The CQ called downstairs and then told him that Top was waiting for him downstairs.  He turned to his right, walked quickly down the stairs and turned left at the bottom.  It was very dark in the basement, and he looked down the hallway toward the light from an open office.  He walked toward it and entered.  A sharp Specialist 4 seated at a table beside the door was busy typing up a Disposition Form.  Behind the large desk at the back of the room was a Hispanic – First Sergeant Guerra.  The First Sergeant looked up and quickly scanned the new officer.  He seemed to pass inspection, “Good morning, Sir” he said, followed by “where are you in from?” “Fort Knox, 4th Training Brigade and year with the Third ACR.”  The First Sergeant was sharp – a Viet Nam veteran with service in the 25th Tropic Lightning Division.  He said, “Sir the first thing you need to do is go up to Battalion and see the S-3 NCO, Sergeant Peeler.  You need to read the Battalion SOP and alert procedures because we will be going out on a field exercise early in the morning.  You will be going to first platoon.  The platoon Sergeant is coming down from the motor pool at noon.  He’ll meet you out in front of the company and take you over to Coleman Barracks to get your TA-50 field gear.  The old man is in the field on recon for the upcoming Reforger.” 

With that, the First Sergeant looked back down at his desk and returned to filling out the duty roster.  In essence the Lieutenant was dismissed, so he looked around the room briefly, then retraced his steps back out in front of the barracks.  The sun had finally burned through the overcast and the day was pleasant, almost like a fall day back in Virginia.  He looked north, across the road to the maintenance bays and a large motor pool as he made his way back to Battalion to look for Sergeant Peeler. Walking in the west end of the building again, he looked down the hall and saw a small yellow sign that read S-3. Walking up to the threshold he peered in to see several desks, a Sergeant First Class and some specialists who were busy typing.

Addressing the clerk nearest the door, he introduced himself and asked if Sergeant Peeler was in. Hearing his name, Sergeant Peeler turned around from the maps he was studying and asked what he wanted. The Lieutenant told him that the First Sergeant of B Company had told him to come up to read the Battalion SOP.  Sergeant Peeler nodded, retrieved a large black notebook from the locked cabinet beside him, and motioned for the Lieutenant to follow him into the empty S-3 Air’s office and sit down at the chair behind the desk. Then he handed the notebook to him and stepped out, remarking – “Give it back to me when you are done – by the way I’ll be leaving at noon for chow.” The Lieutenant read the SOP in about an hour and returned the notebook to Sergeant Peeler well before noon. Then he walked back to B Company to meet his Platoon Sergeant.

A Piece of Luck – the Backbone of the Army

There are some people who you always remember meeting the first time. Sergeant Robb was one of those people, but only after the fact.  He was tall, lanky, and a natural athlete in an angular way, like Abraham Lincoln.  He was soft spoken, unassuming, thoughtful, and wise far beyond his years.  He walked up and saluted his new Lieutenant smartly, then introduced himself.  “Sergent First Class Robb Sir, First Platoon Bravo.” The Lieutenant returned the salute and extended his hand – Robb had a firm, but not aggressive grip and a ready shy smile.  “Sir, if you like, I suggest that you grab a bite to eat – there is a snack bar next to the PX, and I’ll pick you up there at 1300.  That way I can take you over to get your field gear, drop a couple of items off at the tailor shop and get back here for formation at the end of the day. We need to get you ready, because we will have an alert early tomorrow and spend a night in the field.  We’ll come back into garrison the day after tomorrow, clean up and get prepared to go to the field for about three weeks.” “Alright,” said the Lieutenant, “I just have just one question.  Where the hell is the PX?  I’ll figure out the rest.”  “Sir, it’s just out the front gate and to the left, behind the Batchelor Officers’ Quarters.  If you get to the Esso station you’ve gone too far.”

With that, the Lieutenant saluted his new sergeant, thanked him, turned on his heel, and headed back toward the transient billets.  He had decided to find out how long he could stay there before he had to move out to permanent quarters.  Since he had to spend a night in the woods shortly, he had to know what the plan was for his living arrangements when he returned.  He walked into the building and stopped at the desk.  “How long before I have quarters?” “We don’t know right now; it will probably be a month or so before we can move you into the BOQ.”  “Where do I stay while I am waiting?” “Wherever you like.  That’s your problem, but you have to move out of here in three days.” “What? I’m going out on alert early tomorrow and will be in the field for two days.  So, I’ll get back just in time to spend one night and then get evicted?” “That’s correct.”  “Well – thanks for letting me know,” he said, turned and walked back out to the street.  

He crossed the street and walked past the BOQ to the Post Exchange.  He could see the sign for the snack bar and cut across a parking lot toward it.  He slowed as he saw a busted beer stein in the grass beside the lot and a broken chair crashed down beside him.  He looked up and made out the shadow of a man screaming a string of expletives before disappearing back into the room on the third floor above him. Without breaking stride, he moved quickly out of the engagement area, shaking his head as he went.  While he had been in the Army a while, and had seen some strange things, this was definitely something new.  He just didn’t have time to think about it as he stalked into the snack bar.  He ordered a cheeseburger, fries and a coke, and sat down at a small table facing the door and the parking lot.  The burger was thin and pretty tasteless, the fries were excellent, and the coke tasted oddly bitter.  

He finished eating and took a deep breath.  Beside him was a black master sergeant visiting with a black buck sergeant who was complaining about the lack of spare parts and fuel for training.  He was also appalled by the lack of discipline.  Having just signed in, he was, frankly, taken aback.  The old sergeant just looked at him and whistled slowly.  Then he said, “Forget all that CONUS bullshit, you in USAREUR now boy – it’s a whole ‘nother world.”  With that, the Lieutenant looked out the window and saw a large tan van pull up and Sergeant Robb get out.  The Lieutenant got to his feet and walked out to meet him.  The Sergeant snapped a sharp salute, and he just as smartly returned it, got into the front passenger seat and buckled in.  By that time the van had already started moving and headed for the road where the Sergeant stopped briefly before turning left and heading for the autobahn. 

As the van accelerated, Sergeant Robb turned his head slightly to the right and asked – “Where are you in from, Sir?”  “Fourth Training Brigade at Fort Knox – about five months pushing infantry BT. Before that I spent nearly a year chopped to the Third ACR at Bliss testing M-1 tanks in the desert and six months before that in a different battalion in the Fourth Brigade.”  “Have you crewed an M-60?”  “Not since officer basic in 1977. I’ve spent most of my time in a PC and on the ground.  But I did get two years on M-48 A-5’s at VMI before I was commissioned.”  “You went to VMI Sir?”  “Yes.” “If I might ask, why aren’t you going to Alpha Company?”  “The Colonel said I was specially requested by the Bravo Company Commander.”  “You say you were in the Cav for a year?”  “Yes – at Bliss.”  “Maybe that’s it then, sir.  We are getting ready to go to the field for Reforger. Due to fuel and training cutbacks, we are the only company going from the Brigade, so maybe he wants a Lieutenant with some field time as there isn’t much time to train.” “When do we go?”  “We’ll have a company alert at 4 am tomorrow.” “Saturday morning?”  “Yes. We’ve been waiting for you, so you could train with the Company.   We’ll load up and spend a night and two days in the local training area, shake everything down, and get it all fixed during the next week in garrison. A week from Monday we go an alert again and road march over to the railhead at Coleman Barracks where we’re going now.”

Sergeant Robb looked in the mirrors to clear to the rear and exited to a two-lane road leading into a large cantonment area on the banks of a river.  “You say this is Brigade?”  “Yes Sir.  The headquarters is here as well as the division cavalry squadron, aviation and the infantry battalion.  Part of DISCOM (division support command) is here along with several signal units, and “Colman disciplinary barracks,” the confinement facility for USAREUR.”

They pulled up and parked in front of one of many beige single-story buildings, just inside the main gate, next to the railroad tracks.  They entered and Sergeant Robb talked to the Master Sergeant in charge of the facility for a while, as the Lieutenant filled out the endless forms for the supply officer, so that he could pick up his field gear, rubber duck, parka, overshoes, sleeping bag, canteens, and waterproof bags necessary to “enjoy” life in the field.  As he started through the inventory line, Sergeant Robb turned to the Master Sergeant and said, “Make sure he gets good stuff – he’s going to need it – he’s my Lieutenant and we’re going to be spending a lot of time in the field.”  The Lieutenant stepped down the line from station to station picking up the usual field gear he was used to and a set of “Mickey Mouse” cold weather boots that were heavy as lead and awkward as hell.  Sergeant Robb looked over at him and shook his head – “Probably won’t use those sir – you got any duffle bags?”  “Yes Sergeant – two of them.” “Good Sir pack yourself an A bag and a B bag.  Put those in the bottom of the B bag.”

After signing for his new equipment, Sergeant Robb and the Lieutenant each picked up a waterproof bag full of gear, walked to the van and placed them in the back.  Then they got into the front seats and the Sergeant cranked up the engine.  “Sir – you staying at the VOQ?”  “Yes.”  “Good, I’ll drop you off in front of the building so you can put your gear in your room before you come back to the company – you got any nametags?”  “Yes – with my luggage.”  “Got another field jacket?”  “Yes.”  “Good – take out the new field jacket and one of the two field shirts you just got issued and meet me back at the orderly room.  I’ll get you over to the tailor shop so you can get the stuff sewn onto one set while we’re in the field.  Keep the others and the “rubber duck” handy for the woods.”  “Thanks.  How long have you been in the battalion?”  “A little over a year.” “Where were you before that?”  “Fort Carson, Sir.”  As the van pulled over, the Lieutenant opened the door and then opened the sliding door, so that he could pick up both bags and sling them over his shoulders.  Then he went into the VOQ, climbed the steps and dropped the bags at his feet.  He opened the door and took the bags inside where he threw them on the bed.  He untied the necks of the bags and took out the field jacket and one of the field shirts. Then he went out the door, locked it behind him, descended the steps and walked back to B company, where he saw Sergeant Robb standing under a tree at the edge of the Company area.

He saluted as the Lieutenant came up and they walked together toward the motor pool.  As they passed the maintenance bays for B and A Companies, the Sergeant said – “You have six tanks in the platoon.  1-1 is your personal tank and I have 1-4.  Sergeant Webb on 1-2 is outstanding and heads up the heavy section, 1-3 and 1-5 tank commanders need some training.  We also have 6-6, the old man’s tank, commanded by Sergeant Fields. He’s young, but steady and squared away.” Sergeant Robb then turned left as they came to the corner and walked purposefully to a small building with a metal sign in front of it declaring that the structure housed a laundry.  They went inside and he handed over the two clothing items to a Korean tailor who informed him that it would take two to three days before the nametags would be sewn onto both and a unit patch on the jacket.  Pocketing the claim tickets for both, the Lieutenant then followed Sergeant Robb to what was a large parking lot.

They walked in silence down the long row of tanks and other armored vehicles that belonged to the battalion he was now part of.  “Sir our tanks are in the middle of the hardstand.  Second and third platoon are beside us.  Third on the left and second on the right.  Second Platoon has the XO’s blade tank in addition to the five that make up the platoon, so on alert they go out the gate after Alpha Company.  That way the blade can clear vehicles out of the way if necessary.”  “Where are the men?”  “They have been on detail to battalion all day and are headed up to the barracks for equipment inspection.  All the tanks are up, but expect some problems when we get them cranked up.  We don’t get to exercise them much because of fuel constraints – you have to get a DF from the Battalion XO to move a tank to check the track.”  “How often do you get to train?”  “Gunnery three or four times a year, one major exercise and a few days a year in the local training area, out the back gate.”  The Lieutenant looked up at the fifty-two-ton vehicle and smiled; 1-1 was a good-looking tank and he felt the bond that any cavalryman feels with the charger that he may have to take into battle.  The Lieutenant looked over his tanks and did not see any obvious problems – rust or leaking fluids, and the tarps were tied down well over the turret.  He had a good sergeant.  “What’s with the palm trees on C company’s tanks?”  “That’s their former Company Commander’s doing – painted them like the Africa Corps – he likes to think he is Rommel.”  “He’s the S-1 now.  The new CO, Captain Butler liked them, as he was the old XO.”  Sergeant Robb looked at his watch and announced that it was seventeen hundred and time for the company formation.  The two turned and walked back toward the barracks.  They reached the company area just as the troops were forming up – three platoons first, second and third and headquarters platoon that included company maintenance and supply. Sergeant Robb took his place on the far right of the First Sergeant and the Lieutenant took a position in the rear of the formation behind his new platoon.

The Rainbow Coalition

The striking thing about the Company was that the line platoons were segregated by race.  Third platoon was all white, with the exception of one Hispanic and Specialist 5 Edgar who the Lieutenant knew was a Filipino, as he had served with him at Fort Bliss for almost year.  The platoon leader was an old hand E-7 and his assistant was an E-6 who was also the Company’s Master Gunner.  The second platoon was all black, with a black E-7 serving as the platoon leader.    First platoon was a mixture of white, black, Hispanic and possibly Asian soldiers – a veritable rainbow coalition.  The Hispanic First Sergeant was a good NCO, and a no bullshit individual.  He quickly set out the schedule for the next morning – an 0400 mock alert, stand to with weapons uploaded by 0500, and crew members would rotate thru the mess hall for breakfast in pairs, with the company to be prepared to roll to the local training area by 7 am.

There were no commissioned officers other than the Lieutenant, so he remained behind the First Platoon as the First Sergeant called the NCO platoon leaders forward for a brief conversation concerning the fact that the “old man” and the XO were in the field on recon, would be getting in late, and consequently in a rare mood, so they needed to mind their business and be ready in the morning.  The men standing in ranks swayed gently back and forth a little but maintained good order as they stood at ease.  After a couple of minutes, the First Sergeant called the Company to attention and released the platoons to their sergeants for further instructions.  Sergeant Robb informed the platoon that he would be in at 3:30 am and that he was pleased to introduce their new platoon leader.  With that he turned and stated “Sir the Platoon is formed” – the Lieutenant then marched around to the front of the platoon formation.  The Sergeant saluted and took his place at the rear of the formation. 

The Lieutenant ordered his men to stand at ease, introduced himself and let the men know that he was honored to be their new platoon leader.  He also told them that he was newly arrived from Fort Knox where he had served as a company training officer and executive officer in a basic training brigade and that he had also spent a year at Fort Bliss assigned to the Third ACR, where he had tested the first platoon of the new M-1 tanks.  He also let them know that he spent four years in the ranks at VMI, that he intended to do his best, and that he had high expectations for them as he had never served in any unit that was less than the very best at what it was called to do.  He also asked each of them to keep an eye on him and assist him in doing his job as he was determined to learn from them.  He then called the Platoon to attention and directed Sergeant Robb to form the platoon for inspection.  

Sergeant Robb ordered the men to open ranks and then accompanied the Lieutenant as he moved to the first man on the left and stopped in front of him.  The Lieutenant came smartly to a stop in front of the man, looked him over and extended his right hand to shake his hand and introduce himself again, personally.  The man was a short and stocky African American with a broad head and grim visage, slightly smoldering and menacing, for all the world like a bull buffalo.  He was a newly promoted E-5 who was known for his proficiency as a gunner – which explained why he was in charge of 6-6, the CO’s tank.  The Lieutenant moved down the ranks and spoke with each man in turn asking about previous duty stations and hometowns.  At the end of the third rank the Lieutenant turned to Sergeant Robb and said, “Sergeant the platoon is yours.”  The Sergeant closed ranks and walked to the front of the formation. He dismissed the men and spoke briefly with the tank commanders. 

When he was done, he walked up to the Lieutenant who said ” Sergeant it looks like the company has a black platoon and a white platoon, what have we got?  Sir we have the whites and Puerto Ricans that the white platoon didn’t want, the blacks that the black platoon didn’t want, the Mexicans and two “carped” Guamanians.  Why the segregation?  The race problems in the Battalion are bad and the CO decided to separate the men by race to try and contain them.”  “Very well, what is a carped Guamanian?  “We have two NCO’s, one an E-6 tank commander on 1-3 and his gunner an E-5 sergeant.  They just re-enlisted under the combat arms reenlistment program – CARP to go from non-combat specialties to armor.  Sgt Aguinaldo was in the signal corps most recently and the artillery before that, and Sergeant Fejeran was an MP.  Both had service in Nam.” “Have they had armor training?”  “No – sir the program relies on OJT.”  “Really?” – “Yes sir.” “Hmm.  I know why I’m here … I went to VMI. But you seem pretty squared away – what did you do to get sentenced to this?” Sergeant Robb looked at him and realized that he was kidding, to a certain degree, smiled and lowered his head in a self-deprecating way.  “Sir – You’ll figure it out.  Let’s go, I have to pick up my girlfriend from work.  I’ll take you on a tour of the area while I’m at it.” 

The Child of the Dust

He followed the Sergeant over to the van and hopped into the passenger seat.  The sun had finally come out and it was a glorious late fall afternoon.  Sergeant Robb climbed in, drove out the gate past the guards, and down the street to the first left, into a small enclave of low buildings.  The Sergeant slowly drove by them and pointed them out.  These included, the officer’s club, the education center, the post library, and the morale and recreation center.  He then circled around the buildings and pulled up in front of the library.  The Lieutenant looked over and asked, “Where are you from Sergeant?”  “Tennessee, Sir.”  “What part?’  “The middle of the state Sir.” “Really, I’m from Kansas myself, but my mother is from Tennessee, up by Fort Campbell.”  The library door swung open and the Lieutenant jumped out of his seat.  “Stay where you are Sir if you don’t mind.  That way it’ll be easier to drop you off, after we get around the traffic circle and she won’t mind.”  “She” – was walking toward them.  The Lieutenant had his answer.  While she was not beautiful by western standards, she was handsome, intelligent and exotic.  She was a “child of the dust” apparently.  A walking genetic history of the endless wars that had ravaged Viet Nam over the centuries.  She was Vietnamese, but taller and less broad of face – more in the line of Chinese, and she had a slender shapely body, long limbs and stately walk – French, with curly black hair, honey colored skin and freckles – African – possibly Senegalese.  She was marvelous, and the Lieutenant turned and exchanged smiles with her as she opened the rear sliding door and climbed in with her purse and a couple of books.                       

As she seated herself and buckled her restraints, the Lieutenant introduced himself.  She then said that her name was Dawn and asked if he was the new platoon leader.  Yes, he said and asked what subjects she taught.  “Modern languages – French and German here.  I used to teach Vietnamese too, but there is not much demand for that now.”  “How long have you been here in Mannheim?” he asked.  “A little over four years.  I was in Saigon working for the DOD and Foreign Service until 1975.”  As she spoke, she leaned forward to place her face in between Sergeant Robb and him.  She had an oriental view of personal space, and liked to get close to those she was speaking to.  She was also exuberant and had laughing, intelligent eyes. 

She asked where he was from in the United States.  He told her, Kansas, Virginia and some other southern states.  She said that she had been in Virginia and Washington, D.C. before taking her current position in Germany.  The van pulled up to the traffic circle and came to a stop near the gate to the post. The Lieutenant said, “Nice to meet you. Mam,” as he opened the door to get out.  She was already unstrapped and moving into the seat.  The Lieutenant got out and closed the door, then he looked over his shoulder and said, “See you tomorrow morning Sergeant,” then, as they pulled away, he turned and walked toward the gate, then crossed the street and tracks that passed by the streetcar station, before he crossed over the main street in the housing area and continued down the sidewalk that ran in front of the VOQ and BOQ buildings.  He walked up to his room and sat down on the bed to take a deep breath and rest for a minute – it had been a hell of a day and it wasn’t even over yet. 

2.

First Alert

Since he didn’t have any Deutschmarks and didn’t feel like walking all the way back to the Officers Club, he went back to the Post Exchange snack bar and considered the menu of GI junk food that was available.  He didn’t feel like another burger, so he decided on what appeared to be a German bratwurst, a roll and a small salad.  Finally, having some time to think, he reflected a little about his personal situation.  This wasn’t in any way where he had expected be two years ago.  Right now, by his calculation, he should have submitted his application to the JAG Corps and be waiting on staff at Fort Knox for orders to attend law school, preferably at the University of Virginia.  Instead, having left his fiancé back in Kansas, he was sitting in a post near the banks of the Rhine.  Not only that, he had been barred to reassignment, and involuntarily extended for the duration of a three-year tour.  And he was about to roll out to the field starting at four in the morning, while his body still thought it was noon.  

Oh well, he bought a package of red licorice and a Snickers bar for breakfast and strolled back to his room.  He had a duffle bag and a footlocker, in addition to the duffle bag of TA-50 he had been issued that afternoon. Taking a deep breath, he laid out the contents of both duffle bags and water proof bags on the bed and packed the duffle bag that had straps like a back pack, his A-bag, to take to the field. He set out a set of field dress and fatigues for the field as well. He then undressed down to his underwear, brushed his teeth, and set his travel alarm clock for 3 am.  Then he cleared the bed, laid down on top of it and covered himself with a poncho liner that he had with him since Fort Bliss.  One of the best things that came out of the Viet Nam war.  He said a prayer, thought of his girl far away, sighed, and went to sleep – the single thing he had learned to do almost anywhere during the year he had spent in the New Mexico desert.

The dull, maddening, mechanical clatter of his travel alarm clock shattered the night.  The Lieutenant came immediately awake, rolled toward the nightstand, felt for the small clock and pushed in the pin to turn it off.  He was still dead tired but swung out of the bed and headed immediately to the bathroom where he shaved and rinsed off quickly in the shower.  He then brushed his teeth and rinsed out his mouth before taking a drink of water.  He immediately spit it out because it was simply awful, with a sour burning taste and an almost sulphureous smell, very similar to the way the air smelled, even in the morning as it rolled up along the Rhine from Mannheim and the paper mills there.  Well, he thought, that explained the German fondness for strong coffee, tea, wine and beer. 

He checked his watch and realized that it was 3:30 am – 8:30 pm by his biological clock and shook his head – it was going to be a very long day.  He finished packing his things into the A-bag, putting in his shaving gear and a map case as the final items so he could get to then quickly.  He then dressed in fatigues and boots, with field pants and a heavy wool field shirt over them, the prescribed uniform. Finally, he slipped the uniform baseball cap on his head, walked through the door, turned, and locked it behind him before shouldering the A-bag and walking quickly down the stairs to the street.  He turned left and headed for the Kaserne and his first field duty, less than twenty-four hours after landing in country.  As the veterans in the Cav said – it really was a moving train.

Arriving at the gate, he set down the bag and opened the left pocket of his field jacket to fish out his green ID card and present it to the guards at the gate.  They checked it against his appearance in the dim light coming from the streetlamps, then saluted.  He reshouldered the bag, saluted and jogged to the company area using the slow shuffle he had picked up in Airborne School at Fort Benning about five years earlier, when he was still a VMI cadet. 

Entering B Company and heading downstairs he could hear the sound of the First Sergeant’s voice and smell the best smell in the world – hot, black, strong coffee.  Just as he prepared to go in and get a cup, he heard “Herr Leutnant” from the adjoining doorway.  Turning – he saw his Company Commander, Captain Batson for the first time.  Pressed fatigues, a Ranger tab, jump wings, and spit-shined tanker’s boots made an immediate impression. The loud “Come in here!”, also had an effect.  The Lieutenant dropped his A-bag, walked in and came to the position of attention the requisite three paces from the low brown desk behind which Captain Batson sat and perused his newest officer.  In a chair in the corner, sat the Executive Officer, a small rat-faced man who seemed perpetually ill at ease. The Lieutenant came to attention, clicked his heels together smartly and saluted. 

The captain let him hold it for a few seconds, then returned it and said, “We’ve been expecting you.  Are you related to the German general?”  “Distantly Sir.”  “Hmmm – have you been to the field before?”  “Yes Sir.”  “Good – stand to is at 0600.  Here’s a map of the training area.  Be ready.”  “Yes Sir.”  The Lieutenant saluted smartly.  When it was returned sharply, he turned on his heel and departed the office.  Just outside the door, he reshouldered his A-bag and headed down the hall to the arms room.  He saw Sergeant Robb and walked up to him.   “Good morning, Sergeant, what’s the plan?”  “As usual third platoon is loading up first.  Second platoon is behind them and then we will go. Headquarters will finish loading out after we’ve picked up our machine guns and signed for our sidearms. Sir, I need you to pick up the M-240 for 1-1 and follow me to the parking lot.”  The company was efficient, and the supply sergeant and armorer quickly signed out arms to the NCOs who were in front of him.  The Lieutenant stepped up to the window, printed and signed his name, and presented his ID card to the armorer as he was new to the company and was not visually recognized.  The Lieutenant was then handed an M-4 submachine or “grease” gun, a .45 caliber pistol with ammo, a shoulder holster and the much heavier M-240, .30 caliber coaxial machine gun that would be installed inside the turret alongside the main gun.   After putting on the shoulder holster, he cleared the pistol and slipped it in. Then he cleared the primitive grease gun and slung its green strap over his neck, so it hung on his left side.  Then he crouched down and slipped the larger straps for the A-bag over both shoulders and cleared and picked up the machine gun at port arms.  Finally, about forty pounds heavier, he walked back down the hall and started humping up the stairs. 

By the time he reached the top of the stairs and hit the doors to step out into the darkness he was breathing pretty hard and sweating from head to toe.  Then he turned left and trudged down to the motor pool across the parking lot to the hardstand where his platoon of tanks waited.  At last he caught up to Sergeant Robb and walked past him to 1-1 where he slung down his A-bag and looked up to see a Specialist 5.  “Who are you?”  the Lieutenant asked.  “I’m Specialist Blaylock sir, your gunner.”  “I don’t remember seeing you yesterday at the end of the day formation.”  “I was in the field, driving the old man until about 2000 sir.  His driver was out on leave until yesterday, so I got the duty.  We were out in the maneuver area for Reforger for the last two days.  Good to meet you Sir.” “Good to meet you too,” said the Lieutenant who swung his A-bag up to the soldier and then climbed aboard the tank on the left front.  As soon as he got to the turret, he heard Sergeant Robb behind him.  He said “Blaylock stow the Lieutenant’s bag in the bustle rack and secure the grease gun. Sir come with me and we’ll get the 85’s.” The day had hardly started, and the Lieutenant was already getting tired, but he swung in behind the Sergeant and they walked in silence back to the arms room.  The Company was now a loud and bustling area that looked like a circus coming into town.  The armorer was issuing weapons to the troops, and they were wrestling their gear down the stairs. 

Welcome to Reality

The Lieutenant followed Sergeant Robb, who cut to the head of the line and asked the Supply Sergeant for the M-85 machine guns for 1-1 and 1-4.  He signed for his and the Lieutenant signed for the other.  These were heavy, fifty Cals so they put a barrel in each one and slung them over their shoulders to carry them up the stairs.  Humping that much steel rapidly took its toll on them and when they finally reached the edge of the motor pool the Lieutenant had to ask, “By my count we have over twenty men in the platoon – so why are you and I humping these machine guns by ourselves?” The Sergeant simply turned slightly and asked, ” Sir, have you read the battalion SOP?”  “Certainly, I read it in the S-2’s office yesterday.” “No sir, not that one, the real one – in the S-3’s safe.”  “No – there is a second one” “Yes sir, and it says that upon alert the battalion’s officers and senior non-commissioned officers will draw the heavy weapons, install them, charge them, turn them on the troops and force them to mount the vehicles.  We have to be prepared to do that.”  The Lieutenant looked at him incredulously and said, “How do you know this?”  “Sir I wrote it.  This is the third time I’ve been stationed here.  I was the assistant S-3 NCO the last tour.  I worked there for my first couple of months this tour and it hasn’t been changed.”  “So, you mean to tell me.  In order to stop the Russians if we have to, we have to drive through millions of Germans, and maybe fight our own soldiers to even get there?” “That’s about it sir, now if you’ll lay your 85 up on the sponson box Specialist Blaylock will help you get it installed.  Then I’ll be back to check it.”  He climbed aboard, manhandled the machine gun up to the tank commanders’ position and called down to his gunner who came up through the hatch and opened the gunport.  Then the two of them manipulated the gun into position and inserted the pins to lock it in place.

By now the remaining troops of the platoon, drivers and loaders had mounted the vehicles and stowed their gear. The Lieutenant reintroduced himself to his loader and driver.  The loader was a small, wiry, African American, while the driver was a thoughtful and quiet, older and white.  When the troops were done loading up, Sergeant Robb formed the platoon and released half of the troops and two of the tank commanders to the mess hall to eat breakfast.  When they were on their way, Sergeant Robb swung up onto the front of 1-1 and climbed up beside the Lieutenant.  After function checking the machine gun and making sure that the cupola worked as well, he turned and said, “Ok sir when you get in, crank the 85 barrel up to 45 or 50 degrees, and when we move keep your head down behind the gun-mount.”  “Why?”  “We still have terrorists here and they string piano wire in the trees tank-commander high to garrote you if you’re not careful.  The machine gun barrel will catch the wire and break it.  In the open we can move pretty quick but be careful in the woods, especially at night.”  “Lovely – thanks Sergeant.” “Sir you better get up to the mess hall by HHC and get chow.  I’ll go when you get back. We probably won’t eat again ‘til nightfall if I know the old man.  Oh, and Sir, you’ll need to get your map in a map case – it will probably rain before long.” With that newfound knowledge, he realized that this was going to be a little more of a challenging assignment than he first thought.  He made his way back to the company area where the First Sergeant was supervising the loading of the supply truck and the arms room, then turned right and walked over to the other horseshoe where CSC, HHC and the mess hall were located.  He walked in and paid the going rate plus surcharge, and headed through the chow line.  He picked up a tray and silverware and moved down the line, ordering eggs, hashbrowns, creamed beef, bacon, and toast.  The troops appeared pretty sleepy, and the cooks who, as it turned out, were all black, were watchful and pretty sullen.