It was a nice little German drinking establishment. The beer was good, I talked to a lady that had actually heard JFK's speech near the Berlin Wall, had a German English teacher wanting to practice his English with a real American, the accordion player played for us several times the only American tune he knew - Deep in the Heart of Texas - and we all sang with gusto, oh yes, I discovered that Germans had at least two uses for shoes.
Our little contingent of National Guard troops were allowed to go to the walled city of Rothenburg ob der Tauber, which means on the river Tauber, one weekend while participating in a three week exercise with the regular army. It was my first time outside the United States and I was enjoying every minute of my great adventure.
My NG compatriots and I were having a grand time in the little bar, but I decided that I wanted to walk around town a little. I left my buddies and just roamed around Rothenburg. It was dark and I couldn't see much but it was a crisp Bavarian night and I was so very impressed just to be there. It dawned on me that I had been the first McAnally to cross the Atlantic going east.
I eventually went back to where my friends were and my buddy Jerry came up to me and said, "You can't believe what just happened. A bunch of Germans poured beer in one of their shoes, started singing a beer drinking song and at the end of the song they tried to slam back their beer faster than the others at the table."
"Disgusting!" I said.
An hour or beer or so later Jerry came up to me again and said they were singing that song again. I walked up to the table where the Germans were, I slapped my shoe on the table, they greeted me warmly, poured beer in my shoe and at the appropriate time in the song, we all drank the beer as fast as we could. I slammed my shoe on the table at about the same time this one German did but there was a discrepancy on who finished first. We got into a friendly argument so it was decided that a rematch was in order.
He poured beer in my shoe than his, we counted to three, he picked up both shoes, handed me his and started drinking out of mine. He won of course because he had bigger feet. I think he must have worn ten and half, at least that's what it tasted like.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Ice Capades - Alaska
There is not a Paul's Pizza to hang out at nor a pool hall in Sugar Creek, Blue Ridge, or Maywood (remember Art's?). But the kids in the village I lived at during my second year in Alaska did seem to have an active social life of sorts along with games that are similar to those in the lower 48.
Basketball is the game of choice, of course, but I have seen very spirited baseball games played on empty lots, another game that resembles baseball, and even some hopscotching using dirt holes in place of chalked sidewalks.
The ones who have access to snow-goes and four-wheelers, which is anyone over the age of 10, buzz around the village and down to the beach, which takes the place of cruising through Sydney's I guess.
As one might suspect, the games that the kids participate in most have to deal with the winter. The one I like most was called ice hopping. That is when kids go out on one of the numerous ponds that have not been completely frozen and see if they can cross the pond by jumping from one flow to the next with out falling through.
One day my teaching partner George and I decided to walk down by the pond next to our classroom during recess and watch the kids going from one end of the pond to the other, jumping from patch to patch.
I mentioned to George it was too bad he grew up in the desert and had never done anything like that. I then went on to extol my own virtues as a boy in being able to do miraculous feats on Crisp Lake during the bitter cold days in the Midwest around Fairmount when the temperatures dipped to 20 degrees.
George is young enough to take my comment as a challenge and before I knew it he was out there jumping from patch to patch like he had his right mind. He was able to get across the pond in record time for a white guy and more remarkably without getting wet. I wish he had not done that, and more that I had kept my mouth shut.
No sooner had he completed his feat of skill and daring than a flock of my darlings swarmed around me and began to badger me about me doing the same. They reminded me that I had done a somersault off a conex into a pile of snow recently and assured me they had complete faith in my ability to cross the pond.
I have heard that the cold affects ones brain and reasoning process, and be assured it is true.
The path George took seemed safe enough so I gingerly placed one foot on the ice, steadied my balance and took another cautious step, then another. I had eventually worked my way about half way across when I came to a break in the ice that required me to jump. The distance was only about a foot, so the distance did not bother me but I sort of figured that my point of impact might not be able to take the pressure of my assault. I have gained a few pounds since I was 13 you see. I did a tentative leap and much to my surprise landed upright and un wet.
This bolstered my confidence and I moved forward to the next ice break. I had to be careful this time because I saw quiet readily the ice was broken in several places and I would have to keep hoping and could not stop until I got to the other side. I mapped out my attack. I backed up a little got a running start, traversed the first break, magically the second, and vaulted over the third and went into the pond up to my waist on the fourth. Luckily I was only 3 feet away from the opposite shore and shoved my body through the ice like a huge iron-plated boat.
Our principal never comes out to our place to visit George and me, so I was rather shocked when I realized one of the hands helping me onto the shore was his.
I immediately told the kids in a loud voice, "Now see what can happen if you are not careful." The kids went inside and I looked around and there was no George. The principal suggested that I go home and change clothes and, that while encouraging a hands-on approach and practical experiences in teaching, I might want to follow George's example of maintaining classroom decorum, be a stellar role model, and set a better example to my charges like my teaching partner.
Basketball is the game of choice, of course, but I have seen very spirited baseball games played on empty lots, another game that resembles baseball, and even some hopscotching using dirt holes in place of chalked sidewalks.
The ones who have access to snow-goes and four-wheelers, which is anyone over the age of 10, buzz around the village and down to the beach, which takes the place of cruising through Sydney's I guess.
As one might suspect, the games that the kids participate in most have to deal with the winter. The one I like most was called ice hopping. That is when kids go out on one of the numerous ponds that have not been completely frozen and see if they can cross the pond by jumping from one flow to the next with out falling through.
One day my teaching partner George and I decided to walk down by the pond next to our classroom during recess and watch the kids going from one end of the pond to the other, jumping from patch to patch.
I mentioned to George it was too bad he grew up in the desert and had never done anything like that. I then went on to extol my own virtues as a boy in being able to do miraculous feats on Crisp Lake during the bitter cold days in the Midwest around Fairmount when the temperatures dipped to 20 degrees.
George is young enough to take my comment as a challenge and before I knew it he was out there jumping from patch to patch like he had his right mind. He was able to get across the pond in record time for a white guy and more remarkably without getting wet. I wish he had not done that, and more that I had kept my mouth shut.
No sooner had he completed his feat of skill and daring than a flock of my darlings swarmed around me and began to badger me about me doing the same. They reminded me that I had done a somersault off a conex into a pile of snow recently and assured me they had complete faith in my ability to cross the pond.
I have heard that the cold affects ones brain and reasoning process, and be assured it is true.
The path George took seemed safe enough so I gingerly placed one foot on the ice, steadied my balance and took another cautious step, then another. I had eventually worked my way about half way across when I came to a break in the ice that required me to jump. The distance was only about a foot, so the distance did not bother me but I sort of figured that my point of impact might not be able to take the pressure of my assault. I have gained a few pounds since I was 13 you see. I did a tentative leap and much to my surprise landed upright and un wet.
This bolstered my confidence and I moved forward to the next ice break. I had to be careful this time because I saw quiet readily the ice was broken in several places and I would have to keep hoping and could not stop until I got to the other side. I mapped out my attack. I backed up a little got a running start, traversed the first break, magically the second, and vaulted over the third and went into the pond up to my waist on the fourth. Luckily I was only 3 feet away from the opposite shore and shoved my body through the ice like a huge iron-plated boat.
Our principal never comes out to our place to visit George and me, so I was rather shocked when I realized one of the hands helping me onto the shore was his.
I immediately told the kids in a loud voice, "Now see what can happen if you are not careful." The kids went inside and I looked around and there was no George. The principal suggested that I go home and change clothes and, that while encouraging a hands-on approach and practical experiences in teaching, I might want to follow George's example of maintaining classroom decorum, be a stellar role model, and set a better example to my charges like my teaching partner.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Ircinrraqs - Alaksa
Being of Scotch-Irish decent, I have always believed in Leprechauns. I have never seen one, of course, but there are many things I have not seen that I believe. However, believing in Leprechauns is a far cry from believing in Ircinrraqs, or the Little People as they are called by my Eskimos friends.
More than just a few Yup'ik Eskimos believe in reincarnation, ghosts, animals that change into humans, humans that change into animals, bouncing fireballs over the Bering Sea, lights that mysteriously appear on the tundra, and a host of other things that go bump in the night.
Although where I use to live while in Alaska, according to village lore, was built over an ancient burial ground, I cannot say with any certainty that I have experienced any mysterious bumps in the night. But, strange things are done, or happen, in the midnight sun, and who am I to discount such beliefs?
Not every Eskimo I have talked to believes in ghosts, humans and animals that change places at will, tundra lights, or the big bouncing fireball. But I have never talked to an Eskimo who does not believe in the Ircinrraqs. That does not mean they all do, it is just that I have never found one who doesn't.
Ircinrraqs apparently are very tough, resilient, and mean. They were the only phenomenon that really struck fear into the hearts of the villagers.
The little people are rarely seen other than in the middle of the night and then just fleetingly. They live somewhere on the tundra and only venture into the village when everyone is supposed to be asleep. They rummage through the trash, steal fish off the drying racks, and latch on to items left loose. They seldom hurt anyone unless you come upon them suddenly. The kids who are wandering around at all hours of the night are not in real danger but only because they avoid the places where it is said the Little People have been.
On one particular night of the year, however, Ircinrraqs come out in droves and terrorize the village. Of course that night is Oct. 31. According to popular belief, they gather in the graveyard just outside the village and participate in all sorts of debauchery. They eventually work themselves into a frenzy and scamper into the village and a look for any man, woman, or child foolish enough to be out after the witching hour or answer a knock on the door.
My first year in Alaska, on Halloween, I was unaware of the danger and thought it strange that no one showed up for candy after 8 p.m. No child of any repute would consider going home at such an early hour, normally. I've only known of one other time that the children of Hooper Bay observed the curfew. That was when a pack of wolves were reported to be near the river. But none but the brave or foolish venture out after curfew on Halloween in the little village by the Bering Sea
There have been many a lad or lassie, so it is said, caught out on the boardwalk or under the school and dragged out onto the tundra never to be seen again. Some kids have escaped from the little people and are able to tell the tale. A teacher's aide told me that she was one of the lucky ones many years ago who escaped from certain death. I am sure she is still much in demand among the school children this time of year to tell the story.
I tried to pin my good friend Nanook down about the subject and since he was educated at the University of Alaska, I guessed I would gather some insight into the legend.
He told me it was not a legend but a truth that should not be regarded with skepticism. When I asked him how he could believe such an outlandish tale he just looked at me and said, "Isn't it just as outlandish, using your logic, to believe in a place where everyone is happy and you live forever?" Well, that is different, I said, and he said "to you."
Every year there is a costume dance on Halloween starting right after school, and afterward the kids comb the village from shanty to shanty acquiring candy. The teachers get hit pretty hard, and are well stocked. The kids, and some adults, will go after the goodies with a fervor, but by 8 p.m. there will not be a soul, at least a human one, who is not snugly wrapped in their seal skin coats, hid snugly away in their plywood houses.
I stated earlier that I, for one, did not believe in such things as Ircinrraqus, Leprechauns being the exception of course. The few fleeting images I noticed when outside at night when I was there can be explained, I assume, and the things that went bump in the night below where I lived were probably due to the heating system. The bouncing ball over the Bering Sea is undoubtedly the sun, and I have known many a human who acted like an animal.
However, one does not have to see to believe and one should never take chances when one does not have to. I made a personal pledge when I was there to participate in the total experience. I handed out candy with the best of them up until the bewitching hour. I got a knock on the door that Halloween night around 8:30 pm and got up to answer it. Well I am here now writing this so one of two things happened. I either opened the door and was not confronted with an Ircinrraqs or I thought about it and went back to my easy chair and pretended to hear nothing. Faith and begorra.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Log 3, Alaska
Continued from Log 2...
8/18/02
Quaint is not the right word. The town for the most part is a ghetto. Everyone seems poor. There is no running water in any of the homes and the water supplied to the school is yellow and must be distilled. White clothes look dingy after washing. The housing in the old part of the village is nothing but plywood shacks it seems. There are newer homes a little sturdier and are painted bright colors.
Went to church this morning. Part of the mass was in English, part in Yupick.
Our food and TV still have not arrived. We are thankful for the generosity of the staff for letting us buy or borrow needed items.
Called Mom today to have her send some things.
8/21/02
Called Dad, left a message. First day of school, no problems. The kids seem no different than kids the same age anywhere.
8/25/02
Talked to each one of the kids today, except for Shannon. I left a message. Last night we had two couples over for dinner, nice people, will probably become friends with them. George and Sandy, Katy and Jodie, and their son Andy.
I have been walking around the village and have taken a few pictures. TV got here and is up and running.
Kids keep stopping by to visit. I don't let them in, am polite but don't want to get it started or it will never end.
Still haven't gotten Paula to the beach yet, have walked around village. Food is expansive here and all the stuff we ordered from Anchorage has not arrived yet.
8/27/02
Three kids knocked on the door tonight and offered me some dried fish. They said it was Chum, which I think is part of the salmon family. I tasted it after making them taste it first. They gave me the whole fish, said it was for my wife too. I thanked them, closed the door and through it away. So much for the taste of the local food.
Note to reader: After reviewing what I wrote back then it seems callas, but I was in not the best state of mind as you will tell in subsequent logs. I did start letting the kids visit and they came by a lot, and I even developed a taste for Chum. In fact I even started feeling affection for the kids.
8/18/02
Quaint is not the right word. The town for the most part is a ghetto. Everyone seems poor. There is no running water in any of the homes and the water supplied to the school is yellow and must be distilled. White clothes look dingy after washing. The housing in the old part of the village is nothing but plywood shacks it seems. There are newer homes a little sturdier and are painted bright colors.
Went to church this morning. Part of the mass was in English, part in Yupick.
Our food and TV still have not arrived. We are thankful for the generosity of the staff for letting us buy or borrow needed items.
Called Mom today to have her send some things.
8/21/02
Called Dad, left a message. First day of school, no problems. The kids seem no different than kids the same age anywhere.
8/25/02
Talked to each one of the kids today, except for Shannon. I left a message. Last night we had two couples over for dinner, nice people, will probably become friends with them. George and Sandy, Katy and Jodie, and their son Andy.
I have been walking around the village and have taken a few pictures. TV got here and is up and running.
Kids keep stopping by to visit. I don't let them in, am polite but don't want to get it started or it will never end.
Still haven't gotten Paula to the beach yet, have walked around village. Food is expansive here and all the stuff we ordered from Anchorage has not arrived yet.
8/27/02
Three kids knocked on the door tonight and offered me some dried fish. They said it was Chum, which I think is part of the salmon family. I tasted it after making them taste it first. They gave me the whole fish, said it was for my wife too. I thanked them, closed the door and through it away. So much for the taste of the local food.
Note to reader: After reviewing what I wrote back then it seems callas, but I was in not the best state of mind as you will tell in subsequent logs. I did start letting the kids visit and they came by a lot, and I even developed a taste for Chum. In fact I even started feeling affection for the kids.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Disaster Plan, Alaska
Being next to the Bering Sea, our position above sea level was not great.
I lived on the highest ground around, and it measured 7 feet above sea level. We ddid't worry about tornadoes or hurricanes, and the earthquakes that happened were of no consequence. However when the wind is out of the southeast and the rain has not turned to snow, conditions up there resembled the Plaza Flood.
For two years I gazed out my window, past the dump, beyond the graveyard, just east of the abandoned oil tanks and out on to the tundra. I had always wondered why there were large boats sitting out there, hundreds of yards from the bay. Perhaps the boats were pulled there for repairs or were old and were incorporated into fish drying racks.
One day in the fall during first period it started to rain, by second period the wind started blowing – hard. By third period the principal announced that school would be dismissed so the students could get back home before the water covered the only road in town.
As I looked west out my window I could tell the ponds on the tundra were filling up, flowing over the grass and joining to make one big lake.
Pretty soon the water began to spill over the road and quickly flooded the north tundra plane as far as the eye could see. I went to the opposite side of the school and to the northeast I saw the entire tundra under water with boats floating where I had recently been stomping around on the soggy marsh. I began to realize the entire village was surrounded by water and wondered if it would get higher than the 7 feet. If so I wondered what would we do. No one seemed to be in a panic so I was not real concerned, but I did check to see what our emergency hand book had to say about the situation.
There was information on what to do if a person came on campus carrying a gun and what to do if a wild animal wandered into town, (lock the doors, not to keep the animal out but to keep the kids in). There was an earthquake procedure and a standard fire evacuation procedure.
An interesting one told you what to do if you were caught on an ice drift during a field trip. But nothing about flooding.
After the water subsided, I asked as to why there was no procedure in place in case there was a 100- or 500-year rain.
I should have kept my mouth shut, because the principal read my resume and found that I had once worked for the State of Missouri Disaster Operation Office, now called the State Emergency Management Agency. A far better title. Anyway, he appointed me a committee of one to write the procedure.
Not wanting to reinvent any wheel that might be out there, I asked the police chief about such a plan. He did not have one, nor did he think it was necessary, but he did say that after I got done he would like a copy. I went to the village and regional native corporation thinking they might have one, but was told no, but they wanted a copy also.
Apparently word got out, and a couple of other schools in the district asked if they could have a copy.
It had been years since I had written a disaster plan. Back when I was helping to write such plans for the state we had a tried and true method.
We would take an old plan and just change the name of the town or city, make sure we put in the correct nearby river or stream, then visit the area and present the plan to the governing body with much fanfare. Everyone was happy and felt a little safer. I am sure that as the years have gone by the procedure is more professional.
However at the time that did not help me in drafting an emergency plan that dealt with flooding caused by high winds and waves. I thought about contacting an old friend of mine to see if he had a copy of a disaster plan concerning flooding, or better yet tidal waves, or at least something I could finesse into a local disaster recovery plan. He sent me what he had and I developed a pretty good plan by changing Brush Creek to the Bering Sea and the Plaza flat lands to the Alaskan tundra .
However the principal never mentioned it to me again so I did not turn it in. I guess they are getting along OK.
http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Homer-Conley-Stone-McAnally/dp/0615779808/ref
Another Fine Mess, Alaska
Remember when we were young and there always seemed to be one or two guys that your mom did not want you to play with? You know, those neighborhood kids who kept getting you to do things that your mother knew you would not have done if those delinquents had not talked you in to it.
"No telling what will happen to them," Mom used to say. Well Mom, I found out what happened. They moved to Alaska.
George and Jode were always getting me into trouble. One time, though, I thought I finally learned my lesson and swore never to play with them again.
The most recent blizzard had taken a breather and my buddies decided we needed to go down by the beach and see how far the pack ice had frozen out onto the Bering Sea. We hopped on our snow goes and sped the tundra mile, and when we got to where the beach should have been there was nothing but snow and ice as far as the eye could see.
George, being the younger and braver (or stupider) of the trio, decided we should venture a little further to see if there were any seal breathing holes.
I made a feeble attempt at suggesting that we did not need to do this, but even at my age scoffing from your peers has a terrible impact on your manhood. George and Jode sped out on the ice and I followed.
Sure enough, not too far out we came across a few of what to our untrained eyes looked like they could have been breathing holes, so we killed our engines and waited for a seal to appear.
The sun was shining, and although the temperature was less than comfortable, the heat from the engines, a thermos of hot chocolate, and some seal jerky made the wait not unpleasant. We waited, waited, and waited some more. The hot chocolate got cold, and I decided seal jerky would be better suited for lashing sleighs together.
Seals must be able to hold their breath a long time, for none appeared.
George decided we ought to get a little closer and go ice fishing, or as he called it, manucking. I don't think that was the real Yup'ik word for ice fishing but it was the one George kept using.
George produced three sticks with line and hooks attached. We all selected an ice hole and dropped our line, using, what else, chewed seal jerky for bait. George soon pulled out a small fish he called a devil fish. Jode soon followed by pulling out a little larger fish that none of us could name. I, of course, was having no luck at all.
I kept watching the sky to the west and noticed that storm clouds seemed to be rolling in faster than I thought safe and suggested we leave.
George was pulling fish out every time he put in his line. He was very reluctant to leave. I mentioned the oncoming clouds again. He said not to worry, he had his GPS, and even if we were caught out on the ice with no land in sight he could get us back. Jode said that sounded OK to him, and I said I thought it was a terrible idea.
Sure enough the clouds rushed in, the wind began to blow, and the snow whirled around. It was bad enough that even George said we ought to get back. George and Jode packed up their fish, we started our snow goes and George got out his GPS and turned it on. Nothing. It was not working.
By this time I was in no mood to discuss the situation so I told George to let me try. I put the GPS on the hood of my snow go, gave it a good wack with my manucking stick and numbers popped on the screen. The GPS was now working and we sped off back toward shore.
George later asked me what made me think of hitting the GPS with the manucking stick. I told him it was because I did not have a hammer. I told him it was my Army training. If it didn't work, just hit it with a hammer, or in this case a manucking stick.
The two of them are still in Alaska and have invited me to go on a whale hunt some time this spring when the Beluga run. I am pretty sure I am not going, and am rereading Moby Dick just to make sure I don't change my mind.
"No telling what will happen to them," Mom used to say. Well Mom, I found out what happened. They moved to Alaska.
George and Jode were always getting me into trouble. One time, though, I thought I finally learned my lesson and swore never to play with them again.
The most recent blizzard had taken a breather and my buddies decided we needed to go down by the beach and see how far the pack ice had frozen out onto the Bering Sea. We hopped on our snow goes and sped the tundra mile, and when we got to where the beach should have been there was nothing but snow and ice as far as the eye could see.
George, being the younger and braver (or stupider) of the trio, decided we should venture a little further to see if there were any seal breathing holes.
I made a feeble attempt at suggesting that we did not need to do this, but even at my age scoffing from your peers has a terrible impact on your manhood. George and Jode sped out on the ice and I followed.
Sure enough, not too far out we came across a few of what to our untrained eyes looked like they could have been breathing holes, so we killed our engines and waited for a seal to appear.
The sun was shining, and although the temperature was less than comfortable, the heat from the engines, a thermos of hot chocolate, and some seal jerky made the wait not unpleasant. We waited, waited, and waited some more. The hot chocolate got cold, and I decided seal jerky would be better suited for lashing sleighs together.
Seals must be able to hold their breath a long time, for none appeared.
George decided we ought to get a little closer and go ice fishing, or as he called it, manucking. I don't think that was the real Yup'ik word for ice fishing but it was the one George kept using.
George produced three sticks with line and hooks attached. We all selected an ice hole and dropped our line, using, what else, chewed seal jerky for bait. George soon pulled out a small fish he called a devil fish. Jode soon followed by pulling out a little larger fish that none of us could name. I, of course, was having no luck at all.
I kept watching the sky to the west and noticed that storm clouds seemed to be rolling in faster than I thought safe and suggested we leave.
George was pulling fish out every time he put in his line. He was very reluctant to leave. I mentioned the oncoming clouds again. He said not to worry, he had his GPS, and even if we were caught out on the ice with no land in sight he could get us back. Jode said that sounded OK to him, and I said I thought it was a terrible idea.
Sure enough the clouds rushed in, the wind began to blow, and the snow whirled around. It was bad enough that even George said we ought to get back. George and Jode packed up their fish, we started our snow goes and George got out his GPS and turned it on. Nothing. It was not working.
By this time I was in no mood to discuss the situation so I told George to let me try. I put the GPS on the hood of my snow go, gave it a good wack with my manucking stick and numbers popped on the screen. The GPS was now working and we sped off back toward shore.
George later asked me what made me think of hitting the GPS with the manucking stick. I told him it was because I did not have a hammer. I told him it was my Army training. If it didn't work, just hit it with a hammer, or in this case a manucking stick.
The two of them are still in Alaska and have invited me to go on a whale hunt some time this spring when the Beluga run. I am pretty sure I am not going, and am rereading Moby Dick just to make sure I don't change my mind.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
ONCE UPON A TIME IN BUCH
You had to know Jerry. You had to know Dutch.
Jerry - serious and studious, concerned about appearances, gullible, such an easy mark... and Dutch - Mr. Know-It-All, brash, loud, impossible to embarrass, and, in his mind, a born leader, and not far off - were friends of mine and fellow artillery officers with me in the Missouri National Guard.
Our unit was sent to Germany on a training exercise, and being an artillery headquarters, we were assigned to work with our Regular Army counterparts in mock war games across the country. We were there learning how to defend Germany from attack from the East, and this being before unification, the citizenry was grateful for our participation and wanted to accommodate us. So, it was serious business.
A long, wet, night road march brought our combined convoy to Buch, a small village of maybe a thousand, where we set up our initial field operations in a clearing above town. In accordance with the doctrine of the day, we were to be prepared to move quickly to other positions as dictated by the tactical situation. So, few accommodations were available for the comfort of the troops. No need for sleeping facilities because of around-the-clock operations and naps were grabbed under the trucks. Nature’s calls were answered as time permitted in cold, wet, drafty uncomfortable portable toilets set up far away from work areas.
Being a field grade officer meant Jerry was on duty for far longer stretches than Dutch and I who were mere captains. We even ventured into Buch when off shift and were able to slake our thirst or have a meal, but not Jerry. He kept to the tasks at hand, got little sleep, stayed wet, and owing to the inconvenient facilities, put off “staying regular”. Finally, after a few days of this denial, it got the best of him, and, duty be damned, he was going into the village to find a warm, dry, comfortable “WC” to relieve himself.
Dutch, now being quite familiar with the town, took charge. Off we went into town, sure that there would be a public bathroom available for what was quickly becoming an emergency situation. We came across the City Hall and Dutch, being the leader he was, said he could speak German and went inside to look for the WC. I’m not sure what he said or to whom he said it, but in less than two minutes, out came Dutch and the mayor of the town who quickly hustled the six of us into his car and off we sped. As we careened through the town, Jerry is asking Dutch what did you say? and where are we going?, but got no answer. All the while, the Mayor is talking in rapid-fire German to Dutch who apparently didn’t speak the language nearly as well as he led us to believe.
After a few minutes of daring, sliding hairpin turns, we pulled in to a large school/gymnasium/church complex where the Mayor proudly presented what he thought were the desired facilities, a huge hall with dining rooms, kitchens, sleeping quarters, and bathrooms. Turns out, Dutch’s limited German skills had confused the Mayor into thinking we were looking for a place to accommodate our entire unit, not just Jerry’s singular need for a warm, dry stall. By this time, Jerry is beyond embarrassment and needed to go immediately, whatever the Mayor understood.
Leaving the group to sort out the misunderstanding, he found his private stall and great relief came after days of depriving himself. But, German toilets don’t function the way we are used to in the U.S., in that there is no water in the bowl to start with. Jerry deposited such a load in the dry bowl that no amount of flushing after the fact would get rid of it. Sheepishly, he had not much choice other than to step into the hall and ask for something to assist with the disposal, something that Dutch later loudly called, in artillery parlance, a rammer staff.
Hearing the news that an entire American army unit was deploying to their complex, a rather large group of nuns, cleaning crew, teachers, officials, and other townspeople had gathered just outside the bathroom with the Mayor to see if we found the place adequate for our needs. As Jerry finally exited the bathroom, embarrassed and with rammer staff in hand, he was met with a smattering of bemused, but polite, applause.
Dutch assured the Mayor that he approved of the facilities and they would be hearing from us. Thankfully, our unit received a mock attack in the middle of the night and had to make an immediate move, so Buch’s offer of hospitality went unused.
Jerry - serious and studious, concerned about appearances, gullible, such an easy mark... and Dutch - Mr. Know-It-All, brash, loud, impossible to embarrass, and, in his mind, a born leader, and not far off - were friends of mine and fellow artillery officers with me in the Missouri National Guard.
Our unit was sent to Germany on a training exercise, and being an artillery headquarters, we were assigned to work with our Regular Army counterparts in mock war games across the country. We were there learning how to defend Germany from attack from the East, and this being before unification, the citizenry was grateful for our participation and wanted to accommodate us. So, it was serious business.
A long, wet, night road march brought our combined convoy to Buch, a small village of maybe a thousand, where we set up our initial field operations in a clearing above town. In accordance with the doctrine of the day, we were to be prepared to move quickly to other positions as dictated by the tactical situation. So, few accommodations were available for the comfort of the troops. No need for sleeping facilities because of around-the-clock operations and naps were grabbed under the trucks. Nature’s calls were answered as time permitted in cold, wet, drafty uncomfortable portable toilets set up far away from work areas.
Being a field grade officer meant Jerry was on duty for far longer stretches than Dutch and I who were mere captains. We even ventured into Buch when off shift and were able to slake our thirst or have a meal, but not Jerry. He kept to the tasks at hand, got little sleep, stayed wet, and owing to the inconvenient facilities, put off “staying regular”. Finally, after a few days of this denial, it got the best of him, and, duty be damned, he was going into the village to find a warm, dry, comfortable “WC” to relieve himself.
Dutch, now being quite familiar with the town, took charge. Off we went into town, sure that there would be a public bathroom available for what was quickly becoming an emergency situation. We came across the City Hall and Dutch, being the leader he was, said he could speak German and went inside to look for the WC. I’m not sure what he said or to whom he said it, but in less than two minutes, out came Dutch and the mayor of the town who quickly hustled the six of us into his car and off we sped. As we careened through the town, Jerry is asking Dutch what did you say? and where are we going?, but got no answer. All the while, the Mayor is talking in rapid-fire German to Dutch who apparently didn’t speak the language nearly as well as he led us to believe.
After a few minutes of daring, sliding hairpin turns, we pulled in to a large school/gymnasium/church complex where the Mayor proudly presented what he thought were the desired facilities, a huge hall with dining rooms, kitchens, sleeping quarters, and bathrooms. Turns out, Dutch’s limited German skills had confused the Mayor into thinking we were looking for a place to accommodate our entire unit, not just Jerry’s singular need for a warm, dry stall. By this time, Jerry is beyond embarrassment and needed to go immediately, whatever the Mayor understood.
Leaving the group to sort out the misunderstanding, he found his private stall and great relief came after days of depriving himself. But, German toilets don’t function the way we are used to in the U.S., in that there is no water in the bowl to start with. Jerry deposited such a load in the dry bowl that no amount of flushing after the fact would get rid of it. Sheepishly, he had not much choice other than to step into the hall and ask for something to assist with the disposal, something that Dutch later loudly called, in artillery parlance, a rammer staff.
Hearing the news that an entire American army unit was deploying to their complex, a rather large group of nuns, cleaning crew, teachers, officials, and other townspeople had gathered just outside the bathroom with the Mayor to see if we found the place adequate for our needs. As Jerry finally exited the bathroom, embarrassed and with rammer staff in hand, he was met with a smattering of bemused, but polite, applause.
Dutch assured the Mayor that he approved of the facilities and they would be hearing from us. Thankfully, our unit received a mock attack in the middle of the night and had to make an immediate move, so Buch’s offer of hospitality went unused.
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