Chapter 10:
The conditions at Grafenwoher Training Area, commonly known as Graf, or Fuckin Graf, were only two, either cold and muddy or hot and dusty, there seemed to be nothing in between. In fact, it could be both within the same day, as could most of Germany. You could start your morning off with sunshine and end it with snow with rain in between. The temperature could plummet faster than you could blink. But Graf as with Hohenfels, was a place of extremes, moderation being a word not associated with it at all.
In the spring of 1985, we loaded our vehicles up and shipped them to Graf, with snow and frigid winds swirling around our ears, and followed them 7 days later. During our two-day train ride south, we passed into summer, with warm winds, sunshine and mosquitoes enough for everyone. As we off loaded the tracks, we began to shuck clothing, the thermometer climbing into the 80′s and on into the 90′s, and of course, more mosquitoes. We rolled down the tank trails towards tent city, choking on the dust generated by 300 plus armored vehicles. Pulling into our assembly area, we lined up in what was at the moment, 3 acres of hard packed dirt attractively covered in a layer of fine, talcum powder like dust. As we lugged our duffel and weapons towards our tents, a fine misting rain began to fall.
“Good! This’ll settle that damn dust.”
Some newcomer to Graf offered his opinion.
The old timers among us glance over and sneered.
“Cherry.”
“‘Cruit.”
“Give it a day, you’ll wish you had that Damn dust back.”
I stumbled along and said nothing, I’d been warned about Graf long before leaving the states, in detail and with great relish, my former section sergeant had told us horror stories about Graf dust, Graf mud, and Graf cold. It was a place that ate newbies like us for breakfast. If the rumors were to be believed, it could swallow a M60 tank whole, and never would it again be seen, M113s were kiddie snacks.
“I remember back in…” the story would begin, and launch into great vivid detail of how he had suffered, struggled and finally overcome Graf.
“But you make it through Graf, you still gotta get past Hohenfels.” He often warned.
All his stories ran through my mind as we trudged over the ruts between sleep and us.
By the time we had reached the tents and turned in our weapons at the arms room, the mist had turned into a steady downpour, making a staccato drumming sound on the olive green fabric. We quickly ducked inside, and found an empty bunk. I sought one as close to the stove as possible, again, heeding the warnings of my former sergeant.
“Iffen you ain’t close to the heat, you’ll freeze your ass off, summer don’t mean jack shit at Graf!”
I played it safe.
The morning found us all too quickly, and we were rousted out for formation. Leaving the tent, we found that the hard packed ruts of yesterday were the thick clinging mud of today. It stuck to your boots with the tenacity of a bulldog; weighing you down and making even a short walk to formation an obstacle. Being raised in the red clay of South Georgia, I had experience in mud, but there we had sense enough to limit our exposure to it. But here, it was unavoidable, it was everywhere, and soon enough, I mean everywhere. In our sleeping bags, clothes, vehicles, under our fingernails, on our faces, everywhere, there was no escape from the mud of Grafenwoher. You finally learned to accept it, and it became another small annoyance in a long list of them. Like a second skin, it coated you, surrounded you and enveloped you, becoming a part of you. Showers merely shifted it around, a fine gritty coating over your entire body; it was with you through it all. We accepted it, endured it and finally ignored it. But it was there.
Our tents were situated in rows of ten, divided by short muddy streets, row on row of wet green fabric, sagging with weight of the rain. We did have cement floors, which were elevated above the level of the ground by several inches and kept the rain from flowing over them for the most part. But no matter how much you scraped your boots, the mud followed you in. When we weren’t out at the ranges firing, we spent our days working on our vehicles in the mud motor pool, cleaning weapons on our cots, pulling ammo detail and guard duty on the motor pool. If by chance you weren’t on duty, you could grab a beer at the Enlisted Club tent, or “Ranger” lounge as ours was called. That always seemed to be a bit much to me, calling a GP medium tent full of muddy soldiers a “lounge” but there it was. You gave your order and money to the “bartender” and he would pop the tops on them all so you had to drink them there instead of sneaking back to your tent with a cold one. We drank and played cards until it closed and staggered off back to our muddy sleeping bags, only to rise several times during the night to slog through the mud to piss. Well, most of us anyway, the less civilized of us just stepped outside and went on the ground, an act strictly forbidden, but often violated.
One Graf rotation, I managed to convince our brand new Platoon Sergeant that he couldn’t get in the lounge without his NCO Club card, which he didn’t possess, having been in country only a week prior to us leaving for the field.
My fellow NCO’s backed me up, and assured him I was correct.
Like a brand new recruit, he swallowed it hook, line and sinker, and as we headed for the lounge, he stalked off hunting the First Sergeant to purchase a club card.
We were well into our second six-pack when he stormed into the tent with fire in his eyes.
“Where’s that damn Corporal Duke?” he bellowed, sweeping the crowded tent.
At that moment, I began reflect on the wisdom of my action, what if he couldn’t take a joke? Wise Corporals don’t go screwing with E-7s without possible consequences.
The others stood watching, not daring to laugh, as SFC Weatherby stomped over to our table, quietly offering moral support.
“It’s your ass for sure Duke.”
“Nice knowing you Private Duke.”
“Here it comes Smart ass…”
As he reached the table, I pulled a beer out of the next six-pack and held it towards him.
“Cold beer Sarge?”
He glowered at me for a minute, then took the beer, finished opening it, and turned it up.
Without bringing it down, he drained the can and I passed him another one. He popped the lid on it, and took a sip, wiped his mouth and looked at me for a long minute.
“You either got no fucking brains, or big hairy balls Corporal, that’s all I can say.”
Then he laughed, slapped me on the back and continued.
“This fucker, made me look like a brand new private in front of the First Sergeant and the damn CO, coming in looking for a damn club card in the field. Was that damn company clerk in on this too?”
“First Sergeant looked at me like I was crazy, CLUB CARD? He said, What the Hell you need with a damn club card?”
“Then he started laughing his ass off, and said that he would bet his last damn dollar Duke was involved.”
He drained the beer, and reached over for another one, shaking his head.
I breathed a long breath and extended my hand.
“Welcome to the Scout Platoon Sergeant Weatherby.”
Everyone burst out in laughter, including SFC Weatherby. He wiped his eyes and then looked at the rest of the sergeants, shaking his head.
“How come the lowest ranking NCO is the only one with balls enough to pull some shit like that?”
They looked at each other, then as a group spoke.
“Because the rest of us have some damn sense!”
We broke up laughing again, and for the next few months, it was a standing joke among us, “Got yer club card?”
Another endearing feature of Graf was its wildlife, roving all around us, usually in the middle of the night, but on occasion during the day, large ornery and ferocious. I am referring of course to the wild hogs, or as we dubbed them without reference to their gender, “Bo-Hogs!”
They roamed freely through the area, turning over garbage cans, chasing us around the motor pool, penning us in the shower areas, and in general, adding an element of excitement to an otherwise dull field exercise. Abundant in all sizes, they slipped through the concertina wire fences of the motor pool and rooted around the vehicles, popping up unexpectedly and scaring the living hell out of you, tusk protruding from their mouths, snorting and grunting, they looked like minions from Hell.
I spent many a night pulling guard duty from the top of a tank, as small beady eyes dared me to come down and fight like a man. They had absolutely no fear of us, and flaunted this to our faces. They would devour anything within their reach, and their reach was considerable. Some of our mechanics had a case of oranges in the maintenance tent, and they literally ripped the tent to shreds getting to them. We fought back with rocks, sticks, flares, everything we could use without shooting them, which was forbidden. For our efforts, they merely squealed when hit, and kept coming. And we kept running.
They usually put in their appearance around eleven pm and stayed for several hours. As each company had its own separate motor pool, all lined up in a row, you could predict the arrival of the hogs by the calling of the guards, the battle cry would edge closer and closer until you spotted them coming to you.
“BO HOGS BO HOGS!”
“BO HOGS!”
Then their ghostly shapes would swarm around the corner at a trot, not even slowing as they slipped through the wire. They would spread out like Viet Cong sappers on a search and destroy mission. Every square inch of the area was sniffed, rooted and searched, with fights breaking out among them as some tidbit was discovered, and quickly devoured. The big German dumpsters were quickly and efficiently knocked over and rooted through, its contents scattered, shredded and discarded, then they would disappear towards the mess hall and its dumpsters. The occasional shout from soldiers going to and from the latrines would herald their progress, and the curses of the cooks and KP’s would announce their arrival.
They unintentionally caused our vehicles to be closely guarded, as they often trapped your relief as they entered the motor pool and kept you trapped as well. Once, we had three shifts of guards on duty at one time, as none of us deemed it safe to get down and leave. The sergeant of the guard, realizing that he hadn’t seen any of his guards in the guard shack for some time, decided to come down and investigate. As we sat up high watching the hogs we heard him running and shouting as he made his way to the motor pool.
“OPEN THE GATE! OPEN THE DAMN GATE!”
We decided that if we could jump it, so could he and didn’t budge.
He appeared out of the darkness, sprinting like a marathon runner in the last eight of the mile, and cleared the gate with at least a foot to spare. At his heels in pursuit was a large and extremely evil looking sow, hell bent on catching him. He hit the ground, rolled in the mud and without missing a step leapt to the nearest vehicle and clambered aboard. The disappointed hog, circled the vehicle, snorting her ire at missing, glared at us all, and then walked away, stopping occasionally to see if we’d gotten down.
“Evening Sarge, glad you could join us.”
He wiped his face with a muddy sleeve, lit a Marlboro and inhaled deeply,
“Go to Hell Duke.”
“Already there Sarge, already there.”
We gathered together in the center of the motor pool, jumping from vehicle to vehicle, and huddled together for warmth until morning or the hogs decided to leave. It was a long cold wait.
