Chapter 4
Copyright Michael Duke 1995
Road guard, a term applied to a number of different task in the military, it could be as simple as stopping traffic at cross streets during PT runs, or it could be directing an entire convoy in the middle of nowhere. Sometimes, we would have to convoy thru towns, which if you’ve ever been in an European town you’ll know about the twisting winding streets in them, and it would take as many as 20 or more people to direct the tanks, jeeps and trucks on the right path. It meant standing out in the rain, snow, and elements for hours and hours. It could be boring, it could be tiresome, but it could on occasion, be a very profitable experience, especially if you got the post inside the town. Then, you had the chance to trade Combat rations, chem.-light sticks, and if you had them, Marlboro’s to the Germans for chocolate, coffee, liquor, beer, or bratwurst, though, with the liquor and beer, you had to make sure you didn’t get caught. The best trades were found in the towns most distant from military post, because you were a rarity there. Closer to the post, the Germans as a rule, didn’t care for us, thanks to a few individuals over the years. As I was saying, experienced road guards always carried as much trade goods and a laundry bag with them, as you never knew when opportunity would present itself, and it paid to be prepared.
As a driver, seldom did I get duty as a road guard, being stuck in the drivers’ hatch of an M113 armored personnel beater, but once, due to a blown engine, I found myself standing on a corner downtown, directing tanks. Directly behind me was a bar, and a few doors down, a bakery, from which the mouthwatering smell of freshly baked bread drifted to me. Further down the street, a butcher shop, and a small grocery shop stood, along side a beverage shop. I had been dropped off early that morning, given my rations, and instructions, direct all US Army traffic down the road towards Fulda. I’d asked about how long to expect to be there and the answer was typical Army, “until relieved.”
The First Sergeant gave me the usual lecture about drinking, sleeping on duty, and being an “ambassador” for my country, checked my canteens, handed me a spare set of batteries for my flashlight, and then climbed back into the truck and away they went.
I watched the truck roll off down the street until it rounded the corner, then moved over to the curb. There was a large stone planter built into the sidewalk, and I stashed my rucksack behind this, and lit up a smoke. I stood there feeling self conscious in my combat gear, camouflaged fatigues, M16 rifle, and orange vest, amid the bustle of people going about their daily business. The first thing that came to mind was how clean they were, I definitely looked out of place; my uniform hadn’t been washed in at least a week, I hadn’t shaved in twice that time, and needed a bath badly. I felt like a character from a Bill Maudlin cartoon, Joe, or perhaps Willie, all grizzled and filthy. Like a Bowery bum amongst the upper crust, The people moving up and down the street swung wide around me without acknowledging my presence, seeing my image in the window, I couldn’t blame them.
Across the street, a large upscale department store stood, with its display windows filled with mannequins in formal dresses, tuxedos, and other items of high fashion. Next door, a clothing store of a different sort, displaying the latest punk rock, Euro-trash fashions. Leather mini skirts, spiked dog collars, big black clunky combat boots, chains, which seemed to be the fashion de jure with the green and purple haired crowd. As I watched an elderly woman made her way down the sidewalk and nearly collided with a purple haired teenager with silver rings in her nose and lips. The old woman looked at the younger disgustedly, then stomped off muttering. Some things were the same, regardless of the nationality.
A tank came roaring down the street, diverting my attention, I stepped into the street, and waving my flashlight, directed them to the right. The tank slowed, moving through the intersection carefully under the guidance of the track commander, then, with a cloud of black diesel smoke, clanked off down the street, its treads squeaking like a herd of angry mice. The street trembled in the tanks wake, as if afraid of the rumbling beast. Several Germans shook their fist at its retreating form, one giving it the finger. Not everyone here cared for Americans. They watched as the tank disappeared around the corner, then turned towards me, with defiant expressions on their faces, perhaps expecting a reaction. I kept a neutral expression on my face, not wanting to be in the middle of an incident, especially as I was alone. They walked past me, not speaking, and entered into the bar behind me.
I stepped into the street again and directed another vehicle, this one a fuel tanker, down the correct street, then stepped back onto the sidewalk. Someone cleared their throat behind me, startling me; I turned and saw an elderly German man standing there. In his hands he held a steaming cup of coffee, which he offered to me. Eagerly taking the cup, I thanked him in my best German, “Vielen Danke”.
He nodded, “Bitte, bitte.”
Then he added in English, “is very cold, yes?”
I nodded, “Yes, yes it is cold.” I sipped at the cup; it was strong, almost like espresso, and better yet, strongly laced with brandy, which burned all the way down to my toenails. I felt the liquor warming me immediately. This could turn out to be a fine day after all.
He smiled at my reaction to the coffee, “Drink, drink” he said. Then, as if to explain his act of kindness, he said, “I am once a soldier also, from the second war.”
I was surprised; most former soldiers from that time didn’t care for us, and rarely ever spoke to, or acknowledged our existence. It was a rare occasion to talk with someone who had fought in the World war for Germany. Once, I’d ask my landlord about his father and he hesitated a long while before telling me his father had been in the Wehrmacht, then went to great lengths to assure me that his father wasn’t a Nazi. It was a sore subject amongst them, even after forty something years.
We stood and talked while I drank the coffee, interrupted occasionally by a vehicle to direct, our conversation slow at times due to the language difference. He told me he’d been a tank crewman on a Tiger tank, one of the most feared tanks the Germans had, but had been wounded severely and captured during the last stages of the African campaign.
He was transported to a hospital and awoke later in a Prisoner of war camp in America, and spent the rest of the war there. This he said, had been the best thing to happen to him, he survived where as others of his group were never seen again.
I finished my coffee, and handed him the cup, thanking him again, he brushed off my thanks and patted me on the back in leaving. Nice old fellow, I thought, makes good coffee at any rate. I wrapped my parka tighter around me as the wind picked up again. It looked as if it would snow again at any minute, and the temperature seemed to be dropping quickly as the evening waned.
I had no idea how long I would be here, I’d been issued enough rations for three meals, so it could be a while. As I stood there, I eyed the area around me for a place to hole up for the night, something out of the wind, yet able to view the street. I spent the afternoon people watching, and again, I reflected on the fact that other than a few obvious things, for the most part, I could have been standing on the street corner of an American city.
A jeep rolled down the street towards me, slowing as I stepped into the roadway, I signaled for them to go right, but they stopped beside me instead. I stepped to the passenger side of the vehicle, the window opened and the occupant, a Major I’d never seen before looked out.
I saluted.
“How long you been on duty troop?” He asked.
“About 5 hours Sir.”
“What unit are you with?”
I gave him my unit and platoon, and he nodded, “Well, they’ll pick you up eventually, make damn sure you don’t get the urge to visit the bar there either.”
“No Sir.”
He nodded, then rolled up his window and they sped off.
I stepped back to the sidewalk; maybe it wasn’t going to be such a fine day after all. My feet were already sore from standing and it looked as if relief was a long way off.
Just then, several boys rounded the corner down the street, chattering like crows, spying me, they started trotting towards me, breaking into a run to get to me first. They each had a sack or basket, filled no doubt, with trade goods, each wanting to be first to barter for the MRE’s I had. I could never understand the fascination they had for our combat rations, it wasn’t as if it was wartime, or they were starving, and it damn sure wasn’t that the things were good, in fact to me and most others, they were downright nasty. What with such tasty entrees as, Beef with spice sauces, dehydrated beef patty, or worse the pork patty. Perhaps the ham and chicken loaf, there was one for the books. I had tried at home, to make one edible, mixing it with mayo and pickle relish, making pot pie with it, but nothing, nothing, could make it taste like anything other than mildewed cardboard.
And yet, these German children would trade anything they could get their hands on for one. They drew up before me, and stood for a moment inspecting my weapon, uniform and helmet, and then the spokesman for the group cleared his throat and asked,” Have you the meals to trade?”
The market was open, let the trading begin. “Yes” I said, “I’ve got three and some light sticks.”
“Ahhhhh,” came the murmur from the pack, Cylume chemical lights were a favorite trade item with the children, much in demand, and worth several sausages or beers. They were prized more so than the MRE’s, and I had lifted a pocket full before leaving the platoon. I was in business now, I had the desired items, and I had the market cornered. My nearest competition was at least four blocks away.
I opened with a pair of blue chem-lights and traded them out for two bratwurst and a liter of lager beer. Next went three red ones for a box of chocolates and a bottle of Coke, complete with tote sack. Thus went the trading, with each side vying to gain the best bargain, until I had exhausted my stock of trade goods, except the carton of Marlboros in my rucksack, those were for a serious trade.
There were several offers for my helmet and other items of gear, which I declined, though I did trade off my rank insignia from my uniform and extra issue flashlight for two bottles of Asbach Uralt brandy.
All in all, I’d made an excellent haul, raking in enough goodies to last the rest of the field problem if properly rationed, and of course, carefully hidden. I now had two liters of beer, two liters of Asbach brandy, the chocolates, a pint of Apple schnapps, several pounds of bratwurst and other sausage, and at least ten cokes. I stuffed the liquor and beer into my rucksack, wrapping the bottles carefully in my spare tee shirts and socks, the rest I stored in my laundry bag. I opened the box of chocolates, for they looked delicious, it was dark chocolate, shaped like little bottles, each wrapped in foil. Tearing the foil off, I tossed one in my mouth and bit down, and discovered that wonder of wonders, it was filled with brandy. I caught my breath in gasp, and swallowed. The taste of dark chocolate, mingled with brandy, was a new, yet delightful taste treat, and without hesitation, I ate the entire box.
I tossed the empty box and trash into a nearby can, and stood waiting for the next vehicle, this wasn’t such bad duty after all. It sure beat pulling a blown engine from a greasy armored personnel carrier.
The rest of the evening passed in a warm blur to me, I hope that I directed the traffic on the correct path, but I wasn’t really sure. My friend from the morning had returned twice that evening with hot laced coffee, and that, added to the chocolates, had kept me in a mellow, warm mood. Not to mention, a motherly German woman, had stopped by once with a warm pastry of some sort, and a cup of hot spiced wine, and another who had given me hot tea mixed with I think rum, but at that point, I wasn’t really able to tell. It was a wonderful way to spend an evening in the field though.
Sometime around ten pm, I think, a 2 1/2 ton truck picked me up and transported me back to the platoon. Judging by the looks of the other road guards in the truck, the trading had been good all over.
I staggered back to my vehicle, my laden rucksack strapped to my back and climbed aboard. I slipped off my gear, and slid into my sleeping bag, warm and drowsy. I wondered, could you get a permanent assignment to road guard?
