Chapter 10: Graf

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.