Chapter 4

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.