Chapter 7

In an attempt to bring a bit of home to the soldiers stationed abroad, the Army provides such things as a commissary similar to a supermarket, a Post Exchange, or PX, which in my experience was nearer to a high priced department store, a Class VI or liquor store, in addition to movie theaters, bowling alleys and such. While not quite reaching the atmosphere of their civilian establishments, they were at least "American". Well, almost.

Don't get me wrong, they sold American goods, familiar items from home, and the prices were cheaper than the local markets on most items, no problems there. But, the staff? Well, that's the rest of the story. Allow me a bit of background if you will.

On our kaserne we had a small PX, more akin to a convenience store, limited space and thus limited items, for the larger things you had to travel a bit, say Frankfurt or Giessen. But one thing we had, in fact had an abundance of were the PX Nazis, lead by their Gruppenfuhrer in Frankfurt, Air Force Master Sergeant Bruce Ziederdorf.

The PX was operated by the Army Air Force Exchange Service under the direction of the military, commonly known as AAFES, or more often "FUCKIN AAFES".

Our exchange was staffed by older German women, supervised by an effeminate Lieutenant who allowed them free rein in customer abuse, I mean disservice, I mean service. One of these women stood out in particular, Frau Ute Becker. We referred to her as Frau Ball Breaker, and she lived up to the name and then some.

One must pity the poor fool who attempted to challenge her absolute control over the PX, he would face an onslaught to compare to the storming of Normandy. Standing perhaps 5 foot 2 inches and far exceeding that in girth, she still managed to tower over anyone who voiced complaint or dissention about the services there.

"Vhy you complain aboot de service here? You tink dat maybe dis is Ha-Merica? You arrrrr in Shermany, complaining aboot the cost of dees tings, Verrueckt" Du Lieber Gott dese Amerikaner gisendle!"

She would shout and gesture wildly as she made her way to the office to roust the Lieutenant.

So greatly did he fear her that he would rush forth and evict the offending soldier posthaste.

Only when the complainant happened to outrank him, did he fail to side with Frau Ball Breaker, and then reluctantly. And for this he paid dearly, as she would spend the rest of the day muttering and swearing under her breath.

As my German improved, I began to appreciate these moments, as her comments towards the lieutenant were both colorful and imaginative. She would dissect his lineage, his masculinity, among other things, never once repeating herself.

She carefully kept her co-workers in line as well, should one get a bit too chatty with a customer, a sharp barking reprimand would spring forth, causing the offending party to startle, flush and rapidly complete the transaction.

"Ve are nicht hier for de conversation, Fraulien Kirshe, nur arbiet." She would glower over at the young cashier, then deliver her chastisement in a rapid fire burst of German.

She was especially feared by the young German wives of soldiers, unsure about their right to be there and fearful of committing some staggering mistake which would cause the might of the US ARMY to crash down upon them. To these young girls, she was excessively harsh, She would berate them for the slightest mistake in protocol, demanding their ID cards, ration cards, and interrogating them at length to ensure their right to shop there. Then she would launch into how they should be thankful that they were privileged to shop at "AAVEES", and warn them of the dire consequences should the goods they purchased fall into the unauthorized hands of their families.

If Master Sergeant Ziederdorf was the Gruppenfuhrer, she was the Kriegsmaster, for she had declared war on us all. She didn't bother trying to rule with the iron fist in the velvet glove either, choosing to rule with the iron fist and the hell with the glove. Had it been possible, we would have had Ziederdorf's picture staring down on us from the wall, arm extended in the proper Aryan manner.

She dressed in dark colors, black and gray for the most part, her hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, wore boots with elevator heels, and large steel rimmed glasses which she stared over like Mrs. Crabtree, your third grade teacher. The odor of ginger and caraway seeds emanated from her at all times, and she was apt to spray you with spittle when she spoke. She reminded me for all the world of Brunhilde from the Bugs Bunny cartoons, and I expected her to leap up and clack her heels together and disappear in a cloud of hair pins at any moment.

Our crash course in destiny began on morning soon after I arrived in country, I had dropped by the PX for some cigarettes, and after paying for them, I attempted to thank her in German, which I was not very literate in.

As she handed me my change, I gave it my best shot.

"Donke Shoon"

She stared at me over the glasses, "Vhat chu say?"

Embarrassed, I explained, "I was trying to say thank you in German."

"Chu butcher it, chu sound like you haff meal in de mouf, it is DANKE SCHON!, nicht this Donkey spoon chu haff said!"

She glared at me, "Chu are in Shermany, learn to speak Sherman!"

I slunk away in shame, not even having the nerve to mention to her that her English sorely needed attention.

Thus was the first round in a three year battle fired.

From that point forward it was all out warfare, with both sides drawing blood on many an occasion. She would take every possible opportunity to point out my flawed German, often greeting my appearance in the PX with false camaraderie.

"AHH Brigetta, Here is de great Sherman scholar, Herr Duke! Can you say Danke Herr Duke?"

"Was ist this? Has der cat gotten your tongue Herr Duke?"