Hey, Where's my Hat? Remembering the Cold War.

Published online November 23rd, 2012

If you'd like to contact Don DuPay, you can find him at facebook here...https://www.facebook.com/dondupay

or you can email him at his PSU email, at ddupay@pdx.edu

        “Hey, where's my hat?!” 

        “What hat are you looking for?” asked the clerk.

        I was browsing in the gift shop at the US Veterans Hospital in Portland, Oregon, killing time, waiting for my Doctors appointment at the Primary Care unit. “The one that says Cold War,” I replied. “I see hats for the Korean War and the Vietnam War, and there is one way in the back that says WW2, but I don't see a hat for my war; the Cold War.” “I don't remember that one,” said the youngish lady clerk, “We don't have a hat for that war. Where was it?” 

        Well...yes just where was it? I had found myself in the middle of what they called the “cold war,” as a 21-year-old kid on active duty with the US Navy. I was a Communications Technician, (i.e. a radio and radar intercept operator, or an electronic spy, doing on-going Top Secret missions for the Navy.) 

                                                            Road sign, leading to Todendorf Germany, where I would be stationed...

        It was 1957 and I was strategically stationed right on the coast of the cold Baltic Sea at a US Army artillery firing range near Todendorf Germany. The Army practiced firing their big radar controlled cannons pointed out to sea. An Army base, and I was in the Navy? Yes! The location was perfect for what the Navy was doing, and our “cover story” for the Army dudes was that we were a “weather station.” 

        There were only 17 of us Sailors at this facility and hundreds of Army guys, so we were a curiosity. We actually went outside our “barracks/operating spaces” once in awhile and set off a balloon or two into the air for "show and tell" to dispel any suspicions. The Army guys kept asking us what the weather was going to be like so we always listened to the Navy weather broadcasts for our ships so we sounded like genuine weather guys. The Armed Forces Radio Network also broadcast regional forecasts. 

        The world was in a turmoil in 1957. The Communists drew a “line in the sand,” Communist zone on one side of the line and the free world on the other side. The line they drew came right through my “back yard,” just a few miles up the road from where I was stationed on the Baltic, but that's the reason the Navy was there. We were close enough to spy. I arrived in Germany only 12 or so years after the war and there was still much evidence of the devastation. Bombed out buildings were still visible, a reminder of how devastating and effective Allied bombing raids had been. Our Navy detachment employed two German civilians to do janitor work and keep the boiler operating that heated the building and our work spaces. 

 Day room - (L-R) CT3 Ray Deshazer, Max the German driver and house boy and CT3 Charlie Mason 1957

        Both of them, Max, the janitor and Lothar the boiler man had been in the German military, not because they particularly believed in Hitler but it offered the only jobs around. Except maybe for Lothar. He wore pop bottle thick glasses that gave him a beady eyed appearance, and his short dark hair was covered by an old German Army cap. His black denim pants were always tucked into knee length dark rubber boots which he wore summer and winter. Lothar had been in the Gestapo and he seemed proud of it. There was an air of mystery, an evil side to the guy. He wouldn't talk much about what he did, in the war, saying he was just a prison guard, but I surmised he had killed a lot of people. I never asked, but I saw it in his eyes, there was an evil there, I could feel it and I could see it. During my time in Germany I found a lot of Germans that were proud to be German but not proud of Hitler. But the war was long over and we'd won. 

    Us Navy guys drank a lot of beer with Lothar in his spaces in the boiler room. We hung out there, smoking cigarettes, (I smoked Viceroys then) and drinking beer. We always maintained a case or two of "Becks Bier" under a gunny sack behind the boiler. We never drank on duty, but dashed to the boiler room first stop after work. Becks Bier was so cheap we couldn't afford not to drink it. $1.27 cents a case at the PX if we returned the empties.

        Max was the opposite of Lother. Max was a blond haired German, proud of his German-ness but not too proud of their war effort. He had an easy smile, and a lot of smile wrinkles around his bright blue eyes. He wore Navy dungarees that we gave him and black shiny shoes. He seemed proud of the shoe shine on his shoes, and walked so as not to scuff them up.

    Max had been a low level private in the German Army whose job had been driving a supply truck. His English was excellent and with his German accent and smile he seemed charming. Max loved American hamburgers, Lothar not so much. In 1957 there were no hamburger joints. We got our burgers at the “gedunk” (Navy talk for fast food and snack store.) Most of the time when I went to get a burger, I would buy one for Max and we would sit in the day room and eat them with a cold Coke. Lother was usually seen eating a German sausage which he bought in town, washing it down with a glass of goats milk. 

                                                            "Ghost of Todendorf" (L-R) CT3 Don Dupay and CT3 Charlie Mason 1957,                                                                                

                    (Two super imposed photos, common with Brownie type cameras, typical of the era) The background is the US Navy Barracks.                                

        Town for us was a village called Lutchenburg a perfectly quaint little place two or three “clicks” down the road. The cobble stone streets were very narrow, so narrow two cars could not pass with out one pulling over, to let the other pass. The streets were lined with small shops. No "one-stop shopping" here. Bread was purchased at the bakery, meat at the meat market, and clothes were repaired at the Tailor shop. I'm not sure where Lothar got the goat milk. There seemed to be more taverns than necessary, certainly more than I could get to in one evening. We called them "taverns" the Germans called them "Gasthauses." Beer was 50 pfennigs a bottle, and hard booze about a Mark. At that time an American dollar bought 4 marks so alcohol was cheap. Coming from Whiskey drinking America I found it odd that Whiskey was only available on bigger military bases. Out on the town in Todendorf hard alcohol was shots of Cognac, or a local “white lightning” they called “Shinkenhager.” I drank it with a beer back, and when my Zippo lighter ran out of lighter fluid, Shinkenhager worked just fine too! 

        A full shot of Shinkenhager could be set afire, a beautiful blue flame appeared on top until it got so hot the shot glass broke. I broke a few when I got drunk which was just about every day. I have long ago forgotten the name of my favorite gasthaus, but it was operated by a big fat friendly German lady we all affectionately called “Muttie,” prounounced 'Moody', meaning Mother. We were all kids, most of us away from home for the first time, and we all needed a Mother. 

        Music in the gasthaus was records on the jukebox. Five plays for a Mark. My favorites were the Everly Brothers, “Wake up little Suzie, Kathie's Clown, Bye bye Love.” and Bill Dogget's “Honky tonk.” was on the jukebox too. Next I'd play “A White Sport Coat,” by Marty Robbins. As I got drunker I would play it over and over again. Somehow it reminded me of home and dancing with my wife of only a few months.

        The Navy was making it perfectly clear that bringing dependents to our area of Germany was entirely up to us but highly dangerous. No military housing was available and housing on the German market was sparse as most of the houses were farm houses with families working the land. And the biggest obstruction to having dependents is that the Navy would not guarantee their safety.

        Indeed dependents would be deliberately left behind if the Communists decided to cross their line and come after us. We were doing top secret intercept work with top secret equipment, and our heads were full of “secrets.” No way would the Navy let us or our equipment be captured. If the "Commies" crossed the line our job was to destroy the equipment with fire axes and set fire to everything with thermite grenades. "Blow it up and get out!" Those were are orders! No time and no room for wives or kids.

        I put another Mark in the jukebox and played some more Marty Robbins. I drank another shot of Stink-en-hager as I came to call it and bought another Becks. I would be stuck in Germany for more than two years. How could I get along without my new wife?

        I remained faithful to my wife for a full six months, hoping that something would change and she would be able to live with me, to sleep with me and hold me tight. I missed having our own bedroom and I missed the privacy. Sleeping in a barracks, bunking with 17 other guys left no privacy. Night sounds were snoring, coughing and farting. Guys would return from “liberty,” stumbling around drunk, banging their locker doors, and looking for something, anything left over to eat. “Duke, did you save me a sandwich?” one of my buddies would ask me. 

The operations building...

        My buddy Jim Ercole usually came back from liberty in Kiel, drunk and broke hoping I had saved him some food from the box of “mid-rats.” But then everyone came back drunk and broke, including me. Almost everyone had a nickname and for some reason my nickname became “Duke.” I was happy with it. “Mid-rats” was short for "midnight shift rations." When we rotated to the graveyard shift, the Army mess hall fixed a cardboard box full of sandwiches for us to eat. Sandwiches were inevitably made from brown bread, mayo on one side and mustard on the other, with a big thick slice of baloney. We called it "horse cock."

        “Yeah, there's a horse cock sandwich in my locker and a chocolate chip cookie too if you want it,” I told him. I turned over in my bunk and looked at my watch. It was nearly 0400, and I had to get up at 0730 for the day watch. “Don't slam my locker door and let me go back to sleep. I've got day watch” I said. “Thanks Duke. I'll buy you a shot next time out.” “Can I bum a cigarette?” Jim asked. I fumbled for the Viceroys under my pillow and tossed him one.

        "Now will you shut up so I can sleep?” American cigarettes were not for sale on the German market, available to US military only at the PX. German cigarettes came in packs of 5, and they were awful tasting. Not even a drunk sailor would smoke them. The rule was when you ran out of American cigarettes it was time to come home to the barracks. We drank German booze, and we fucked the German girls, but we wouldn't smoke their cigarettes!                                                                                  Our barracks were a step up from the barracks the Army guys had to sleep in. Army soldiers were at Todendorf for only a week or so at a time, what they called TAD, “temporary additional duty” and their barracks were usually cold, with wooden floors, and they slept on folding cots just barely off the hard-wood floor. They commenced firing their big radar controlled cannons at exactly 0800, shooting out over the Baltic. The Army also flew a drone, that pulled a long banner which was used as a target for the big guns. Sometimes we would ask them to fly their drone directly at the Russian ships exiting the Baltic into the North Atlantic. They didn't mind and thought it was just for fun, flying the drone at a big Russian cruiser. But we Navy guys had a purpose for harassing the Russians with the drone, but more on that later. 

                                                                Another view of the  barracks, where we all slept...

        Since the Naval Security Group Detachment at Todendorf was permanent duty, our barracks had a large carpet down the middle of the isle and we all had small carpets beside our bunks to put our bare feet on in the morning. Our bunks were sturdy metal frames and we had real mattresses, that were quite comfortable. Seventeen bunks in all for us enlisted guys, with a nice day room with a beat up but comfortable stuffed couch to sit on. There was a sink and water for the always present coffee pot. 

            Day room - CT3, Don Dupay, 1957, aged 21

        The Navy lived on coffee when they were working and alcohol when they were not. The center of the day room was occupied by a big round table usually covered by the deck of cards swept askew by the last guy that lost the on going game of Hearts. Near the coffee pot next to the sink was a record player, that played 45 and 33 1/3 records. My buddy Ercole, and I constantly played the new "rock and roll" records, and the latest Elvis Presley tunes. At that time Elvis was a teenage girl's heart throb and guys weren't supposed to like the music, as Elvis was a “girl thing.” Ercole and I took a lot of heat from the other guys when we blasted “Blue Suede Shoes" and "Heartbreak Hotel.” Girl's music or not Elvis rocked and “Erc” and I dug it.

        The door to our Top Secret work area was always locked and entrance was gained by pushing the correct code buttons. The code was changed weekly or when anyone transferred out. The first area you saw when entering was a cubicle with three intercept operators sitting side by side, each with their own listening console and a Cyrillic typewriter in front of them copying, and the Communists military radio traffic. We were tasked with copying the East German military traffic as well as the Czechoslovakian, and other “targets of opportunity,” when the regulars weren't transmitting. 

A view of some of our equipment...

        My job was no longer “chasing ditties,” as copying Morse code was called, but I had been trained in radio intercept and often sat in at one of the receivers just to keep my code speed up. Cyrillic language has more letters than English and so the Cyrillic typewriters we used had more keys. It took awhile to get used to typing on the damned things. There was no brand name on the Cyrillic s and I often wondered who made them. The Communist radio transmitters had a squeaky, scrawkey, metal bed spring sound to them and when a good commie operator was on with a speed-key it was an interesting concert of scrawkey bedspring ditties.

Another view of the "recording device" room...

        The Russian word “Guhor” was sent a lot when traffic was idle and it didn't mean anything, like our QSA (how is my signal strength) QRK ( how do you read me?) It was just idle chatter between operators, but we came to call the commies “Guhors.” (Pronounced Goo-Whores,” and sometimes we just called them Whores.)

        My work space was called the Elint spaces. Elint meant electronic intelligence. One wall was covered with very high frequency receivers that automatically scanned back and forth on a predetermined set of frequencies. Radars transmit on much higher frequencies than common radio signals and required more sophisticated receivers. The position was equipped with reel to reel recording tape that recorded on two channels.

        The incoming intercepted radar signal was trapped and recorded on Channel 1 and a 1000 cycle per second (cps) reference tone was recorded on Channel 2, from our tone generator. The radars we were looking for at these frequencies were “fire control” radars; radars that controlled cannon fire, aimed the machine guns on jet fighters, height finding radars, radars that could determine the height of incoming planes, usually, but not necessarily shipborne, telemetering signals that transmitted information, and IFF signals transmitted automatically by ships and planes. IFF meant Identification Friend or Foe. Since planes and ships automatically transmitted IFF signals IE (hey...it's me and I'm friendly so don't shoot,) we hoped that if we could copy and record a communist IFF signal we might be able to duplicate it and use it against them.

        This is what we were tasked to look for and anything else that was “out there.” Another wall consisted of a lower frequency radar intercept receiver, designed to intercept and analyze basically large ground based early warning radars. We could obtain all of the radars information, analyze its purpose and location, record it and send it off to NSA in Arlington Virginia. They sent us back what they called the EOB, “electronic order of battle” that showed us the location and position of all the radars we intercepted from the Communist zone. Another wall was occupied by the encrypted teletype we used to communicate with Bremerhaven and our bosses.

        My job at shift change was to change the encryption wheels on the teletype and send in the “end of day report.” The encryption wheels were donut shaped wheels with copper contact points that snapped on the machine. If I typed a “d” the wheel would transmit, for instance, an “m.” The teletype receiver in Bremerhaven had the same set of wheels and when it received the “m” it would type out the “d” I sent. We encrypted messages into five letter groups such as ESALU-YTBCF-PIKJT-MVBTU, which meant nothing just looking at the letters but held a hidden message.

        I remember what fun it was. It made me feel like a super-spy getting the code books out of the big safe, encrypting secret messages and sending them off to “headquarters.” It made me feel like we were getting the real dope and fooling the commies with them not knowing we were even around. We hoped!

        But the Army often times messed up our entire intercept work unknowingly. When they practiced firing the big cannons out to sea, they turned on their “fire control” radars and since our operating spaces were close to the big guns, their radar signals were so strong that it “bled through” and blanked out our receivers. We could hear nothing in our ear phones but the fire control radars on the beach. Then it was time to get another cup of coffee, prop up our feet and sit back smoking cigarettes while listening to music on AFN(Armed forces Radio network,) on our ear “cans.” Ear phones were called “cans.”

        We would type in our logs that local interference had shut us down. The Army would crank up their big drone and fly it off the beach with a long canvas target trailing behind it. Then they would shoot if full of holes as it flew by. Once the cannon fire hit the drone instead of the target. Their radio traffic got all excited and we went outside just in time to see the big drone crash/splash into the Baltic. I'm sure somebody got into trouble for that mistake. It was 10 days before we saw a flatbed Army truck hauling another drone onto the base.

        One day, October 4, 1957, we received a “Top Secret” message from headquarters in Bremerhaven that the Russians had fired off a rocket sending a small satellite into orbit. It was called SPUTNICK. We wondered why the message was secret since launching the satellite was all over the news. We had heard about it on AFN. The secret part was we were tasked to record the signals as it passed over our location. NSA suggested some frequencies we might listen in on and we easily found its transmissions.

                                                     SPUTNICK in space, October, 1957,Russia's first satellite weighed 183 pounds

        The signal we heard was just a “beep-beep-beep, but we recorded it as it passed over, weak at first, becoming stronger, and finally fading away until it orbited over us again. I don't think NSA ever figured out what the beeping sounds were saying. At least they never told us if they did.

        Another fun but scary thing we often did was take our mobile intercept van and a support car out to Fehrmarn Island, a few miles away, over “hill and dale,” to the ferry boat that served the island. Some spy up the sea coast would tell us when the next flotilla of Russian ships would be passing by on their way from home port to the Atlantic.

        The Fehrmarn Island Ferry, as I remember it...

        In a farmers field, we would park the van and get set up while our boss, Chief Jimmy Pickop, paid some cash to the farmer for letting us camp out there. There was no sympathy for the Communists in West Germany and “farmer Fritz” as we called him, seemed happy to let us do our work on his property. He must have known what we were doing, dragging an intercept shack on the back of a 2 and ½ ton flatbed truck as close to the edge of the water as we could get it.

             The Intercept Van on Fehrmarn Island, antenna's up and ready

        Then after setting up it was my job to get comfortable on my belly with a pair of binoculars and wait for the Russian ships to come by. With the binoculars I could see the faces of the Russian sailors and watch them walking around on the decks, smoking cigarettes, flipping the finished butts into the sea, oblivious to our spying on them. The ships were large and powerful war machines painted battleship grey. It was damned exciting and damned scary at the same time looking at the enemies face.

        As the ships passed by I would describe the radars to my partner in the intercept shack on the radio and he would try and record them if they were transmitting. If we could get a visual and a recording of the radar beeps at the same time we had them nailed. One of the problems was too often their radars were not turned on as they passed by. So...we called on the Army to fire up their drone. They would fly the drone right at the Russian ships “scaring” them into turning on their radars. The tactic worked and the Army enjoyed it thinking we were just “poking” the Russian bear.

        It allowed us to obtain many good intercepts. I got to be an expert at looking at a radar pod and knowing exactly what the damned thing did whether it was a height finder, a fire control, or surface search. I knew what their radars looked like and their function. I felt smart! Hell...I was smart. Just 21-years-old, doing highly skilled and dangerous spy work in a foreign land. I was “superman” in my mind. But when the fun part of the job was over for the day or for the week, it was back to the loneliness and the alcohol that made it only tolerable. My wife was still thousands of miles away.

        After 6 months of celibacy my resolve to remain true dissolved in a double shot of Shinkenhager and the irresistible smile of a Fraulein (German girl) that had been looking at me the last few times I had been out to the Gasthaus. I stood up straight, made sure that my feet were really under me and sat nonchalantly on the bar stool next to her. Of course she would let me buy her a double 'Shink,' “Do you want to play some music,?” I asked her, “and by the way, what's your name?” “My name is Margrit,” she replied and walked to the jukebox with the Mark I gave her and hit the play button.

        Margrit was pretty. Her dark brown hair hung at her shoulders and pretty much matched her brown eyes. I was learning that all Germans were not blue-eyed blonds. Margrit had thin lips that parted in a sexy sort of way when she smiled, but wore no lipstick. She wore an almost ankle length black skirt that clung to her butt and black sensible shoes with laces that were too long and tied in a double knot. She wore no nylons and no lipstick, still she was pretty, sexy in a farm girlish sort of way, and she smelled good. Not perfumed but clean smelling, soapy clean smelling.

        With the Mark I gave her, she played “Fraulein.” the new Bobby Helms tune about an American service man and the German Fraulein he left behind. Returning to her seat next to me we ordered some more drinks. “You can call me Duke,” I said, not wanting to give her my real name, at least not on the first date. We smiled at each other, our eyes locked together and we both knew we would sleep together this night. 

        Margrit lived in a single room in an old house on the edge of Lutchenburg. She rented the second floor bedroom from a single old “Haus Frau” named Fraulein Spitsch. The bathroom was down the hall from the bedroom and I learned the hard way there was never any toilet paper. Margrit had her own private entrance via a stairway to her room from the backyard. She kept saying “Ssshh! Ssshh!” as we crept, as slowly as two drunks could creep up the unfortunately squeaky old wooden stairs. We couldn't help giggling at each others missteps and repeated Shushes.

        “I'm not to have men in my room,” she said partly in German and partly in English. As she bent over and put her key in the door it pulled her long black skirt tightly over her hips. I wanted to touch her then, but I knew I had better wait. “Ssshh,” she said again, muffling a giggle. The door opened and I held my breath, until we got to the bedroom door and she motioned me inside.

        Whew! Now I could breathe. We stumble-fell onto the bed. The springs squeaked. We giggled again. Finally I got to touch her. I buried my face in her neck smelling her, moving cautiously toward her breasts, seeing how she would respond. Jeeze I was so nervous. I hadn't touched a female for over 6 months. I felt guilty. I no longer wore my wedding ring but felt the spot on my finger where it used to be. Margrit melted away my feelings of guilt snuggling me and pulling back the bed covers.

        I kissed her. My tongue searched her mouth. She put her arms around me, mumbling something softly in German I couldn't understand. I reached up under her dress and felt the softness between her legs. Everything was going to be alright tonight. Somewhere in the back of my head reality returned long enough for me to find the Trojan condom I put in my wallet, “just in case.” Margrit helped me put it on, touching me first, then rolling it down as far as it would go. Yes...everything was going to be alright tonight.

         In the morning, sunlight filtered in a window I didn't remember being there, waking me and reminding me how much I had to drink the night before. I reached over. Margrit was still there, asleep and snoring softly. I had to use the bathroom, so I tiptoed down the hallway, trying to not make any noise. The dreaded Frau Spitsch slept at the other end of the hall and I feared her seeing me. Luckily I got into the bathroom of the seemingly ancient house without being detected. 

The streets of the town where Margrit and I walked...

        I had to take a crap! And I did! It was then I discovered there was no toilet paper to be found. I looked around for something to use to no avail. Jeeze...what to do now? I turned on the water in the old bath tub cringing at the loudness with which the faucet squeaked. I hung my butt over the edge of the tub and washed myself, drip drying on the way back to Margrit's bedroom. I was able to get back in bed without waking her and I lay there for a few moments getting my breath back from the adventure to the bathroom and clearing the remaining alcohol from my head.

        Making love to Margrit had been wonderful. It had been so long since I had been between female legs. I had almost forgotten what it felt like, but this Fraulien, this female woman, this German girl that didn't speak English showed me that language had nothing to do with making love and intimacy. Our feelings were universal and instinctual and natural and felt good. Together we tied off the condom and joked that if a baby got out of this thing we would name him Houdini.

        As she was still asleep, I lifted up the covers and looked at her naked body, hoping she would not awaken just yet. From groping around in the dark last night I could tell her toenails were trimmed and short. She had hair on her lower legs, not very long hair, but hair. Her soft Vulva was covered in curly black pubic hair. Her stomach was flat with an “innie” belly button and her breasts were large, and soft with big pink nipples. Margrit was what my mother would call “big boned.” Margrit was not fat but she was thick and from the experience I just had invading her bed and her body she was all woman. Satisfied, I replaced the covers. “Did you like what you saw?” she asked, turning over and smiling up at me. I was beginning to understand her German. “Yes. You are very sexy. Do you know what sexy means?” She didn't answer, but pulled me back on top of her smothering me between her breasts. ”It means this I think,” she whispered. Again, we fumbled for each other, passions rising, until Margrit froze.

        Frau Spitsch was coming down the hall. We could hear the old floor boards squeak, but she went into the bathroom and closed the door. We both breathed in deeply. I wondered if my walking down the hall had squeaked the floor boards so loudly, and then I wondered what the good Frau was going to do with no toilet paper. The interruption had spoiled the moment of renewed passion, but it was over. I wanted a cigarette but didn't dare because of the land lady. “How old is this house?” I asked. “About swi hundred.” she answered. “You mean 200 years old?” She nodded. I remembered that in America an old house was about 60 years old. In Germany an old house was 600 years old. “How come there is no toilet paper? I inquired. “Too expensive.” I shook my head pondering her answer and as soon as Frau Spitsch left the bathroom probably drip drying herself, I dressed, kissed my new girlfriend goodbye and exited down the back stairs. I felt good, really good, that really good way it feels when you get some pussy.

                                                                    ****

        I wasn't ready for the razzing I received from the crew in the day room when I returned to the barracks. It was a gauntlet of whoops and unending questions about my night out. “What happened to Duke, last seen in the company of a young German girl?--Finally get some pussy?--Was it good?--How does Kraut smell in bed?” The guys knew that I had been celibate for 6 months. “We were wondering when you were going to pop.” 

        “Do you need help walking?” My friends, the loud mouths were getting ready to go to Kiel and party, get drunk and chase girls. “No I don't need any help thanks,” I replied “especially from a bunch of horney toads like you guys. You'll be able to find Lena. probably at the Metropol,” I suggested. “She will take all of you on for $25 bucks a piece.”

        Prostitution was legal in Germany in the late fifties. All prostitutes had to carry a health card and had to see a doctor once a week. These health cards were checked by the police too. Sex with a prostitute was reasonably safe, as long as you didn't fall in love with them. I noticed a lot of the young guys fell in love with prostitutes, especially the Army guys. But most of the military used condoms which were free to us at the dispensary.

        The Metropol was the favorite gasthaus of the military in Kiel and “Lena, the lizard,” was one of the best liked prostitutes. She was thin, almost too thin, hence the lizard tag, but her smile made the guys feel they were special. Lena had bad teeth, but kept her breath fresh with cognac.

        She had been pretty once, before the wrinkles invaded her longish face. She told us the wrinkles "invaded" her face when "the Americans invaded Germany." Like many German prostitutes, their husbands, boyfriends and lovers were killed in the war. Lena had lived near Kiel before the Allies began destroying Germany and had been married to a sailor, back when Kiel was a major Navy base, and home to the submarines. He went to sea and never came back.

        Lena, a victim of the war herself, like so many German women, had few options. She sold her body to live. Lena was good at what she did, though. She told each customer he fucked her "good" and was the "best" she ever had. She ooh'ed and ahh'ed over the guy as she took his money. She told him what a nice penis he had. She asked him for an American cigarette, and told him she couldn't wait to see him again. She advertised her charms that way.

        Lena was not pretty by any stretch, but she was not ugly either. There were a lot of really ugly older women working the many gasthaus's in Kiel. The 16 sailors that worked with me in the spy business at Todendorf, were not usually among the customers of the ugliest prostitutes because we were "permanent duty" in the area, but the Army soldiers were only in town for two weeks training with the big guns. They drank themselves blind and when drunk enough they would fuck the ugliest of the ugly. Actually some of the sailors would too if they got desperate enough. Desperate as in “my ride is leaving soon and I haven't got laid yet.”

        Seaman Joe Canty was one of us 17 sailors, but he was not a Communications Technician. He was a boatswains, mate striker, pronounced "Bou-son" (meaning he was trying for the boatswains mate rating) Joe was black, our only black sailor, and his absolute genius, was pimping for the black Army guys, at Todendorf for a short stay.

        Joe was from the projects in Baltimore, and technically assigned to the motor pool, except we didn't have a motor pool. We had a 1955 Chevrolet sedan painted battleship grey and a 2 ½ ton flatbed truck that we used to haul the mobile intercept shack and a generator that provided power for the mobile shack. That was the extent of our “motor pool.” Even though Joe was not a spy like us, he was well accepted and just one of the guys.

        Joe could go to Kiel flat broke, and come back in two days drunk, laid, and with a pocket full of money from hooking the soldiers up with the prostitutes in Kiel. Joe was tall, just over 6 ft, long legs that gave him a lanky look and big feet. Size 12's. When he got a razzing about his big feet, he just said, his dick was as long as his feet and pretended to unzip his pants and whip it out. That usually shut up his good natured tormentors. The guys had a certain awe for Joe because they would go to Kiel with money and come back broke and Joe would go to Kiel broke and come back rich. I learned that we all have out talents. Pimping was Joe's.

        But for now, after the the 'pussy-hounds' all left the base, I took a shower and crawled into my bed needing to get some sleep. Sure, I slept with Margrit, but even intoxicated I was hyper-aware of the naked female body next to mine. Sleep yes, but quality deep sleep could only come now at “home” in the barracks in my own little cubicle. It would be several more days before I could see Margrit again and snuggle in the squeaky bed with her, several more days searching for commie radars.

        I drifted off to sleep wondering idly where Lother bought his goat milk, and wondering if I should spend the $75.00 to talk to my wife on the phone for 5 minutes. International long distance was so expensive. Such a short time to talk, I yawned, and so much money...so much money...so much money...

        The radar blip I had just heard sitting in front of the big receiver startled me. Stopping the automatic frequency scan, I manually tuned in on what I had heard. Blip-blip-squawk, blip-blip-squawk, blip-blip-squawk. It was a familiar sound, but it was in the wrong part of the world and tracking in the wrong direction. The signal was headed straight into Communist territory. “Holy shit,” I said to Jim Ercole who was on watch with me. “Get Chief Pickop out of the day room and hurry!” I hit the switch on the tape recorder and began recording what I was listening too and I made sure the 1000 cps tone was running at exactly 1000 cycles per second.

         I manually turned our receiving antenna to the left and then to the right to get the strongest signal. Blip-blip-squawk. Blip-blip-squawk. Blip-blip-squawk. I left the intercepting position for a moment and ran to the big safe, fumbling with the combination, twisting the safe dial the wrong way the first time. Excited and nervous I finally worked the combination correctly, opened it and got out the code book and the big three ring ring binder, an encyclopedia of friendly radar signals. I knew little Jimmy Pickop, our section chief, would be sending a coded message to headquarters in Bremerhaven.

        Jimmy Pickop was a Chief Petty Officer, a Communications Technician Chief and a damned smart guy coming up through the ranks rapidly. He looked like a teenager though, small boned, and thin, out of place in a Chief's uniform with his brass belt buckle cinching up his tan uniform pants, pants that looked like they were borrowed from someone else. Jimmy was too small to be taken seriously if it hadn't been for the uniform and the authority it represented. But hey, he was a good guy and my favorite boss. He had an American car, a 1955 Green and White Pontiac sedan with a big back seat where a lot of intoxicated Frauleins dropped their panties.

        Chief Pickop was married but cheated on his wife nightly with one of several girls available at the Gasthauses. After a night of getting drunk and grabbing a girl on the way out the door, Jimmy would drive to the area of a small un-named lake, about 3 miles from the base and climb in the back seat with her. We would see Jimmy coming back to work at the barracks the next day, barely sobered up with a big grin on his face. I too ultimately had a few “dates,” in the back seat of the Pontiac.

                                                                        ****

        Blip-blip-squawk. Blip-blip-squawk, Blip-blip-squawk. “Is that what I think it is?” Jimmy Pickop came into the intercept spaces spilling coffee from the brown plastic cup as he walked. The Chief grabbed the earphones from my head, and put them up to his ear. Looking over my shoulder, Jimmy thumbed down the list of radar signals from the three ring binder, stopping at the second listing from the bottom. His eyes showed he was now all business. I could see why he had been promoted to Chief Petty Officer so young, and I admired him. “Christ, sake!” he exclaimed, spilling more coffee. “Are you recording this Duke?”

        “What the hell do we have here?” asked Ercole. “Well,” I replied, “it's a search and fire control radar on an F86 Sabre Jet fighter. “But that's one of our planes,” said Ercole. “Yes it is” said Jimmy Pickop. “So what the hell is one of our fighter jets doing flying into the Communist zone?”

        By now even the “ditty chasers,” in the other work space and most of the guys drinking coffee in the day room were crowding around listening to the now disappearing blipping and squawking, wondering if one of our pilots had stolen a plane and was in the process of defecting, stealing the plane and delivering it to the Guhors. When the signal disappeared, I stopped the recording and packaged it for transport to Bremerhaven while Chief Pickop encoded a message and sent it out on the secure teletype. We were all very anxious. What had just happened? Had we just heard a traitorous act? It would be a few weeks before we heard back from NSA, a few weeks before we knew if we lost a good fighter jet and what kind of a pilot was flying it.

                A typical F86 Saber Jet

        That night I hitched a ride with Jimmy into Lutchenburg and soon found myself setting next to Margrit, putting my arms around her, smelling her clean soapy smell, and nuzzling her soft neck. Just setting next to her and touching her, I found my dick doing a “pinging” thing. An exciting, anticipatory response, a kind of electrical pre-charge. It had been a long time since I felt that “pinging.” I sneaked a brief caress of her breasts. Whew! Now that the ice had been broken with Margrit, I could hardly wait to make love to her again.

        We talked and drank, mostly Becks dark. The dark was my favorite bier. It had a rich, somewhat syrupy, maybe nutty flavor. And it was strong. A couple of Becks and you shouldn't be driving. I gave Margrit 5 Marks and told her to put it in the jukebox. She played all my favorites except I asked her not to play “A White Sport Coat,” by Marty Robbins because it reminded me of my wife. I didn't want to think about her tonight. I wanted to get back to the electrical pre-charge going on in my penis. “ It take me a half day work to make 5 Marks,” she said returning to her seat. “It seems nothing to you.” “It is only a dollar twenty five cents,” in American money,” I replied.

        “Where do you work?”

         “I work in small factory a couple kilometer from here. My job is sew potato bag.”

        “You mean burlap sacks? I asked.

         “Yes...I don't know your word...burlap?” I was doing well, at understanding her German, spoken slowly and softly for my benefit. She would gesture and repeat herself if I seemed puzzled by her words. She took a lot of time with me. She was very patient. I sat back and just looked at her. She was pretty. Clean scrubbed and pretty. “So you only make 10 Marks a day?” “Yes,” she answered, "10 Marks a day.” Two dollars and fifty cents a day I calculated. Wow!

         “Is that why you don't buy toilet paper?”

         “Yes, too expensive.”

         “Is that why you don't wear lipstick?”

         “Yes.”

         “Is that why you don't wear perfume.?”

         “Oh yes. Much too expensive."

        “Is that why you don't wear nylon stockings?”

         “Yes. German women can't afford...” her voice trailed off...

        I sat back on my seat, holding her hand, contemplating what she had just shared with me. She was desperately poor, yet working every day at a miserable job. American women took things like lipstick, perfume, nylons and toilet paper for granted. “Would you wear perfume, and maybe some lipstick if I bought it for you? Margrit didn't answer for a moment, studying my face.

        “I don't pick you for what I thought you might buy me Duke.” That was sure not the answer I expected, but I was glad she had “picked” me. “Why did you pick me?” I asked, staring back seriously at her. “I watch you for awhile,” she explained, “I try not to stare...about looking at you. You seem different than other sailors that come to Moodys. You seem lonely and sad. You don't go home with different girl every night like others. I can tell, you drinking too much just to forget. We all drink too much. We all have much to forget. The war very hard on Germany. My father and brother both killed” she said.

         “By Americans?” I wondered out loud. She shook her head yes. “But I'm an American,” I responded. Again she shook her head yes. “But I watch you, I know, you kill no one." I don't know what your work is, but you not here to kill.” A twinkle returned to her eyes now. “I know you are safe...and you are very...cute? Yes, cute."  “I am woman and I have needs of a man. You are good in my bed.” I gave her a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “Can we get "tipsy" now?” she asked.

        When Moody closed the Gasthaus and bade us “Gooden Nacht,” Margrit and I wobbled toward Frau Spritsch's house down the narrow street holding each other upright. She laughed at my halting attempts at German and I laughed at her English. We developed a kind of pidgin language between us that worked. It was fun being with her. She made me feel better. Besides the “Pinging” was still going on in my dick.

        Soon, we were helping each other up the squeaky wooden back stairs to her bedroom, when I noticed an animal in the very corner of the yard. “What is that thing over there in the dark.” Now I could near a small chain rustling as the animal moved about. “This is spooky, ”I said, what is on the end of the chain?” “Oh that is just Frau Spritsch's goat. She sell goat milk and make bread for the bakery." Hmm, I thought, the Frau sells goats milk!

        By now we were inside the hallway, not breathing until Margrit opened the bedroom door. This time we deliberately fell on the bed and rolled around for a moment holding and relishing the feeling of each other. “One of the German civilians that works on the base for us drinks goats milk all the time,” I said, nuzzling in her ear. “Is that the man that wear 'schwartz' rubber boots and have thick glasses?” Margrit asked. “Yeah, that's him,” I said, unhooking her bra. “He buys goats 'milsch' from Frau Spritsch all the time. But I think he want more than milsch.” she added “I think he want Frau Spritsch.”

        “Does he stand a chance?” I asked. "stand chance?" she asked. "Yeah, do you think he'll ever get lucky, you know?"  “Oh! I don't know. Frau Spritsch have no man for many years. Herr Spritsch was Sergeant in German army and was killed in war." “By the Americans?” I asked.

         I don't remember if she answered. I had a beautiful pink nipple in my mouth and the “pinging” in my penis was about to go away. God...this woman felt so good under me. What was there about female flesh?

                                                                        ****

        I saw Chief Jimmy Pickop, off duty, sitting in his Green and White Pontiac, slouched in the front seat drinking a bottle of Becks from a case sitting behind him. I was on my way to the gedunk to buy a burger and stopped to see if Jimmy was OK. “What's up Chief, you looked depressed?”

         “Want a beer,” he said, offering me a bottle out the window. “Sure,” I replied, getting into the front seat next to him and taking the opened beer he offered. “Why are you setting here drinking beer instead of going home?” I asked. “Mary and I aren't getting along. She wants to go back to the states. She wants to go home.” I thought about it a moment drinking part of the beer before I answered.

        “You know,” I started hesitantly, “You know you go out on her every night with a different German girl..." My voice trailed off. “Yeah, because we haven't slept together since she came over here, except the very first night! We can't get along, the marriage is over.” Jimmy studied the now empty bottle for a moment and then retrieved another from the case in the back seat. “Man, Chief...I can see why you're depressed,” I said.

        “Wanna go someplace different,? He asked, "Some place we've never been before, someplace forbidden?” Jimmy started up the Pontiac without waiting for me to answer and checked the gas gauge. “Mary will be leaving next week, so the rent money can go back in my pocket” he sneered unhappily. “OK Chief" I responded, "I'm real sorry about you and Mary. I never got to meet her.”

        Jimmy waved to the guard at the front gate as we pulled out onto the asphalt road. “Where we headed boss?” I asked.  Jimmy was driving OK, but I wasn't sure how much he had been drinking. “We're going to Lubeck. You're the only one I trust to take with me and not blabber about it.” Lubeck was strictly off limits to Navy Communications Technicians because the Communist zone went right through the city. We were not supposed to be within 5 miles of the Communist zone. I was nervous, and a little scared but honored that Jimmy trusted only me to go with him into “no-mans land.”

        I knew this was a bad idea and a potentially dangerous place to go get drunk, but the alcohol helped us talk ourselves into it. The more beer we drank the less dangerous it seemed, and by the time we got to the Lubeck “city limits” sign our bravado was in charge. Jimmy parked the Pontiac and we actually swaggered, hands stuck non nonchalantly in our pockets.

        We ducked into the first respectable Gasthaus we walked by and I steered Jimmy to a small table that looked out a window. We sat there for a few minutes before we were noticed. Good, I thought we must look like Germans. We each ordered a shot of Cognac and a beer and tried to keep our American English conversation to a minimum. In truth we were both more nervous about being in Lubeck than we had anticipated.

        Jimmy and I mostly just looked at each other without talking, but from our view out the Gasthaus window, I could see, a mere half a block away, an East German Soldier walking back and forth with a nasty looking machine gun guarding a big gate that said “ACTUNG!” which means "attention." Down below the "ACTUNG" was the word “HALT!”

        Another sign in German that I was barely able to understand, said something about entering the Communist zone. Beneath his Green helmet I could see the guards face. His jaw was set and he appeared serious. And the heavy machine gun was very real. I could see the eyes of the enemy, a man that would gladly shoot me if he knew we were there or capture us if he suspected why we were in Germany. It reminded me of laying on my stomach on Fehrmarn Island looking at the faces of the German sailors as their ships moved slowly past me down the Baltic sea. I got a chill up my back. What we were doing was dangerous; and stupid!

        Almost at the same time Jimmy and I looked at each other, realizing we had parked the Pontiac just barely out of eyesight of the border guard. God help us if a Communist border guard a half a block away noticed an American Pontiac parked at the curb. Suddenly the beer didn't taste that good anymore and the Gasthaus girls were ugly. Jimmy placed a 20 Mark bill on the table, chugged down his remaining beer and we left.

        We waited until the German guard walking his post had his back to us and we started for the car. Our nonchalance had evaporated, our confident swagger was gone, and I was trying to overcome the urge to run. We gained the Pontiac and Jimmy made a U-turn that led us back the way we had come. Once on the road with Lubeck disappearing safely in the rear view mirror, our bravado returned. “Well, that wasn't so bad after all.” said Jimmy opening another beer from the case in the back seat. “Nah, that Commie guard wasn't shit.” He handed me a beer too and we hightailed it for home.

         “I wasn't scared, were you?” “Nah, I wasn't scared either,” he lied. We laughed, looked at each other and then laughed some more. Soon I was safe at the barracks and Jimmy was on his way home to Mary. What we had done was exhilarating. I felt like like more of a man. I had looked into the face of my enemy once again and lived. Exhilarating, yes, and stupid and dangerous. We never went to Lubeck again and I never ever told anyone. Until now, in this story.

        Transportation off the base and getting to “liberty” was an iffy thing. There were no buses and the military didn't make runs into town. Chief Pickop had the Pontiac and once in a while Joe Canty was able to hustle a car from one of the permanent army guys, with the promise of a date with Lena. So we were all interested when Chris, a new guy arrived at Todendorf. He was already a third class petty officer, pay grade E-4, like myself, and had been temporarily on board a submarine, sneaking into Russian waters and trying to get as close as possible to Russian targets without being discovered. Chris was tall, about 6 feet 4 inches, tall enough to play basket ball in boot camp. His hair was jet black and contrasted against his impossibly white perfectly even teeth. He bragged about a trophy he had won for the most points in a single quarter while at boot camp at the Great Lakes Naval training Center, playing against the other boot camp classes. Chris bought a Volkswagen, in a $500 dollar deal, arranged by our German employee Max. The VW, which is pronounced “fah-vey” in German was shiny black like Chris's hair. It had a cloth top sun roof called 'das schiebedach' but the tires were bald. Chris invited me to go with him to have a beer and and buy new tires for his bug.

                              The Barracks, the antenna's, including the hand rotated antenna on the left and the floatable Volks Wagon

        Chris and I hit it off from the very beginning, because he was a pretty smart guy, and had been promoted to E-4 on the very first try like myself. The closest place to buy VW tires was at a garage in Kiel and after buying a case of Becks for the back seat we headed down the road. Chris was from Rhode Island, near Providence in New England, and he had that New England accent. I am from the West Coast and he thought that I had an accent. We laughed about it, and when he smiled he flashed his perfect pearly teeth. Once in Kiel the bug was put up on a lift and four new tires were bolted on. I had never seen the underside of a Volkswagen before. It was flat and smooth. Since the engine was in the rear there was no “tunnel” for a drive shaft like American cars, like Chief Pickops Pontiac. With the tires off, the car body looked like it was one solid piece. With the flat bottom and the curved shape of the top of the car it looked a little like an upside down boat.

        With tires installed Chris wanted me to show him around Kiel. We drove slowly by the metal guard rail that protected the road from the water. This was where the German submarine pens had once been located, ruins still left from the Allied bombing that destroyed most of the subs. Many were sunk right in their “pens.” The last bombing raid against Kiel was conducted by the British Royal Air Force, which also destroyed many old buildings, some still sitting, a reminder of the devastating effectiveness of bombs and an ill fated Nazi effort at European domination.

        Eventually we wound up at the Metropol, drinking shots of shinkenhager and swapping stories of radars we had intercepted. Chris in a sub and me on Fehrmarn island. I recognized the girl at the end of the bar looking at us. It was Lena. She recognized me as a familiar face but had never seen Chris before and came over to offer her services. Chris flashed her a dazzling smile and bought her a Cognac, but declined a date with her. 

        “Das Verschiebe Dich Auf Ein Andermac.” “What the hell was that, what did you say?” I was stunned that Chris spieled off German so easily. “I told her I'd take a rain check.” Lena went back to her spot at the end of the bar looking back over her shoulder and offering her own smile. She sat, sipping the Cognac and waiting for the next American to visit the Metropol but kept smiling at Chris. 

        “Have you ever had her?” Chris smiled his bright smile at me questioningly. “No. I have my own girlfriend in Lutchenburg. Her name is Margrit and she is not a prostitute. Margrit and I are normally together when I'm not working at the base. I'm married too but that's not working out too well right now. My wife is in Portland Oregon. Most of the guys have 'dated' Lena. They can tell you about her. Where did you learn German so good?” I asked. 

        “I took a lot of it in high school, but it just seems to come naturally to me. And then there was a German-American on the submarine I was on for awhile. We spoke German together and it helped me learn."

        On the 45 minute trip back from Kiel to the base at Todendorf, Chris and I chatted, drinking more beer from the back seat case and becoming closer friends. We talked about the available girls in Lutchenburg. There were always three or four girls at Moodys Gasthaus, I related to him. “That's where I met Margrit, and Moody keeps the latest American music on her juke box. Moody is a good cook. The food is good, the beer is good and the girls are available.” I explained that the Lutchenburg girls were not prostitutes, just local girls, but they always went out with us sailors. “And they'll fuck ya if they like ya” I explained good naturedly. Chris smiled. He was handsome and would not have any trouble getting a regular girl if he wanted one.

        “Hey. There's a little lake I want to show you. The turn-off is up here a ways...slow down.” The small narrow roadway down to the lake was marked by a gnarled old tree. It kinda looked like it had been hit by a bomb, only three branches remained, and the branches seemed to be searching the sky for planes. Sometimes I thought I could hear the bombers of years gone by whining overhead. Chris slowed and eased the VW onto the gravel drive. Branches from the bushes growing alongside the road brushed the car and I rolled down the window reaching out to keep them from scratching the black paint job.

        After a mere half a mile down the gravel road our view opened up onto the lake and we parked on a small sandy beach just feet from the water. With the engine not running, parked by the lake, we were taken over by the silence. Enjoying the silence we sat drinking more beer, each lost for a moment in our own thoughts The peace was broken for both of us, at the same time, with a whoop, of exclamation. We were struck by the same idea at the same time! “Do think the bug will float?” Chris looked at me for approval. “Hell yes! I said. "From what I saw of the underside when it was up on the lift, it ought to fuckin' well float!”

        I often wondered at what point the consumption of alcohol tipped the scale. When did a bad idea seem to become a good idea? Like when Chief Pickop and I went to Lubeck. It seemed like a good idea only after consuming a great deal of booze. 

        Now, Chris and I thought we should see if the car would float. He started up the engine and putting it into gear we lurched down the few remaining feet to the waters edge and splashed right in. I held my breath, waiting for us to sink. But we didn't! The damned car was floating. For a second we were elated, patting each other on the back. But in a moment reality overcame us. We were indeed floating!! Drifting farther from shore!! The car no longer had any traction. Chris could not steer it. He revved the engine and the exhaust bubbled out the exhaust pipe. But no traction!

        In an instant of panicked clarity, I rolled down the window and climbed out into the water. Half way out I hoped the water was not over my head. It wasn't, coming only up to my waist but it was cold. I pushed on the front of the car and it turned back in the direction of the beach. I was overcome in the moment, of drunken playfulness  and I pushed the car back in the other direction giving it a hefty shove. The car spun slowly around like a giant toy in a very big bath tub. “Hey!” Chris yelled out the window, “point me in the right direction!”

        I waited until the rear of the car floated back in my direction and pushed hard. It floated toward the beach and as soon as the wheels got some traction the bug jumped forward and climbed safely toward the gravel road. I slogged out of the water and jumped back into the front seat. Elated that we had pulled off this stupid drunken stunt, without drowning or floating away, we opened the last two beers in the back seat case and headed for home hoping any oncoming traffic would get out of our weaving way. Besides my feet were wet!!

                                                                ****

        I had taken the exam for “Communications Technician second class” the very day I was eligible and received notice by teletype that I have indeed been promoted. Chief Pickop gave me my new rank badge, two bright red chevrons below a crossed quill and a lightning bolt. I felt very smug. I was a smart guy, that's why I was doing the Top Secret work in a dangerous place not far from the communist zone, and damned few guys got promoted twice in a three year enlistment, especially in a highly technical job skill like mine. So I felt good about myself. I removed the old E-3 rating patch from my uniform and painstakingly sewed on the new one, fastening it first with straight pins and looked to see if it was properly centered. It was on perfect and I donned the blouse looking at myself in the shaving mirror in the “head,” military speak for the bathroom.

        Great...I looked great! I strutted a little watching my reflection and pretended to give “orders” to those of a lesser rank. I was now an E-5, the equivalent rank of Staff Sergeant in the Army, and only 21-years-old. Most people don't understand Navy enlisted ranking I learned, but everyone knew the difference between a Corporeal and a Sergeant. I had just gone from Corporeal to Sergeant.

        My first job as a Navy “Sergeant” was to make the “mail” run to our headquarters in Bremerhaven. A lot of military activities were located on the main base at Bremerhaven, but it was home base to the NSGA (Naval Security Group Activities.) The 17 sailors with me at Todendorf were officially called the Naval Security Group Detachment. Once a week someone with the rank of E5 or above would drive the 1955 Chevrolet Navy sedan to NSGA and deliver our Top Secret documents and tape recordings of intercepted signals along with personal mail to headquarters. We would return the next day with incoming mail from home, movies for the troops to watch at night and sometimes payroll. Chief Pickop gave me the locked and and sealed "Top Secret" mail pouch, a loaded Colt 1911 Model .45 Automatic pistol with an extra clip, and the keys to the Chevy. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” he admonished with a wink, “and get back here on time. The crew needs some new movies.”

        Most of the trip was an uneventful cruse on the autobahn. I looked at the locked pouch and patted the loaded .45 a few times. It looked powerful and I knew it was. Many times I had disassembled the weapon, cleaned it, oiled it and put it back together. It was the same automatic we carried on our surveillance trips to Fehrmarn Island. The gun was a comfort for I had a lot of responsibility on my shoulders delivering all the secret shit in the locked bag. And, it was with some relief that I pulled up to the main gate, was waved through by the Marine guard and was able to deposit my pouch and gun with the O.D. (Officer Of the Day.)

        My new rank entitled me to a room to myself, appreciated, because I didn't know anyone on this big base and privacy in the military was a luxury. My only real privacy back at my base was when I was sleeping with Margrit. After getting checked into my room and obtaining my bedding, I located the PX, (the post exchange store) and did some shopping. 

         My poor Margrit! I found the lipstick section and smeared several different colors lightly on my wrist deciding which color would look best on Margrit's pretty face. Choosing a tube of pink, and one of a mauve color, I moved to the perfume section. My God, there were so many fragrances. By the time I had sprayed a few on me, I knew I must smell like a whore and was just as confused as when I started. Finally I decided on TABU. It has a heavy, sexy, smoky, sensual smell. 

         Yes, I would be perfect on Margrit. God, I could hardly wait to spray some right between her boobs. Next I bought her 6 pairs of nylons and 6 pairs of sexy panties. I hoped I had removed the “sensible” cotton panties from her soft round butt for the last time. I knew she would be happy with the things I got her for what I purchased would be a month's wages for Margrit. It was nothing for me especially with my new rank, but I thought about the disparity between us, and how Margrit seemed happy with her lot in life, factory worker by day, 'Duke's' lover on week ends. Then, for an instant, I thought about my wife, six thousand miles away. I knew there was nothing I could do about the distance between us and nothing I could do about the length of our separation either. We were both writing to each less and less often, with nothing much to say. “Hi, I'm still stuck in Germany. Can't talk about my work. Write soon! Love, Don." I shrugged it off. The thoughts were only torture for a drowning man. Margrit had thrown me a life line, someone to hold, and snuggle naked in a warm bed.

        After shopping, I found the EM club (enlisted men's club) and drank a lot of Old Crow, enjoying the whiskey not available at Moody's Gasthaus, until I was drunk enough and sleepy enough to wobble to my room. Besides, the bartenders remarks at how good I smelled were getting tiresome! What did he expect, buying perfume for a girl?!

        0600 came early but I had to get up, shower, and look sharp like a new E-5 should. Surprisingly I didn't have a hangover. Perhaps quality whiskey was the answer. My first stop was at the OD office to pick up my pistol and keys to the Chevy. Next stop was the movie theater, where I loaded up on about 10 flicks, enough to show two movies a night for a week. Lastly I found out I also had to pick up payroll for the detachment which meant in addition to the Top Secret stuff I was responsible for I'd be hauling several thousand dollars cash. 

        We didn't get paid by check, it was all cash. Well, not exactly cash, "greenback dollars" were not allowed into the German economy, so they created MPC's (Military Payment Certificates) It was “monopoly money,” good only on military bases. The $20.00 notes were burgundy colored, the $10.00 were blue and the $5.00 were purple. This was the “money” I spent at the PX buying Margrit her undies. If you wanted a part of your pay in German Marks, the paymasters provided real Marks, good only on the German economy, but no good on the base.

        I gassed up the Chevy at the motor pool and pulled up to the main gate. The Marine sentry saluted me. He didn't have to but it made me feel good. It made me feel important. I saluted him back and headed for the autobahn. A wonderful highway, the autobahn, straight as a string, disappearing into the distance ahead of me and no speed limit. In a minute I blended in with the other traffic and watched the odometer needle climb to 80. It felt comfortable at that speed and I kept it there. The weird part was that several Mercedes sedans passed me like I was standing still. They must have been doing over 100 mph. 

        If you are wondering how I got a Navy sedan up to 80, it was because we benefited from Joe Canty's mechanic work, our unofficial 'pussy procurer' and our official motor pool guy. When we got the sedan it had a “governor” on it that limited top speed at 55 mph. Everyone knew Joe had removed the “governor,” but the brass didn't say anything about it. They all enjoyed driving on the autobahn, and at a minimum of 55 it was like walking. Even the Volkswagens drove faster on the autobahn. 

        But 80 mph makes the mile post markers whiz by quickly, and before long I was taking the exit towards home, once again on the narrow winding cobblestone roads, built for travel in a different era. These crooked old roads were the reason Hitler built the autobahn, straight and wide. Tanks and troops and armored vehicles and big artillery guns needed to be moved quickly and efficiently, hence, the autobahn. Ordinary Germans were then put to work building better roads, in a time when jobs were mostly nonexistent. Our own Lother would often talk about how Hitler ended unemployment in Germany and in that manner was a good leader.

        So I was returned to immediate reality, by what sounded like amplified noise of a donkey braying, Hee-Haw, Scree-Haw, Hee-Haw, Scree-Haw! I recognized the weird sound of a German police car siren and my rear-view mirror showed lights flashing. The words POLIEZI were emblazoned on the car behind me, and I realized I was being pulled over by a German civilian cop. Holy shit!! My heart was pumping and I was afraid. What the hell would happen now? 

        I slowed the sedan down from about 60 mph and pulled over to the side of the road, leaving my turn signals flashing. By the time I was fully stopped, my heart rate had slowed down, but only a little. This I knew could be a very dangerous situation and my adrenalin was running things. The German cop walked up to my rolled down window and seemed very agitated. He was spouting German much faster than I could understand it and fingering the gun at his hip. I took about three deep breaths and got control of myself. 

        In my mind I knew that this guy had no jurisdiction over me. I tried to explain that I was a military courier, in an obvious military vehicle, traveling under orders, and he had no right to stop me! He jabbered back, seeming unimpressed until I showed him the sealed pouch in the front seat and the loaded .45 automatic. The officer looked again at the pouch, continuing to finger the holster strapping down his pistol. My jaw was set now and my lips were pursed. There was no way I was going to allow this yay-hoo German to arrest me, take our Top Secret pouch and thousands in payroll cash. Much of it in spendable German Marks. No fuckin' way! 

        I clicked off the safety on the .45 and held it in my right hand, continuing to explain that I was a military courier and I was now going to continue on my way. I put the sedan in gear and eased slowly to the right and back on the old road. Exasperated, the cop pointed at my speedometer, and managed to convey that the speed limit was "55 kilometers" per hour, not "55 miles" per hour. I said, something like “yes sir, yes sir, dankeschoen, danke, auf weidersehen,” in other words “thank you, thanks" and "goodbye" and left him standing by the road. 

        When he didn't follow I knew the dangerous encounter was over and that I had won. It was also then that I realized for the first time that I could kill. Under the right circumstances, I could have pulled the trigger! I also realized that it was a hell of a decision for a 21-year-old sailor to have to make! I could have been a killer!! The kraut was luckier than he knew.

                                                                            ****

        Margrit was happy to see me on my return from Bremerhaven. I met her at Moodys and we hugged and kissed. Then I gave her the things I had bought for her, the lipstick, TABU perfume and her new panties which were packaged separately. Now she really hugged and kissed me and hugged and kissed me, until I wished I had bought a lot more stuff for her. But there was also tears in her eyes between the "dankeschoen's" and her kisses. 

        She was truly thankful and it showed in her eyes and in the way she touched my cheek. She excused herself to the bathroom with her new gifts and I smiled at Moody, who had been watching our goings-on and she smiled back at me approvingly. Moody knew that Margrit was dirt poor but now had someone that cared. Moody brought over two shots of cognac and two beers, but refused the money I offered. It was her way of thanking me for being nice to Margrit.

        It took Margrit longer than usual to use the bathroom, so I put some money in the jukebox, poked a few buttons on the good songs and waited for her to return. Wow! When this girl came out of the bathroom, I was almost stunned. She had chosen the pink lipstick and applied it painstakingly. Margrit was always well scrubbed and pretty, but now with a little make-up she was stunning. She had combed her hair sexily to one side and tied it with a bow, she'd used from the packaging on her new panties. When she sat down I could smell the TABU and so could everyone else at the bar. Perhaps she had used a little too much but she smelled delicious and I could hardly wait to get her into bed.

        By now I had learned many of the words Margrit whispered in my ear as she snuggled me at the bar. “Mein Schatzi,” (my treasure) “Mein Liebhaber,” (my lover). And over the many months of drinking beer everyday and eating horse cock sandwiches on the midnight shift had put a few pounds around my middle she sometimes called “dick-a,” loosely translated as “chubby.” But it was in a good-natured manner and intended to be a term of endearment.

        Margrit had an extra twinkle in her eye, as if she had a joke to tell me, but had to wait. We had two more drinks and then got up to leave. I gave Moody an extra good tip and Margrit and I wobbled out onto the old street, each holding the other upright. Margrit kept giggling and that made me giggle and as we wobbled along, giggling at everything she said. .

        When we arrived at her backyard, I could hear the goats chain tinkling against the fence but couldn't see him in the darkness. “What's the goats name?” I asked her. “Billy,” she said, starting up the long stairway. “Billy Goat.” She laughed out loud, muffling the sound with the back of her hand. I laughed too. Margrit was just funny when she was drunk. “Feel my butt,” she said next, holding back a smirk. I gladly felt her soft round butt. She was not wearing her usual “sensible” panties, Her panty line felt different. “I do joke on Moody,” she explained. “I put new panties on in bathroom, left old panties there. Now Moody not know which Fraulein lost panties." Margrit laughed out loud again, but realizing we were at the top of the stairs muffled her laughter in my neck. “Hurry,” I urged her, panting a little from climbing the stairs and a little from wanting her. “Hurry!”

        Once inside the bedroom, Margrit sat on the edge of the bed and put on another coat of fresh pink lipstick I could tell she knew how to do it, but it was new to her and she was enjoying the shiny color and the way the lipstick tasted. As soon as her lipstick looked perfect, I kissed her full on the mouth getting as much of it on my face as possible. I pushed her back on the bed and unfastened her bra, throwing it someplace, and squirted a little TABU on each of her breasts. This new Margrit was very exciting. I pulled off her pretty new panties and threw them someplace too. We wrapped our arms around each other and I buried my face between her breasts. We wrapped our legs around each other and soon I was luxuriating safely in her bed and thrusting myself deep into her. At this moment life was good. Very good indeed!

        After only a few hours sleep, not nearly enough, I peeked out the bedroom door looking down the hall looking for clear access to the bathroom. I was astounded to see Frau Spritsch's bedroom door open and our Lother appeared in the hall without a shirt or his glasses, squinting and feeling his way to the bathroom with his pants half down. Somehow he still had on his black rubber boots. This was an amazing development but after thinking about it I decided the old gestapo must need some “muschi,” (pussy) too. And hooray for Frau Spritsch. I guess everyone needed a warm body to snuggle with at night. Yes, life was good! Maybe she wouldn't charge him for the goat's milk anymore!

        The next few days were work days for me, which kept the beer drinking at a minimum. Sort of! We watched movies in the evenings, the movies that came in the mail run. Ercole was the best at setting up the movie projector and sacrificed his bed sheet for a screen when the old screen fell apart. We had requisitioned a new one but it never seemed to come. The bed sheet worked just fine until someone opened the front door of the barracks letting in a draft. The breeze rippled the sheet and distorted the faces of the actors momentarily. 

        “Shut the fuckin' door,” was the chorus of shouts that greeted who ever entered while the movie was on. We were watching “Fort Apache,” one of the John Wayne movies I brought back on the mail run. The guys would watch anything John Wayne. I brought back “Rio Grande,” and ”Yellow Ribbon.” Three John Wayne flicks they could watch over and over. “Gun Fight At The OK Corral,” with Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas, were two more favorites. “Stalag 17,” with William Holden also kept us spell bound. “Stalag 17,” showed a ruthless German prison camp and how prisoners were starved and killed. It reminded us of how really close we were to these same ruthless, now Communist Germans. Along with “Blackboard Jungle,” and “The Day The Earth Stood Still,” the crew would have good movies all week. The same movies circulated among the different military commands, and it wouldn't be long and the same movies would be back again.

        With no alcohol allowed in the barracks, we would leave the movie one or two of at a time and retreat to the boiler room and the case of beer stashed there. The chair where Lother usually sat was empty, but the boiler room smelled like a combination of sweaty Lother and fuel oil.

        I sat in the chair, and swigged down a beer, thinking of Lother, chuckling to myself at the picture in my mind of him half naked creeping down Frau Spritsch's hall looking for the bathroom. I thought how delicious it would be to share this story with the other guys, but decided against it. I had come to sort of like the old Gestapo guard and thought better of embarrassing him.

        Rather than return to the barracks and the movie which would be shown over and over again anyway, I pushed the magic buttons on the door of our work spaces and sat down to talk to Chief Pickop. “Did you see the report back from NSA on your Sabre Jet radar intercept yet?” asked Jimmy. “No, what did it say?” 

        “You hit it on the nose.” he replied. “It was our radar. Their analysis said it was probably a radar stolen from a crashed or wrecked jet, or perhaps one of the Sabre's here in Europe now because of the lend-lease deals. Anyway it was not one of our planes being stolen, and it was not one of our pilots defecting to the enemy. They also said that it was the kind of intercept we should always be on the lookout for, and that the quality of your recording was excellent. I'll put my “pat-on-the-back, and good-job-Duke" in your file.

        Well, that felt good! A commendation in my file and a feeling in my guts that I was actually doing something worthwhile for my country. I was proud of my Navy and I was proud of myself and I was proud of the really smart guys I was stationed with. Us CT guys kicked ass! “Going back to your movie?” asked Jimmy. “No I'm just going to sit in the boiler room and drink beer. Then maybe the movie will be over and I can get some sleep." I was thinking of how nice it was to sleep with my Margrit. Total quiet, total privacy and no movie dialog pounding in my ear. Margrit honey, where are you when I need you?

                                                                               ****

        I liked to hang out with Chris. He was a smart guy, easy to get along with, spoke really good German, and to top it off, he had a car, a souped-up one now. Chris had the engine in his Black VW tuned up by a mechanic in Kiel and was now bragging about hot it was, so I was curious when I saw him pouring over a map of Germany he had laid out on his bunk. Looking over his shoulder, I could see that he was running his finger along a road that went through some mountains. 

        “What mountains are those?” I asked. He pointed to some small lettering on the map and tapped his finger. “The Harz mountains. I'm anxious to get the 'bug' out on the road now and see how it corners. It should have about 10 more horse power now than it had before. We could take an overnight trip up these mountains, camp out by some stream maybe, build a fire, roast some weenies. There's supposed to be some old castles from the middle ages up there and some fortresses left over from the war. Wanna come?” he asked.

        We both had three days off coming and decided to load up the car and take off. We loaded the VW with a case of Becks bier, 4 cans of pork and beans, some Spam, three dozen donuts, a box of Hershey bars and extra cigarettes. Oh, and a pound of those good sausages Lother always ate. We decided to try and roast Lother's sausages instead of the plain old wieners we could buy at the PX. And we got some good German mustard to go with the sausages. In fact Chris 'stole' them from Lother's stash in the boiler room, but left him a note and 10 Marks cash, enough for more sausages and another case of beer. We talked Jim Canty into temporarily liberating two sleeping bags from his Army buddies. As we Navy guys were permanent duty, we weren't issued sleeping bags, but the Army had a supply. Last, we filled two 5 gallon cans with gas, checked the tires and made sure Chief Pickop was aware of our trip. Except for going to Lutchenburg or Kiel, us Top Secret spies had to let the boss's know where we were going.

        We stopped at the gate and Chris signed out with the sentry so they knew we weren't just going out to the first tavern available to party. Chris turned right and slammed the Volkswagen into third gear. I could see he had his foot clear to the floor and the 'bug' jumped up and took off. Man, this is going to be fun I thought to myself. “Go man, go,” I shouted to Chris over the whine of the souped up 4 cylinder engine. We smiled at each other, as he hit fourth gear, Chris's pearly white teeth gleaming. “Open a couple of beers,” he said. And I did, giving one to him and sliding comfortably down into my seat, holding my beer safely between my legs in my lap. Road trip! Fun! Beer! Campbell's Pork and beans! Life was good again today!

        Within two hours we were well into the Harz mountains. The mountains fulfilled my idea of the famous “Black Forest,” with lots and lots of trees, streams visible from my side of the car, down in their little valleys, and curving winding roads, Chris was screaming around the turns, testing the ability of the Volkswagen to stay on the road with its increased horse power. The car was awesome and I felt comfortable with his driving. So far anyway!

        We crossed over an old stone bridge that spanned a small stream and decided to pull over and eat something. We each opened a can of pork and beans and spooned it out with silverware stamped “Property of US Army,” borrowed from the mess hall. I sat with my car door open, eating beans and drinking a beer and enjoying the pure beauty of the mountains around me and the sound of the running water, coursing over some sharp rocks. I wondered if there were ever any fish in the small stream and got up to look. Seeing nothing I returned to my seat and the view around me.

        “You know Lother used to say 'things' about the Harz mountains,” Chris reminded me. “Once in awhile when Lother was drunk, sitting in the boiler room, he'd hint around about the forced labor camps and all the slaves that were murdered working in the mines up here in these mountains.”

        “I only heard him talk vaguely about it once" I said "and he never admitted to killing anyone, just said he was a guard in the Gestapo.” 

        “Yeah, but he was in the Gestapo,” said Chris thinking out loud, “and he seemed to know about forced labor camps and slaves here in the Harz mountains. Maybe he worked up here and killed a lot of people. It just makes sense putting two plus two together.” Chris put his chin in his hands and looked like he was thinking. “Maybe he did,” I responded. The image of Lother being a cruel prison guard, shooting people, and the image of Lother sneaking down the hall at Frau Spritsch's couldn't be the same Lother. 

        Still, when I thought about it, I could see the mysterious evil in Lothers eyes and it kind of made he hair stand up on my neck. I involuntarily looked around half expecting to see the bones of dead forced labor slaves. I swigged down the few remaining drops of my beer. “Let's go, “I exclaimed, “thinking about Lother and dead slaves and prison camps is giving me the creeps.”

        It was as if our talking about Lother, the Gestapo, and labor camps forebode what was about to happen to us next. A mere 10 more miles of uphill winding mountain roads, rather shaped like a curving "S" and Chris easily powered around the last sharp curve and directly through the gates of hell, right into “Stalag 17.” 

        Facing us, and blocking the road were two seemingly huge Communist zone border guards in dark green uniforms pointing machine guns at us and shouting “HALT!” Well we screeched to a halt alright! One guard pointed his gun barrel at Chris through the open car window. “Halt,” he said again. “Get out!” 

        Chris and I looked at each other, momentarily terrified at our situation. Behind the guards we could see the gates and signs saying we were entering the Communist zone. We had blundered into the communist border, not knowing or realizing we were in danger driving the winding mountainous roads. We had seen the movie “Stalag 17.” enough times to know what would happen to us now, two military spies in the hands of the Communists!

        The guards looked through the Volkswagen at the few remaining beer bottles and food items, all the time jabbering to themselves and Chris in German. They were talking much faster than I could understand, but Chris said they thought maybe the car was stolen and we were trying to get a way with it and take it a cross the border. Chris and I quickly looked into each others eyes trying to communicate, trying to formulate a plan, without seeming obvious about it. Spies would be tortured! My minds eye could see myself being tortured, beaten and bloody, locked up in some God forsaken stinking gulag prison.

        We both realized that we could not be taken. I was sweating. My heart was pounding right through my chest. I had to force myself to breathe. We were desperate. What the hell am I going to do? I thought to myself. Chris stared at me again. “We have to kill these two bastards,” my mind was screaming. I looked at him hard, my eyes, desperate, hoping he'd understand. 

        The guards took the keys to the VW, leaving it sitting in the middle of the road. While the guards were taking the keys, we sized them up, looked carefully at which way their machine guns were pointing. I'd attack from the side, away from the barrel, gouging out the guards eyes. I would kill him with my bare hands, bite off his nose, pummel him with my fists, take the gun and finish him off with it. I would beat him to death if I had to.

        The guards nudged us toward a trail off the left side of the road, a narrow trail that led through deep woods. Maybe they were just going to kill us here in the woods. Chris and I were both pumping a ton of adrenalin. This was a kill or be killed situation and we both knew it. I was ready to kill!! I could kill at least one. I knew I could, and Chris would kill the other one. We kept walking. I tried to slow down to get a better look at things. 

        I glanced at Chris again. I was ready to attack. A scream was starting to come from the bottom of my guts...when I saw, ahead on the trail, a short distance away, a British flag waving from the top of a building. I hesitated, swallowing my attack scream, and took a deep breath. We were walking into a courtyard area. The British flag was on top of a building and the sign out front said “British Frontier Service.”

        We were ushered through the front door and turned over to the British. The green uniformed border guards seemed a little less menacing now. They gave the VW keys to a British officer and after saluting, politely left, disappearing down the trail back into the forest. We explained our plight to the Englishmen on duty, told them we were just out sight seeing and got lost. 

        They phoned our bosses in Todendorf and we were ordered to return to base immediately! “Yes sir! Gratefully sir! Right now sir!” I gushed, saluting the British officer, so fuckin' happy I could kiss him too. Hugging each other, Chris and I scrambled out the front door to find the VW had been brought around and parked in front of the compound. “Cherio chaps, have a good drive home!” said a voice with a very strong English accent.

        We were so grateful to be back in the VW and headed away from the Communists we didn't know were there in the first place. The beautiful mountains were no longer beautiful and the winding road no longer charming. The landscape seemed ominous and threatening. We high-tailed it home as fast as the souped up engine would take us and as fast as Chris could control the car skidding around the curves. Fear and dread were peeling from my shoulders crashing onto the road behind us. I knew I had aged as I began to relax into the car seat, and I realized again that I could kill a man if I had to, if it was him or me. I had been ready to kill a man with my bare hands. I didn't like the way it felt!! 

        For the most part, fate was very kind to me during the 26 months I lived in Todendorf Germany. I had a good job, one I loved, I'd been promoted twice in a short period of time, partly because I was smart and partly because the CT's were a critical rate. I had a good woman to talk with, drink with and snuggle with in a warm bed. I left no illegitimate children behind, and I contracted no sexually transmitted diseases. Even though I had blundered into the Communist Zone in the Harz mountains, I escaped arrest, torture and possible death. I believe now that the Communist guards had no idea they had inadvertently captured two spies or the outcome might have been drastically different. I was saved from having to kill one of them with my bare hands.

        But the best thing that never happened to me was dying there. As I had been promoted to E-5, that made me a shift supervisor, one of only three stationed at Todendorf. One afternoon, three of the guys were planning a drinking and girl chasing trip into Kiel and wanted me to go with them. Alas, I was still in the normal shift rotation and would not be off for two more days, unless I could get another E-5 supervisor to work my shift for me. As luck would have it, the two other available supervisors were off base, not due back until the next day. 

        Resigned at not being able to go to town, I made a fresh pot of coffee in the day room and filled my well used, favorite cup, lit a cigarette, and retired to the work spaces to “supervise.” I made sure the “ditty chasers,” were listening to the Guhors talking back and forth, and my guys were paying attention to the blips and buzzing sounds made by the radars that were up and transmitting. I typed up the end of day report and after changing the code wheels on the teletype, zipped it off to headquarters in Bremerhaven. After shift, I retired to the boiler room, drank a beer and smoked some more cigarettes before going to my cubicle and crashing.

        When I awakened the next day, I realized something was wrong! Bad wrong! Terribly wrong! Chief Pickop and a Lt. Commander from Bremerhaven I had never seen before, were cutting off locks and opening the lockers of three of the guys. The barracks were hushed. Everyone was whispering. Jimmy Ercole was crying in his sleeve, trying to muffle the sobs. I looked at the Lt. Commander. His gold braided hat was pulled down so his eyes were barely showing. His jaw was set, but he too was trying to keep a quivering lip under control. Chief Pickop looked tired and more frail than usual. Everyone gathered around waiting for the Commander to say something. But he just stared at the three open lockers, shaking his head disconsolately. 

        Finally, he cleared his throat. “We...lost...three,” he started and then stopped. He wiped his mouth and started again. “We lost three of our buddies last night. All three are dead.” The groans and sighs that went up were loud and involuntary. “They all drowned when the car they were in crashed through a guard rail into Kiel bay. The car sank. No one got out.”

        No one got out!

        Those words hit me right between the eyes. Fate had protected me. I had tried to find a replacement supervisor so I could go with them. But I was not supposed to die in a watery grave at the bottom of Kiel bay, never to see my wife and family again, never to return to America. I could only wonder, amazed and thankful at the hand fate had dealt for me this time.

        The rest of the day was taken up bagging and sorting the personal effects of the dead sailors. Except for the sounds made by the Commander and Jimmy Pickop, as they completed this sad and sorry chore, the barracks were silent. They stayed hushed, measuredly quiet, and respectful. Letters would be sent to next-of-kin in the states as well as personal effects. Their bodies would be returned home too. Three young kids only 21 or 22, had died, lives wasted because of drinking and foolishness. Three of our number was now missing and the hole it left could never be filled again. 

        Eventually replacements would transfer in and operations would resume a sort of normalcy. It was never the same though, the pall that hung over Nav-Sec-Gru-Det Todendorf, never lifted. The only good thing to come out of it was that the sailors didn't drink as much and usually let the most sober one drive back to the barracks. 

        It made me re-evaluate my drinking too, as my time in Germany was coming to a close. My own thoughts and emotions were a swirling of confusion. After over two years in Todendorf and sleeping with Margrit, the place had become “home.” Margrit had become “my woman.” I was leaving a very comfortable relationship with this lady who now wore lipstick and smelled of TABU. Because of her, I spoke decent German, and was even able to read a little of “Der Spiegel,” a German Newspaper. Yet as comfortable as I had become with this woman and Germany, Germany was not my home. I never felt like I could stay there. I wanted to go home, home to America, home to Portland Oregon and a wife I had not seen for over two years, not to mention my Mom and Dad. 

        Laying in my bunk and thinking about going home made me almost as uncomfortable as laying in a bunk in Brooklyn at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, over two years ago waiting to board a ship to come to Germany. It was the discomfort of facing uncertainty, the natural fear of something yet unknown.

        And what would I do for a living as a civilian again? There were no civilian jobs that needed electronic spies. The Navy had trained me well...to stay in the Navy. Working with my mom and dad waiting to take over the family restaurant was a possibility. I grew up in the restaurant business but never did like it, cooking hamburgers and making soup? It wasn't me, but still it was a possibility. Someone in the higher-ups in Bremerhaven had taken note of my “brilliance,” and was offering me a job as a civilian, doing basically the same thing as my Navy job, but the “position” as they called it, was in Cypress and I would have to make up my mind about it soon. But all I wanted to do right now was go see Margrit and cuddle with her. For a moment at least I could stop thinking with my head snuggled between her breasts, her “earth-mother-breasts.” Yes, I wanted to see Margrit. Now!

        And that's how I spent my last day in Todendorf, with my wonderful, comfortable Margrit.. Since my official “duty,” was over, I was d-briefed, which meant I was supposed to forget everything I had been working on, everything I'd been taught. I was no longer allowed in the Top Secret working spaces. The admittance code on the door had been changed. The suddenness of the change was disconcerting. I was no longer a member of the “family.” I felt a little like I had been suddenly abandoned.

        Margrit and I spent our last time together the way we always did, drinking and playing the jukebox at Moody's, smooching and hugging on our favorite seats at the bar. Moody knew I was leaving and she knew I had always taken care of Margrit. I left 100 Marks with Moody so that when I left Margrit could come back and sit at the bar and talk with her girl friends. I was hoping Moody would keep an eye out for Margrit and perhaps help Margrit find a new sailor, one that would be as good to her as I had been.

        Facing the truth that I was leaving Germany and would never see her again made emotions spill out that I had perhaps struggled to keep inside. I paid the bill at the bar and for the last time we wobbled together, down the now more quaint than ever cobblestone street to her back yard. “Billy” the goat rustled his chain, a now comfortable sound, as we began the long climb up the squeaking back stairs, holding each other, steadying each other. I savored touching her. We paused at the top of the stairs while she fumbled for the key. I stopped her and kissed her full on the mouth. We had never spoken the word “love,” it was too painful for either of us to admit, but I now knew that I had fallen in love with Margrit. This was just horrible. At this moment she was in my arms. Tomorrow I would be miles away.

        I let go of her long enough for her to unlock the door and in a moment we were locked together on her bed tearing off each others clothes and throwing them on he floor. Naked, she felt so good. Her skin was smooth and the perfume made her smell exotic. Her breasts were warm and soft and her mouth was sweet and "lip-sticky” good. I pushed myself into her for the last time, into her soft and willing pussy and we stayed locked together, snuggling each other, falling asleep together, "in love" but not talking about it.

        We stayed that way, together, until daylight brought the final end to our relationship. Finding my clothes on the floor and getting dressed, I left Margrit warm under the covers, leaving her an envelope with enough money to last her for a couple of months. I kissed her forehead, and listened to her last whispered words to me; “Auf Wiedersehen,” as I let myself out the back door, hurrying down the steps for the last time, waving goodbye to the goat, and never looking back. It was over! My life in Germany was over! My time with Margrit was over! It was all over!

        The truth is, I felt devastated, gutted and lost. I was leaving my life in Germany and being thrust into the unknown. As I strode down the street, trying to contain my emotions, my mind was a jumble of images of Margrit, during our two years together. Two years in which we shopped together, cooked together, slept and talked together. Two years in which we comforted and supported each other, all the while knowing that we had no future and our time was limited. It was over. 

                                                                            ****

        The next day began early. I boarded the USNS General Walker, at 0600, an MSTS (Military Sea Transportation Service) troop transport ship for my 5 day voyage across the North Atlantic to New York City. There I would be discharged from active duty from the Brooklyn Navy Yard, paid my wages, and given a plane ticket back to Portland Oregon where I had enlisted. By 0800 we were at sea and I found myself on the fantail (rear of the ship) leaning against the railing watching the wake stirred up by the twin propellers, a long and churning wake of green and white sea water leading away from my life in a foreign land. 

        I would have 5 days to think. And so much to think about! I was leaving a woman I had tried hard not to fall in love with, but did anyway. I was returning to my wife, a woman I had not seen or slept with for way too long. I had received a letter from her saying she wanted to meet me in New York to talk. I had also received a letter from my mother informing me that my wife was pregnant! I was angry at this woman, my wife, not that she had been unfaithful, because over the many months of separation that had become inevitable; I could forgive her for that. But because I had been very careful not to leave babies in Germany. Why couldn't she have done the same?

        This pregnancy of hers created an untenable situation. Who was her lover? What were their plans? Would divorce now become inevitable? My guts churned as if the ships propellers were inside my body. Should I get divorced and send for Margrit? Should I take the “position” in Cypress and perhaps live with Margrit there? How would my mom and dad respond if I didn't want to return to the fried and greasy world of hamburgers, fries and milkshakes? So much to think about. And there was the excitement too of returning to America, of finally setting my feet on American soil, talking to people that didn't have an accent. It was both excitement and dread. I was scared, but it was different. I was not the same scared kid that left Brooklyn Navy Yard for Bremerhaven long ago. I had a few more wrinkles, and a lot more miles on my character and understanding of the world.

        They called my time in the service, “The Cold War,” a war in which no shots were fired, no prisoners taken. No shots fired, no casualties? In a very real sense there were casualties. I count myself among the casualties of the Cold War. Ultimately it cost me a marriage. It cost me Margrit who I never saw again. It cost me three close friends that died at the bottom of a bay in Kiel. It cost me my innocence! 

        As time moves inevitably along though, we tend to forget the negative things that happened and remember the fun times, the drinking and the camaraderie, the horse cock sandwiches. I am a better person for having served my country, for enduring the stress and strains of living under the constant threat of a Communist invasion, one that thankfully never happened. They call my time in the service The Cold War. So...where the hell is my hat?

                   An aerial view of Todendorf Germany, my home for over two years and the beautiful blue Baltic Sea...

                                                                        Fini

ABSOLUTELY NO PORTION OF THIS PERSONAL ESSAY MAY BE REPRODUCED OR DISSEMINATED WITHOUT EXPRESS PERMISSION FROM THE AUTHOR, DONALD LEE DUPAY, UNDER PENALTY OF COPYRIGHT LAWS!!

By Don DuPay