The first two weeks of being in Germany as you're told in basic, was to get settled in, meet your future platoon-mates, and attend the Army mandated 'Head-Start' program.
This would be 2 weeks of getting your TA-50 (for your non-Army folks out there, your standard 'holy-jesus that's a shit-ton of gear' issued items - gloves, flak vest, winter boots, sleeping bag, etc.), receive your basic German language courses (which really you didn't learn a whole lot besides a few choice swear words), obtain your NATO driver's license, and basically fuck-off for the remainder of the time on the bus rides to and from where the classes were held...
...in my case, the bus ride was about 40 minutes away from my base. We had to travel to a bit larger base in Geissen (pronounced GEESE-IN).
Trips to and from Friedberg (where I was stationed) were always interesting... Looking out the bus windows I got my first glimpse of my first European culture -
The small ass cars these people drove, the strange clothes they wore, and especially the funky ass architecture that was all over the place...
Friedberg Castle -
German architecture -
_Stadtkirche.jpg)
Cobble streets were are all over the place -
I wasn't aware of it at the time, but my First Sergeant wanted to see me that same day I was supposed to head up to Head-Start at 0600 in the morning -
That doesn't leave a whole lot of time for me to report to the guy. I'm a fucking private Top ('Top' is our shortened nickname for first sergeant), I didn't know my ass from my elbow, so how am I supposed to read minds as well?
If someone says be here, or "be fucked" - I'm going to be there. Getting screwed didn't sound too attractive.
So my first official day - spit polished boots, pressed BDU's (battle dress uniform - the older, dark green/black/brown foliage camo uniform that USED to be the Army standard), and a clean 'high and tight' haircut... I arrived back to the barracks around 1830 (6:30 pm for you civilians out there) after a full day of briefings, classes, and toting around 20 tons of gear...only to find a guy named Specialist Gunter waiting for me near my barracks room in a half-assed attempt to chew my ass out... It didn't work.
I wasn't threatened by a Specialist, no matter what position the dude held... He was just a modified private - with his "Sham-Shield" as we called it - Not enough rank to really lead, but enough rank to keep himself out of the more laborious 'details' us privates would have to take part in.
Top wanted SPC Gunter to write me up a 'negative counseling' since he was my Tank Gunner... A slap on the hand since I had failed to report to him the first day I was in the unit...
What the fuck? What the fuck did I do?
That shit didn't make sense at all...
I talked my way out of it, luckily, through a bit of negotiation and explanation of the situation of being a new-comer, and having my head up my ass since landing in the area.
I was a bit of a smart-ass, and I hinted that "SPC Gunter should have been there as my sponsor upon arrival (and for all intents and purposes, I was right), and he did know that I was coming to the unit, but had neglected to properly "set me up for success" (probably one of the most ridiculous statements coined in the US ARMY).
... So head-start finished 2 weeks later - a mixed up memory of drunken soldiers failing to report when the bus stepped off, garbled German language courses, and a few tours downtown Giessen...
I moved in with the platoon, and met my first sergeant and commander for the first time.
Needless to say, it was a sobering experience...
Both of which were old-timer SOB's, and were plagued with what I called 'no-war disorder' .. They had their own unique twitches, hypothetical training excuses, and this insane 'HOOAH' mentality of over-motivation... I never really understood it, but whatever got their rusty old bones going in the morning.
Top hated new guys, and openly admitted to it. He had been in a day shy of 30 years (probably more like 18 years or so), and just looked, shit, abnormal. He was latino, rubbed his hands together profusely, had a strong spanish accent, his left eye twitched when he was really pissed off, and always walked with his stomach poked out... He always wore this weird unamused look on his face - reminded me of the back stabbing drug lord guy from movie 'clear and present danger.'
TOP -
Joaquim de Almeida - Felix Cortez from "Clear and Present Danger" ... but with twitchy eye.
Every unit had a name, always spelled after your corresponding phonetic letter, with a theme or mascot based upon your Battalion's name. Our battalion was named after the Dukes of the old age, or Iron Dukes, knights of the old. We were Charlie Company, so Crusaders was our emblazoned theme.
Iron Dukes - (no that is not me in the T-shirt)
"Psst... HEY.. new guy"... someone whispered my direction during my first formation with the company...
me: (in a normal loud voice...) "YEAH, whats up..?"
"SHHHHHH ... what the fuck man.."
" shhhh... dude, quiet down"
"ay, shut the fuck up back there..."
(its morning formation, its pitch black dark out, and we're already standing at parade rest, waiting for Top to call everyone to attention.. Guess we're supposed to keep our mouth's shut eh?)
... ay, dumbass, when they call us to attention, we sound off with 'CRUSADERS' ...
me whispering back: "Thats kinda gay..."
... immediately everyone in my platoon turned in my direction and gave me a blank look.
Fuck. There I go for speaking my mind....
"COMPANY!" ... Top yelled... - everyone snapped their eyes forward, "preparatory command"...
"ATTENNNSHUUUN" ... we all snapped to attention...
(Top Squeeked the SHUUN part when calling the company to 'attention' like a kid squeaking his voice into puberty ... I cracked a smile and did my best not to laugh...)
a second later... in unison, 90 men shouted to the top of their lungs...
"CRUSADERS!"
... pretty cool, but it still sounded gay...
Platoons branched off into crews, a four man team, led by one sergeant... We would go running every morning from oh dark thirty (6:30 am), til the sun rose (7:30 am) ... Push-ups, sit-ups, sprints, and the occasional Friday sporting event, which was usually a mud-ensuing battle against another challenging platoon...
Sports of course, were always banned after someone busted their ankle or sprained a knee.. Anything that presented an injury was taken off the schedule of events. Yeah, we're a hard core Army alright - Stub your toe and you might get discharged - Ask me if I'm joking - I'm not.
I hated PT for the most part. I never failed a PT test (a combination of timed push-ups, sit-ups, and a 2 mile run), and always scored the highest in the company, so I never saw the purpose in forcing the mass group to suffer for that one dude that was always overweight, always fucked up... your proverbial "Blersch" If you know what I mean (see my first blog to get more details).
There was one thing that took my mind off of the hate, and that was release runs... A moment of solitude, where I could jettison my slow fucking comrades like a parasitic drag creating chute, and really open up my stride...
We would run downtown Friedberg, in our goofy neon green reflective belts, and newly issued (and much contested I might add) PT uniforms...
I can still smell the fresh bakeries cooking away as you ran past... school girls giggling as you passed by them, books in hand, bundled up from head to toe - giving them a cute smile, a wave, and managing a wheezing 'guten-morgen' ... man those German girls are hot hot HOT! ...
Cobble glazed roads stretched in front of you, keeping you on your toes... shop workers placed their gazebo's filled with merchandise out in the streets, and the bahnhof (train station) offloading the masses of people as they scattered like ants to the next bus station. You'd pass by fellow soldiers, some would be just walking, some would be puking as their Sergeant yelled at them for doing so... probably drank the night prior - way to go genius.
Each morning was a breath of fresh air, only to return to the PT entrance gate, re-assemble into platoon formation... and resume that same old bullshit that I had already grown accustomed to hate...
PT in the morning, followed by breakfast chow, then morning maintenance formation and inspection, walk to the motor pool, un-tarp the tanks (which included a complex standard folding of the tarp procedure), conduct maintenance on the Tanks, go to Lunch chow at 1200, then back to the motor pool at 1300 (1 pm), then work until told otherwise...
usually at around an hour before we got off, we'd park the tanks back online, then sweep the motor pool "line" (your space in front of, next to, and behind your tank) clean...
Every fucking day... sweep, sweep, sweep. For some God Damn reason, I don't know why... Brooms always seemed to dis-a-fuckin-peer... MAN that shit was annoying... Other companies would steal your brooms, sand off your company "branding" markings on the broom head, or hide them so you couldn't use em.
Now you were left with 2 football fields worth of track pad rubber, dust, and debris, and only 2 brooms for 50 or so privates... you learned how to become REALLY efficient with the alotted time you received with that broom... or you'd stay there past Close of Business (which was 5 pm) til the job was done... Never mind Fridays - you weren't leaving until the line was clean enough to eat off of .. although I'm here now, and I never saw a damn person eat off of our line.
I would have paid money to see my Platoon Sergeant eat a boiled egg off the motor pool pavement...
...Lastly, we'd tarp up the tanks and head up to the barracks for yet another 'final formation'...
We'd be released, then it was back to the barracks, tearing off your BDU's along the way, racing up the stairs, getting into your room, changing into normal clothes, and cranking up the sound system... Beer flowed like water, and everyone had booze.
Standard for your room was pretty simple - Two guys per room, one fridge, and two twelve packs each. You could have a bottle of liquor of choice in the freezer, but no drinking during duty hours, at least, don't get caught. Really, we didn't follow the rules in regards to how much alcohol we were limited to -
A twelve pack MIGHT have lasted an hour... Beer was sold in bulk from the PX (the Post Exchange, or in lamen's terms, a large 7-11 open 18 hours a day that sold electronics) - 24 packs of Corona were pretty standard issue. Those that didn't give two shits less about taste would get your bud light, busch beer, or whatever was the cheapest - bang for buck - beer on the shelf...
Most guys would set their alarms before they started drinking - that way, when they passed out from alcohol induced inebriation, they would still awake on time for morning formation...
I for one, didn't drink, didn't party, didn't do shit for the first three months I was there... I hated everything about the place... I was so stuck on this religious fucking guilt trip, I wouldn't allow myself to enjoy anything at all.
I missed home, I missed my parents (well, mostly just my mom), I missed my dog Jake - Shit, I even missed that bitch of an ex-girlfriend that ditched me in basic... I even missed my brother and two sisters. I missed everything.
I called home almost every other day - Calling anyone that would be awake during whatever time it was that I called... I talked with my mom probably more than I had in my entire 4 years of high school combined. I fucking hated my life... and I made it very clear that everyone back home knew that...
- BEER -
At about the third month, I convinced myself that I was going to stop bitching, and actually make some use of my time overseas. One of my buddies I had graduated basic training with was in B - company, and had convinced me to try drinking... regardless of my religious views, or excuses for not trying it. It wasn't illegal here, and you could do what you want.
Fuck it I thought..
- I slammed that first cool, sweaty, green bottle of Heineken beer with a fucking vengeance -
All those years being forced to stay at home, never being allowed to go party during high school, being told that I'd basically fucking die if I drank a beer... all the while my parents drank in front of me... beer from a fucking glass.. How tasteful... like drinking out of a glass justified drinking or made it any more classy.
They weren't alcoholics by any means, but god damn, why not let me have a glass or two - FORCE me to drink that nasty ass Old English 40oz malt beer that my dad always picked up... years later realizing that Old English is the NASTIEST fucking malt liquor ever made...
why the HELL did my dad like that shit?
That bitter nasty fermented Green Beer hit my taste buds and bubbled up in my stomach...
...Beer was goooood!
Shit Started to make sense...
I didn't drink because I was depressed. I didn't drink because I was sad. I drank because that shit made me feel GOOD!
After trying a few micro brews downtown Friedberg, it became a hobby of mine... and what a place to have that hobby...
Every single town in Germany had its own brewery. There were THOUSANDS of different types of beer, and each season, there was another flavor that came out... a different recipe of hops, and spices, and herbs... The possibilities are fucking endless ...
OH, and get this shit... They had this festival, maybe you've heard of it, its called Oktoberfest, and yeah, maybe you've heard that there's a SHITLOAD of BEER there...
... So, now there was motivation to have at the end of the day - something to look forward to. Everyone drank, and everyone had a good time.
I called home less and less. Pretty soon I stopped calling altogether. I had made friends in my platoon, gotten situated in a better room, and had started seeing things in a new light...
... Well, good times were to be had - up until our turn to head out to the field came up...
Nobody liked the field.
And I do mean NOBODY.
You heard rumors about it, nightmares even - ever since you were in basic... That 7 day field training exercise in basic training didn't have SHIT on Germany field time...
Words from my Drill Sergeant: "Germany is fucking awesome ... but holy shit does the field suck... haha, boy does it fucking suck" - yeah, that was quoted DURING the field in basic...
Your career hinged on your performance in the field... all those days of maintenance, hours preparing with your crew, hundreds of hours of instruction & training that you learned in basic training would be put to the test...
You, your crew, and your tank would be broken, over and over and over again...
In the field, your tanker skills would be seen...
...This was my time to shine...
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