Its taken me a few days to conjure up the words to put this memory into perspective.
Nobody likes to think back on the hardest times in their lives. Instead, we always do our best to focus on the future, remember the lessons learned, and try to stay as drama free as possible.
Hohensfeld was difficult. Very difficult.
Having only a limited amount of time to bring the tanks back to Friedberg from Graf (read last blog post), repair the multitudes of broken parts or worn out track pads (oh joy!), and get things ready both professionally an personally for another 40 day stint in the field.
Our crew had changed over the last few weeks. SPC Gunter was out of the Army in a few weeks, so they swapped him out with a new guy - SGT Kroetchel (pronounced like Crow-chill).
He took us aside the first day he met us and talked about his experience, what he expected from his crew members, as well as his personal ethos on recommending us for promotion when the time came for such things.
"Call me Sergeant K" - the only thing I remember from his initial verbal counseling...
- a nickname? Holy shit, this guy is pretty cool!
I remember being impressed with his initial talk, but - there was something about this guy I didn't like. I was still a PFC, so really, it didn't matter what I thought - I had no say in any matter - just shut the fuck up, stand at parade rest, and listen.
Things deteriorated rapidly in the days leading up to Hohensfeld.
I had a constant conflict with my driver since he never let me conduct maintenance. Not doing anything made me look like ass.
Just standing there while someone else does all the work would make ANYONE look like a shit bag.
I understood the tasks at hand, but was left sidelined because new guys were rarely trusted with doing the more complex tasks during maintenance. I remember getting so pissed, I would blow up on people - get so frustrated that I would climb into the turret and sit there - for hours - waiting for my name to be called... God I hated that shit.
Thursdays were the worst - Sergeants time - the time where your sergeant would give classes on whatever he decided upon. Sgt K couldn't teach for shit, and most of his info was all prejudice non-standard experience information. Nothing he taught us was out of the books, and that even showed up until the day we left for the field...
Another rail-load followed a few weeks later, and off to Hohensfeld we went. It was mid spring, so everything was in bloom. The weather was turning hot and humid, and the rain was coming and going as was the warm sunlight between breaks in the clouds. It rains all the time in Germany.... All the time. Period.
Hohensfeld seemed like a small outpost next to a huge expanse of uncharted forest. We had temporary lodging with crowded rooms filled with bunk beds, a Papa-Johns greasy ass chicken diner down the street, and the token shopette that was only open when units began their field rotations. We would stock pile our 'poguey bait' which constisted of as much shit as you can fit into your remaining bag space without compromising your mission essential gear... crackers, cookies, candy, soda, whatever you could get in there.
3 days of preparation, and off to the field we went, or more commonly known as "the box".
Whoever coined that nickname couldn't have been more right. It was 30 days of pure boxed up frustration and agony. Every day was hard-earned, and the weak in your unit would be exposed, regurgitated, and flipped upside down.
The box would turn you into a man, or so we were told. Whatever THAT means.
The first week was uneventful. We left out armed to the teeth with fake small arms ammo, and a full compartment of hoffman simulators (1/4 sticks of dynamite, meant to simulate the main cannon going off).
We were rolling out battle ready, with laser beams and blanks for bullets. We were issued laser detector belts and 'halos' - small circular devices lined with IR detectors meant to fit onto your helmet/kevlar which would signal us being shot if the detector was triggered by a direct hit from another laser simulator.
Most of the time in the field was a blur. Days ran into night time, followed by an hour long guard shift at an observation post at 2:30am in the morning, followed by maybe another hour worth of sleep, followed by a 0530 stand to where all the tanks in the company would turn on at the same time... "short count" ... 3... 2... 1... a unison whir of turbines would kick on, supposedly tricking the enemy into believing that we only had one tank in the area... yeah, would have fooled me. (sarcasm)
When it rained, it poured. If you were lucky, it would rain during the day, and stay dry at night. We didn't have tents to sleep in, we slept in on, or around our tank. The Box was full of big hungry boars - complete with razor sharp tusks and a bad attitude... those fuckers were everywhere... but you'd never see them until they were right up on you. Fuck those things were big.
By the end of the first week, our crew was demoralized, physically beaten down from hours of maintenance and countless missions and guard shifts... and we still had 2 weeks to go.
Sgt K, our gunner, in all his infinite wisdom, had cost us hundreds of hours of unnecessary maintenance. His true colors were coming through. He dipped long cut Copenhagen non-stop, and used the sub turret for his spit reservoir... not to mention, his butterfingers dropped an entire can of dip inside the turret.
The smell inside the vehicle was awful to say the least... Dank wet mold, Chewing Tobacco, dip spit, MRE farts, as well as foot funk or whatever else my gunner could find to stink the hole up a bit more hit your nostrils like a kick to the face...
We had flipped track 3 times, broken 2 sprockets, and leaked out around 300 gallons of fuel across the German countryside. You see, the fuel incident stemmed from Sgt K pissing off the mechanics back at the yard so badly, that they disconnected our return fuel line to our engine pack.
Now, as I learned in my military career in combat arms, there are a few support elements you do NOT want to piss off...
These are one of those elements you do NOT want to piss off...
A few hours later getting the proverbial thumbs up from the mechanics we rushed back to the line to join the rest of the company. We departed, in the lead, on the new company mission - motivated, ready to kill -
We headed up a steep hill at full tilt, 12 main battle tanks behind us, only to hear a call over the net about 'something leaking out of the back of our tank.'
"fuck it - its just water..." Sgt K crackled over the internal comm's... there was no fucking way this was happening..
... a few minutes later, smoke, then fits of fire shot out from the back of the tank... then the realization from the tank crew behind us that the water wasn't water... that shit was fuel.
"Red 1, stop now, STOP NOW, Get the fuck out, and check your shit, you're spitting fire and smoke out the back..."
We stopped immediately, dismounted, fire extinguishers in hand, ready to tackle whatever was going on...
Settle tried to kill the engine, but the tank wouldn't shut off, it just kept running and running...
Smoke continued to pour out the turbine, making a cloud a few hundred feet high, fuel was EVERYWHERE...
"Emergency shut down!!!" Tried it... didn't work... Nothing was working...
"FUCK, OPEN THE PACK, Disconnect the Master Power Cable!!"
- Son ova bitch! - ok ok, just open up the battery panels, as quick as possible and disconnect the master disconnect... pray to god that this thing and all 300 gallons of fuel left doesn't explode with me on top of this thing.
Steel hinged panels went flying - heavy or not, adrenaline didn't care - finding the connector and a few clicky turns on the cable and the turbine choked off its power supply... winding down like a jet just being shut off...
Disaster adverted... phew.
The LT jumped trucks to another vehicle, leaving us with a mess behind... Looking down the hill, it was an environmental disaster... hundreds of gallons of JP8 on hard pack roads trailed off into the distance... 12 hours later and hundreds of gallons of fuel dug up, pick axe in hand, and we were back in business. This time we checked our shit before leaving the maintenance yard.
- Every battle or engagement there after became routine -
The company begins its movement, we meet an obstacle, we bypass or breach the obstacle, then the enemy kills us. In a nutshell, rinse, repeat, and try again.. and again... and again.
Dust was a killer on your lungs. Tanks beat the shit out of hard pack roads, and this fine dusty mist would be everywhere... Huge bugs would come out in the heat of the day, and eat you alive. The rain would come, and turn everything into mud, only to turn into dust a few hours later... there was no happy medium.
... One particular evening, after a long day of missions, details, and late night briefings, our crew decided to bed down somewhat early - if you can call 11pm early - so we could get up early to confirm our virtual boresight...
(boresighting is a long complicated process, basically, its aligning your gun tube with your optical sights so you can shoot stuff accurately - one shot, one kill)
I had my sleeping area at a pre-designated location on top of the turret, laid across the two blast panels in a funky configuration that was by no means comfortable.
Think of a lazy boy made out of spackled coated steel, then sleep on that for a few hours and you'll know what I'm talking about.
... the rain started to come down, and it was freezing outside... water leaked in my 'waterproof' poncho from all sides, soaking my cotton sleeping bag, my clothes, boots, everything. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't think...
Ice cold water started dripping down on my forehead. Fucking chinese torture...
I did all I could do to not think about this moment, take your mind off of things, go elsewhere. This isn't real, you aren't here, its just a bad dream, and you're going to wake up...
But I didn't wake up. I was there. Dirty, freezing cold, soaking wet, on a tank in the middle of the woods, playing GI Joe and shooting invisible lasers and blank bullets at an enemy that kept handing us our asses. My mind went nuts... This shit did not make sense at all... What the fuck did I get myself into... I started shaking out of control - I felt like I was dying.
I had nothing, absolutely nothing left.
My teeth chattered so hard I couldn't sleep... There was nothing warm, no hope, nothing. I gave up. I didn't give a fuck anymore. I could have died from hypothermia right then and there, and I wouldn't have cared less...
I was - hopeless.
I shed tears thinking about my family back home, my hopes and dreams in a disillusioned theory of greater things for the future were just hopeless thoughts in passing...
- from there on out, I was in pain, sheer agony... This was the hardest thing I have ever EVER done in my entire life. There was no god to help me, there was no more happy place to run to inside my head, there was no mommy to feel sorry for me ... this was real. This is your life - welcome to your own personal hell... Time that passed by at light speed during the day time now slowed to a screeching halt. If I was going to get through this, I needed to toughen up. and be a fuckin man...
... I'm not sure if I passed out from exhaustion, or if I had cried myself to sleep, but what I do remember is the sensation of warm light on my face... sunlight. The sun broke through the clouds, and I made it... I was still alive. That bright orange ball never looked so god damn good... every last millimeter of warm sunlight felt like a million bucks... life giving warmth.
For a second, I thought it was a cruel dream, only to hear my crew mates waking up, yelling at Settle to crank the turbine up so we could dry our clothes and sleeping bags in the exhaust.
I had never been through anything like that before, and since then, nothing has challenged that moment as the most difficult incident in my entire lifetime... and probably, nothing will ever compare.
....
FUCK the god damned box.
....
Hohensfeld was over soon after, the days following seemed like a blur. Of course there were additional mis-steps on account of my gunner, and I had gotten in trouble as all new guys are prone to do... Its a natural step in your military life. Get in trouble, learn your lesson, don't do it again.
...
Shortly after returning to Friedberg, I was sent up to the S3 (command and control) office because my good-old-friend Settle, had recommended me due to my 'computer skills' ... Of which, I had none. He wanted me off the tank because I made him look bad.
I met people in that place that I am still friends with today. I cherish those friendships, as well as the memories made from my travels throughout Europe with 'Globe-trotting' Dan... My estranged America hating room mate. We had a rough start, but ended up getting along rather well - taking 4 day weekends to explore 7 or 8 different countries...
Fuck the Barracks, and fuck getting plastered every night - there was SO much to see in Europe.
The last year I was in Germany passed by at a blinding pace..
I received orders for Fort Lewis, Washington (State) 12 months before I was scheduled to leave... So I knew long before I was going to leave, where I was destined to be going... that was a rare thing to receive orders that far out...
... I had made friends with higher up officers, and NCO's. I had a good work ethic, and I did what I was told... I was actually motivated to do my job. Things around a positive working environment made sense. Although there were still people that hated life, and hated me, and would make life miserable in everything that I would do... I pushed on, kept living... destined for bigger and better things.
Fuck the haters, fuck the doubters, and fuck the people that have nothing better to do than to make other people's lives miserable...
I made my Specialist 6 months before I was scheduled to leave. I was dating a girl in a neighboring town, and stayed there during the weekends. I took the morning train to work, and the evening train back... I spoke decent German, and could read, and understand full fledged German conversations. I learned how to blend in, and how to steer clear of the mass groups of soldiers that would walk drunkenly downtown, or through the train cars. The hated commodity from the host nation inhabitants...
You can't miss a soldier in a crowd ... Tennis shoes, jeans, t-shirts (or a collared T-shirt)... Their buzzcut haircut, or a "high and tight" fade, all with Army HOOAH bullshit tatoo's lined accross their shoulders...
In a foreign country, soldiers stood out like a swollen busted up thumb, complete with a nasty ass hangnail... Soldiers travel in packs - Mostly in part because none of them spoke any german, and going in numbers meant your odds of winning a random fight, if one ever broke out, were greater the more people you had with you.
... I left Germany with a broken heart, and a will, full of ambition.
I hated the Army, but I loved where it took me, and always, I looked for bigger and better things in life...
In my selfish travels through Europe, I had forgotten about the past, remembering only the good times, and the lessons learned. My parents received only a handful of phone calls during my tour overseas... most of which were in the first 3 home-sick months I was there.
I grew up there, I experienced life, and I had become much wiser because of it.
Little did I know how things in the Army were only to get more complicated as time went on...
Homeward bound...
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