Stay Down Old Abram Book 2 Chapter 7 Amp 8 Babenhausen

Writen by Dennis Siluk

7.

The Clinic/Inspectors

When Chris had first arrived at the 545th Ordnance Company, it wasn't long after they had made him a clerk in the Nuclear Surety Office, it was where a person went to upon arriving, and a background check was done on you. If you couldn't pass the FBI and Military Intelligence screening, you were sent to a different unit. He passed it quite well, and knowing he had a background in administration, it wasn't long before he was in the office typing up security clearances. Up to this point, the 545th to his understanding and the 9th MP's never had passed an inspection; and accordingly, got rid of their commanders quite rapidly, due to this.

Dr. Ronald J. Sharp, was the presiding doctor at the clinic in Babenhausen, where Chris would have to go to get assistance, and check on the medical status of his military personal. He would get to know him quite well, and it would prove to be a most advantageous relationship, for him as a friend, and the company, as they both cooperated, and passed inspection after inspection.

As I was about to say, he [he being: Chris Wright] was assigned to the Surety Office, of which had already two sergeants in there, and now Corporal Chris Wright, doing the typing. The SFC, or Sergeant First Class [E-7] Bullman, was always leaving the office to go get a beer at the EM club across the road; and the Buck Sergeant, [E-5], Sillvk, the assistant Surety Sergeant in Charge, usually went along with him, or home to see his wife. Chris would just shake his head, and instead of asking for his rights, he turned it around and learned everything he could, knowing somewhere along the road, they'd leave, or get fired, and he'd be left to take over, he'd be the only one that could.

When the first inspection came up, which was about three weeks into his new role as a Surety Clerk, none of the paperwork that needed to be signed by the personnel to be placed into their file, was signed. The Corporal brought this up to the two sergeant's attention. They looked at one another, went over by the coffee machine, and devised a plan.

"Give me all the personal files that need to be signed by the GI's," he directed the Corporal to do. And so he did. With the Company's men and the MP Detachment, there were about two-hundred personal at the site, and about one-hundred were cleared for work in the back area, the nuclear site area: the nuclear site itself; this one-hundred number would go up to one-hundred and eighty within forty-four months, but at this early stage, it was 50% of the company and detachment, not working or guarding the nuclear weapons that they were sent there to do. Well, he did as the Sergeants both asked, and they asked without a thought of reckoning,

"What needs to be signed," they asked, and the Corporal pointed to the privacy act statement, along with a few other documents. And they both went to town signing. Asked the Corporal:

"Can we do that?" A dumb question, but he was a bit scared, it didn't seem right. Said SFC Bullman,

"I got six months to go, I for one, don't care, I'm retiring, now on the other hand, do you want to have 25% more of the personnel at this site, not working, that's it in a nutshell Corporal, anymore questions?" He then added, "be quiet about this or we'll all go to jail," meaning him also, the Corporal, and the Buck Sergeant as well as him. And so life went on, and the inspection took place.

--One of the main issues that came out of the inspection was that, when the inspectors went around asking the personal if they had signed the paper work, none remembered doing it, but the two sergeants insisted they did. The inspectors asked the Corporal if he had signed any, or knew of anyone who had. He said he had just arrived about six weeks ago, and three of them weeks were spent on processing and at another location—Babenhausen for the most part, that everything was dated prior to his arriving [thank god, he told myself].

But the inspector took a liking to the Corporal, and commented, "That may be so, but one can back date anything you know, or know of it…?" The Corporal didn't say a word, probably didn't have to, and the issue was pressed on, but it was eventually dropped with the pounding reminder, should this happen again, where no one remembers signing, there would be a new commander at the post. And no sooner had the inspectors left, the commander got a letter telling him he was to be replaced, and so Major Wastrel was soon to take over.

It wasn't long before the two sergeants left, and a new one was rushed in, for a follow up inspection in six months. Staff Sergeant Hightower, Charles Hightower was the new boss of the Surety office, he would become down the road, the First Sergeant, but for the next two years he would remain the stimulant and vigilant body, eye and soul, the Surety NCOIC, the man in charge. Corporal Wright would learn from him many things and the right way, but the main thing was: how to pass inspections, according to the regulations. And it would be hard work, long hours, but along the road; he'd end up passing every inspection from then on, for the reminder of his forty-four months at this location. Likewise, he'd make additional rank while being at the 545th, that being, Buck Sergeant. But in-between was a long road. He would make some enemies, and he would kind of stay in the background. Again, Hightower would become the First Sergeant, in Charge of the whole Company of the 545th eventually, and the Corporal the NCOIC of the Surety Office—things do change he would also learn, simply by sticking it out. But as I was saying, that was a ways off. In-between he'd have to pass some twelve more inspections, of which four would be Congressional, or put another way, ordered by Congress, right out of Washington D.C.—the Pentagon. It was the one in l976 that would produce a General to give him a medal, when Hightower had become the First Sergeant, who never forgot his student, his now Sergeant Christopher Wright, even when he left the Surety Office, and he, Sergeant Wright was on his own as the head of the Surety office for some eighteen months now.

8.

A Turkish Cigarette

After a number of months at the military base, Chris stopped going to the EM Club, at the 545th Ordinance Company: as one leaves the 545th, goes through the city of Muñster, into and onto, Dieburg a small city a ways farther resides Babenhausen, again backtracking: Babenhausen leads into Dieburg, and Dieburg leads into Muñster, which leads into the base; but Dieburg was were Sergeant Wright would patronize his night life at this time [later on it would change to Babenhausen], where he was living; and to repeat myself, seldom at the base now would he drink, especially after the conflicts at the [EM] Enlisted Men's –club and then Lt. Crawford's situation. It was simply not the place to be, it was more deadly than Vietnam, he was coming to believe. But Chris liked Dieburg, and was getting to like Babenhausen, as well. But Dieburg had a lot of WWII scares, old hurt memories of the Americans—for they had bombed it quite harshly, and in l974-1977, they had not healed yet many it seemed still had open wounds, yes even after 29-years of healing, no one removed the bullet holes which still remained in the thick wooden doors of the main church in town: for Chris had walked by it many times, to try and understand why they showed distain for him in the bars, yet after awhile, he was somewhat accepted.

Oh, he drank there, but again preferred Babenhausen, none the less, and the more he drank in Babenhausen the more he like it. Matter of fact, he was the only one that drank in Dieburg from the base, or any base, even the one military base in Babenhausen would not go to Dieburg, yes, he was the only American GI that would, the only one they had ever seen [they being the folks in the Dieburg bars or guesthouses]. Like it or not, the Americans were still considered the occupying force in Germany, the victors of a long and brutal war.

Babenhausen

[Soon after several months in Dieburg, Chris moved to Babenhausen, and got off post house] As you'd enter the guesthouse [bar], that was on the right bank of the cannel in Babenhausen, an old German-Turkish bar rested, there were two main rooms to it; one with a half rounded bar and tables for eating and drinking, and one to the side of the bar, that lead to a back section, which only had tables, and still there was a very small backroom to that section with four tables in it. Both had doors to enter and exit. As Chris entered the Guesthouse, as he got used to calling the bars: this evening it was busy, most of the patrons stood at the bar-area, for all the tables were filled with customers, people eating and drinking. Smoke was filtering in from the other room, although the first room was rather smoky in itself: to be precise, the one he was now walking through had its share of smoke also as he went into a cloud of thicker smoke. The other room's light was a tad dimmer because of the resting-lazy cloud of smoke that seemed to drift when the doors were open, when someone came in or out; and the folks were not eating dinners as in the other room in this back area, rather a few had soup or sandwiches on their tables; most were of Turkish decent, as were the other patrons in the smaller back room filled with Turkish men; as more of the German type, with German food, and lighter skin remained in the larger bar area. It would seem to Chris, the Turkish room, the second room, the men's faces automatically changed their countenance as Chris walked through, showed a more dangerous look.

--He had noticed in life, liking the bar scene, sometimes, not always, you'd walk in such a room, or bar, or guesthouse and a silence would manifest itself, in particular, if it was more unfriendly: all the same, that was not happening, although it seemed like it should be. Rather their eyes from several large and small tables with men sitting at them, playing cards, smoking, sipping soup, eating bread remained in their chairs, seeming in a coma-status, their eyes were watching, following him, tracking his moves, but not too provocative, or aggressively, rather assertively, carefree, and curious, more so, more like: why would you want to be here, is what their eyes were saying. But he could see the eyes, the dark thick eye brows on the tarnished bronze skin of the Turkish men were simply curious; they were working men, men of pride, not gangsters. Unkempt, yes, but with work pants and work shirts on, old jackets, unpolished boots, a labor man's workload; Chris knew all about it, he had worked for foundries, meat packing plants, as a painter, and a hundred other jobs—this was the working class, not the pretty boy store, or the Hollywood glamour pack, this was where men, real men hung out.

As he looked about for a table to sit, beer in hand, still the square jaws, and thick looking hands followed him: five o'clock dark-shadow beards on their faces, but he always thought they were handsome men, Turkish men that is, olive colored people, and some of the loveliest women in the world were Turkish. But there were no women here today, and he was the only American, a white, pale white skinned American. But they had no beef-with him. And so he found a corner and a chair, in the smaller backroom, where the four tables were, one empty, a small table, and sat on the wooden chair—with not much of a back to it, that wobbled a bit, unsteady, but good enough: as long as he didn't jerk the chair, least he kill himself from a fall in a bar, how embarrassing; thus, he put his mug on the table, lit up a cigarette, and looked about—now he was becoming one of them, he even put on a half smile, one with his face, another with his eyes; at the walls next to him he glanced at, they were pealing, the paint coming off, and some of it in places seemed a bit less colorful than in other places, tarnished from the everlasting smoke had dulled the paint.

Now looking at the pictures closer: a few to his right side of his shoulder, a few on the wall across to his left by another person's table, two other men talking, drinking he noticed also beers mugs hanging loose, on hooks here and there and everywhere. Some fancy, others not so fancy. He often thought: "...was I testing myself in doing things like this." Granted for the moment he didn't care, but nonetheless, simply walking into harms way—was liken to what he had just done, walking into a strange drinking place were they might have hated Americans, but evidently they didn't. Most GI's stayed on base, or had a few fellows go with them if they planned on doing some drinking on the German-economy, he always went alone, well, not always, but most of the time and possible that is what was his source of safety—for most GI's wanted trouble, Chris just wanted to get drunk. He wasn't afraid of any man, and knew he could be beat most in a fight, and it would normally take more than one; and another man knows when you do not fear him. And he didn't, plus, he liked the surroundings, it was a stained place, but comfortable.

The question begs to be answered, did he ever get in trouble with his long-range lifestyle, bar life, yes, oh yes, but possible today would be different, and to be quite honest, most times were not troubled times, most people wanted to have a good time, get drunk, eat, talk about the day, and women, and the government, and then go home and make love to their wives, and get a good sleep before the next day came about, and start all over again, that was life in its simplest form. But American GI's had a bad reputation—and to be frank, earned it by causing trouble; for most couldn't handle drinking, or drank too much, or didn't know how to drink, and then were rude and wanted to fight. Also most were young and cocky, and loud. Chris was to the contrary.

As he glanced about, a few Turkish men lit up cigarettes, a man he had walked by, walked by when he went into the small room to the side that is, who watched him from the corner of his eye—by the name of Abdullah, was watching him now. Feeling obliged, he gave him a smile, it really is the best weapon a man has in a situation like this he thought. Turkish music filled the smoky air—the sailing air, the choking air. The Germans had quite a work load for the Turkish men in their country thought Chris, doing the jobs they didn't like doing, like back in the states, where businesses would hire Mexicans to do the jobs Americans didn't like doing; --supply and demand was the call of the economy in both countries. The only time the Germans got mad at them was when hard times came, and then they'd kick them out of their country. Or if a GI wanted to rent an apartment, like Chris did in Dieburg, and a Turkish family was living there, or just Turkish workmen, the GI would get it, but of course he'd pay twice as much, not knowing though—or he was not suppose to know. And the Turkish would be kicked out the next day. This is how he acquired his apartment.

And here he lit his cigarette and washed down the smoke with his dark-beer, bock-bear, as if it was water.

"Smoke," said the Turkish man to the young American soldier, as he was putting his beer back on the table from sloshing it down his throat. He hesitated, looked up at his dark eyes, his broad shoulders; he was several years older than he, possible close to thirty-five. They both smiled, and he asked in broken English:

"I Vant Americana cigaretta…" as he handed Chris a fat looking Turkish cigarette. Then he took it, what the Turkish man gave, Abdullah wanted in trade something though. He knew they had a big black market in Germany for whiskey and American cigarettes—possible this was what it was about—but it wasn't.

"My nam Abdullah Vhat a GI does here…?" he said puzzled, looked about, and almost amused.

Said Chris [with a flashing smile now], "Just a drink my friend, no more, no less, my name's Chris," Chris extended his hand, they both shook hands then.

"Dhat's gowd," he replied, "No GI com her." Then he shook his head as if it was ok, and he pulled out three cigarettes and gave them to Abdullah, and he gave Chris one of his fat ones again. They both smiled again, if anything, smiles are the best international comforting language in the world thought Chris, "Dhat's gowd," he replied again, flashing those yellowish-gold teeth as he spit out the words, and smiled. His thick mustache getting in the way; he liked him, Chris like him; he was a plain man, honest, friendly and curious. He was broad looking, with a shadow to his face as of needing a shave, possible had gotten one in the morning, but some men just grow them instantly.

"Com joyoin us," he commented, but Chris declined the offer to join them, drank his beer down, and left. Yet, in the months to follow he found himself going back to that guesthouse in Babenhausen, as he'd move from Dieburg, to Babenhausen, he'd spend more time in the local stores and guesthouses of that area.

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