God save Us from Our Habits (a short story in Augsburg, Germany, 1970)
God save Us from Our Habits
(A short story in Augsburg, Germany, 1970)
In those—now, far-off days, the winters were different in Augsburg, Germany, than I was used to in St. Paul, Minnesota, but similar in that it was cold in Augsburg, and there was snow on the ground. It might be hard to believe, but believe it nonetheless, because it is true. This one evening it was snowing, and I was inside my guard shack, at the entrance to the Military Compound, called Reese. There was Chris’ car across the street, her 1970 Green Mustang, with the letters on the side of the car CS, for Chris Steward. It at first puzzled me, but it had German license plates on it, and it was on a public street, and we, as American soldiers in Germany, had already handed over that part of the country back to the Germans, for a long time we had jurisdiction over such matters. I walked out of my guard shack to inspect the car from the distance, knowing there was a concern of sabotage to US Military Bases, and I was part of the Military Security Force. It was just prior to Christmas, and the mess hall was having turkey and all the trimmings, and I was to get a dinner sent over to me so I was waiting impatiently. It was about 7:00 p.m. My shift ended at 8:00 p.m. I walked across the street to check out who was in the car, it was a lady, and it looked like my new girlfriend, the one I was dating for a month now.
All around us at our military compound was the city, and its old towers, and busy streets and across a highway was the US Military PX, and opposite that, a guesthouse I often prescribed to. Directly across the street from the guardhouse, were some four story buildings, and next to that was a large empty lot they had German Fests, actually they had them all over the city, all year round it seemed, and in every little town beyond the city limits. Across the street from the guardhouse, or hut, was the office, Sergeant Daily, a buck sergeant, kind of a foremen type sergeant, was packing some items in his little van and saying his goodbyes to Sergeant First Class Chamblee, he was the main man, the boss man. He was sitting giving instruction to the Corporal Hanson; I was a Private First Class (Chick Evens). Hanson stood up pushed his chair away from the wall; Hanson and I were best of friends, and Hanson was best of friends with Chamblee, no one really liked the Buck Sergeant. He had pushed his chair back to say goodbye for the evening to both Sergeants.
Corporal Hanson was tall, thin, dark-messy short hair, fat lips, sad looking eyes, hands always trembling, afraid of the boss man. Sergeant First Class Chamblee was even taller than Hanson by an inch or two, a father image, or so he tried to display, dumber than a duck with one leg, but kind and understanding. And Hanson could have been his genetic son. The Buck Sergeant, was short, thin a good looking chap, clever, and always thinking of a way how to pull the wool over your eyes. He was the only one married of us four soldiers.
Sergeant Chamblee, carried a bible in his pocket at all times, and if anything was wrong with anyone, he had the treatment for the symptoms in the bible, right there at hand, and could most often, quote what the bible said before he opened the page to man’s down fall, and the reason to one’s dilemma. I for the most part, was always happy, hoping he’d not discover my faults.
I asked him once why he carried the bible around when he had it memorized, and he simply answered: “Private First Class Evens, it is only an aid to my memory, God forbidding, I lose it, and thus far I have not, I would have the aid.”
He tried to talk the talk, if you know what I mean. And was quite sensitive about his book, and his quotes, and his diagnoses; shamefully but true, I was a yes man to him, in fear I’d end up in his hell platoon.
I once did rebuke him by saying, “Sergeant, you really don’t have the credentials to be a minister, do you?”
He told me back, it was one late evening, “Private Evens, I have done everything in my power to take you and Hanson under my wing, you are a member of my special security force, I advise to you, in the name of people you work for, to learn how not to talk to a superior, and not the way you just did, especially when you are drunk.”
As I had stepped further into the office, he smelt my breath, booze and cigarettes reeked out of me. The over-heated radiator made a lot of noise, so he didn’t here me burp, and Corporal Hanson was there and I heard him say, “Sergeant, he’s had a bad time, his girlfriend is two-timing him,” and Hanson put his hand on my shoulder.
“Well why didn’t you say that Private, now I understand,” I then looked at Hanson gave him a little smile, then the Sergeant said in a rough voice, “Gentlemen soldiers,” he said, “here is the affects of extravagance, booze, cigarettes, and women,” looking at me, and I kind of felt he said it with utmost elegance, but nonetheless to shame me.
Anyhow, this night, the green car was still there, and I was waiting for my turkey dinner, and I went to see who it was, and it was to my surprise, Chris Steward, she usually drove a Mercedes around, her other boyfriend’s car. Hanson wasn’t lying per se, Chris did have two lovers, me and a German and she often used his car, but Chris had told me about him—the other boyfriend that is—and him, about me and we agreed on the relationship, she knowing I could go to Vietnam at anytime, be taken out of the 1/36 Artillery at any moment, and be stranded with no boyfriend, god forbid.
“Listen, Chick,” said Chris, “I want to go out and get drunk tonight; I got my car back out of the shop, it was being fixed.”
At 8:15 p.m., we went out to a little guesthouse outside of the city, and guess what, we saw in backroom looking into a movie box, good old Sergeant Chamblee. It was an item you looked into, after putting a coin into its side slot, and wound up, and let it go and as it unwound, it showed you naked women, in funny positions; we have them in Minnesota also.
“Sergeant Chamblee,” I said, “what are you doing looking into that pornography box?”
He turned about slowly, looked at me as if I was a Peeping Tom; Chris was ordering us a table to sit at:
“Private Evens,” he said, “funny seeing you here, it’s expensive,” then he saw Chris coming my way, “oh, I see you made up with your gal, but let me inform you, there’s nothing wrong with me, or this. That’s the way men are supposed to be; nothing wrong at all.”
“It’s wrong,” I remarked, “It’s a sin against cleanliness.”
“No,” said the Sergeant (now Chris standing a few feet away from me.) “It’s a natural thing, and a person should be thankful, you’re much too young to understand of course. But your girlfriend is a few years older than you, I’m sure she understands, right?” he was looking at her now.
“Do what, understand what,” said Chris, and she moved to the table, playing dumb, leaving me with the sergeant.
“There is nothing wrong with looking at a woman’s body,” said the Sergeant “is there?” he asked me.
This all started off as a joke, now it was getting into theology, right and wrongs.
“I’m only looking; I’m not consummating a sinful act against a human being. When you talk so silly, I don’t care to listen to you,” said the sergeant. “Here, come and take a look for yourself,” said the sergeant.
“No,” I said, “I told you it is a sin.”
“But you were kidding, right?”
“I thought I was.”
That was about 10:00 p.m., that evening, before.
“So what happened?” I asked Hanson.
“At four o’clock this morning,” Hanson said, “I received a phone message from our friendly Buck Sergeant, that, Sergeant Chamblee had raped the woman across the hall from his apartment, her husband was out in the field, and he mutilated her with a knife, after doing terrible sexual acts.”
“No,” I said to Corporal Hanson, “it’s a joke.”
“She may die,” he said.
“Die,” I said, “it’s that bad?”
“She lost a lot of blood!”
“He was always so friendly.”
“Well, we mustn’t talk too much about it, lest we get in trouble.”
“Somehow, that was in the back of my mind when I saw him at the guesthouse and he was looking at the phonograph box.” I remarked.
“You’re too damn smart for your own good, be quiet about this. It will all settle itself, all come out in good time, we don’t need to start rumours,” said Hanson, “incidentally, and I ate your turkey dinner it arrived after you left.”
4-3-2009
(A short story in Augsburg, Germany, 1970)
In those—now, far-off days, the winters were different in Augsburg, Germany, than I was used to in St. Paul, Minnesota, but similar in that it was cold in Augsburg, and there was snow on the ground. It might be hard to believe, but believe it nonetheless, because it is true. This one evening it was snowing, and I was inside my guard shack, at the entrance to the Military Compound, called Reese. There was Chris’ car across the street, her 1970 Green Mustang, with the letters on the side of the car CS, for Chris Steward. It at first puzzled me, but it had German license plates on it, and it was on a public street, and we, as American soldiers in Germany, had already handed over that part of the country back to the Germans, for a long time we had jurisdiction over such matters. I walked out of my guard shack to inspect the car from the distance, knowing there was a concern of sabotage to US Military Bases, and I was part of the Military Security Force. It was just prior to Christmas, and the mess hall was having turkey and all the trimmings, and I was to get a dinner sent over to me so I was waiting impatiently. It was about 7:00 p.m. My shift ended at 8:00 p.m. I walked across the street to check out who was in the car, it was a lady, and it looked like my new girlfriend, the one I was dating for a month now.
All around us at our military compound was the city, and its old towers, and busy streets and across a highway was the US Military PX, and opposite that, a guesthouse I often prescribed to. Directly across the street from the guardhouse, were some four story buildings, and next to that was a large empty lot they had German Fests, actually they had them all over the city, all year round it seemed, and in every little town beyond the city limits. Across the street from the guardhouse, or hut, was the office, Sergeant Daily, a buck sergeant, kind of a foremen type sergeant, was packing some items in his little van and saying his goodbyes to Sergeant First Class Chamblee, he was the main man, the boss man. He was sitting giving instruction to the Corporal Hanson; I was a Private First Class (Chick Evens). Hanson stood up pushed his chair away from the wall; Hanson and I were best of friends, and Hanson was best of friends with Chamblee, no one really liked the Buck Sergeant. He had pushed his chair back to say goodbye for the evening to both Sergeants.
Corporal Hanson was tall, thin, dark-messy short hair, fat lips, sad looking eyes, hands always trembling, afraid of the boss man. Sergeant First Class Chamblee was even taller than Hanson by an inch or two, a father image, or so he tried to display, dumber than a duck with one leg, but kind and understanding. And Hanson could have been his genetic son. The Buck Sergeant, was short, thin a good looking chap, clever, and always thinking of a way how to pull the wool over your eyes. He was the only one married of us four soldiers.
Sergeant Chamblee, carried a bible in his pocket at all times, and if anything was wrong with anyone, he had the treatment for the symptoms in the bible, right there at hand, and could most often, quote what the bible said before he opened the page to man’s down fall, and the reason to one’s dilemma. I for the most part, was always happy, hoping he’d not discover my faults.
I asked him once why he carried the bible around when he had it memorized, and he simply answered: “Private First Class Evens, it is only an aid to my memory, God forbidding, I lose it, and thus far I have not, I would have the aid.”
He tried to talk the talk, if you know what I mean. And was quite sensitive about his book, and his quotes, and his diagnoses; shamefully but true, I was a yes man to him, in fear I’d end up in his hell platoon.
I once did rebuke him by saying, “Sergeant, you really don’t have the credentials to be a minister, do you?”
He told me back, it was one late evening, “Private Evens, I have done everything in my power to take you and Hanson under my wing, you are a member of my special security force, I advise to you, in the name of people you work for, to learn how not to talk to a superior, and not the way you just did, especially when you are drunk.”
As I had stepped further into the office, he smelt my breath, booze and cigarettes reeked out of me. The over-heated radiator made a lot of noise, so he didn’t here me burp, and Corporal Hanson was there and I heard him say, “Sergeant, he’s had a bad time, his girlfriend is two-timing him,” and Hanson put his hand on my shoulder.
“Well why didn’t you say that Private, now I understand,” I then looked at Hanson gave him a little smile, then the Sergeant said in a rough voice, “Gentlemen soldiers,” he said, “here is the affects of extravagance, booze, cigarettes, and women,” looking at me, and I kind of felt he said it with utmost elegance, but nonetheless to shame me.
Anyhow, this night, the green car was still there, and I was waiting for my turkey dinner, and I went to see who it was, and it was to my surprise, Chris Steward, she usually drove a Mercedes around, her other boyfriend’s car. Hanson wasn’t lying per se, Chris did have two lovers, me and a German and she often used his car, but Chris had told me about him—the other boyfriend that is—and him, about me and we agreed on the relationship, she knowing I could go to Vietnam at anytime, be taken out of the 1/36 Artillery at any moment, and be stranded with no boyfriend, god forbid.
“Listen, Chick,” said Chris, “I want to go out and get drunk tonight; I got my car back out of the shop, it was being fixed.”
At 8:15 p.m., we went out to a little guesthouse outside of the city, and guess what, we saw in backroom looking into a movie box, good old Sergeant Chamblee. It was an item you looked into, after putting a coin into its side slot, and wound up, and let it go and as it unwound, it showed you naked women, in funny positions; we have them in Minnesota also.
“Sergeant Chamblee,” I said, “what are you doing looking into that pornography box?”
He turned about slowly, looked at me as if I was a Peeping Tom; Chris was ordering us a table to sit at:
“Private Evens,” he said, “funny seeing you here, it’s expensive,” then he saw Chris coming my way, “oh, I see you made up with your gal, but let me inform you, there’s nothing wrong with me, or this. That’s the way men are supposed to be; nothing wrong at all.”
“It’s wrong,” I remarked, “It’s a sin against cleanliness.”
“No,” said the Sergeant (now Chris standing a few feet away from me.) “It’s a natural thing, and a person should be thankful, you’re much too young to understand of course. But your girlfriend is a few years older than you, I’m sure she understands, right?” he was looking at her now.
“Do what, understand what,” said Chris, and she moved to the table, playing dumb, leaving me with the sergeant.
“There is nothing wrong with looking at a woman’s body,” said the Sergeant “is there?” he asked me.
This all started off as a joke, now it was getting into theology, right and wrongs.
“I’m only looking; I’m not consummating a sinful act against a human being. When you talk so silly, I don’t care to listen to you,” said the sergeant. “Here, come and take a look for yourself,” said the sergeant.
“No,” I said, “I told you it is a sin.”
“But you were kidding, right?”
“I thought I was.”
That was about 10:00 p.m., that evening, before.
“So what happened?” I asked Hanson.
“At four o’clock this morning,” Hanson said, “I received a phone message from our friendly Buck Sergeant, that, Sergeant Chamblee had raped the woman across the hall from his apartment, her husband was out in the field, and he mutilated her with a knife, after doing terrible sexual acts.”
“No,” I said to Corporal Hanson, “it’s a joke.”
“She may die,” he said.
“Die,” I said, “it’s that bad?”
“She lost a lot of blood!”
“He was always so friendly.”
“Well, we mustn’t talk too much about it, lest we get in trouble.”
“Somehow, that was in the back of my mind when I saw him at the guesthouse and he was looking at the phonograph box.” I remarked.
“You’re too damn smart for your own good, be quiet about this. It will all settle itself, all come out in good time, we don’t need to start rumours,” said Hanson, “incidentally, and I ate your turkey dinner it arrived after you left.”
4-3-2009
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 11:15 PM
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