Turnbuckle

((A Link used to tighten two parts) (Augsburg, Germany, 1970))


The American—the young soldier—wore no familiar military garb. His cloths were plain, civilian type, western style for the most part—such as a simple plaid shirt, dark trousers seemingly fitted, with shinny easy shoes, the kind the military used when they wore what they called their ‘Dress Greens’. Nonetheless, even without looking at his shoes, he somehow stuck out as not being a German citizen, by two observing American military police, his elbows leaning on the bar. He was not tall, nor short. His face was handsome and strong looking; he was twenty-two years old, from the Midwest of the United States. One of the American military policemen, who faced him could not see his whole body, he was being covered by a portion of the bar—inside a nightclub in Augsburg, Germany (the fall of 1970), that was off-limits to American GI’s. He was quietly drinking, and in contrast with the thin-jawed policeman, short legs, he looked like a masquerading GI. When he asked for another beer, the two German policemen escorting the two American Military MP’s all noticed he spoke fairly well German. But the thin-jawed MP, a Buck Sergeant, with a rose colored face, and greenish eyes, Irish like the young American doing the drinking, unmistakable and skewed in his observations, the Buck Sergeant approached the chap, “What’s your name soldier?” asked the sergeant, to the American. Then after eye contact and a moment of silence, he added, “What’s the trouble—forget your name?”
The sergeant’s companion, the corporal said, “Maybe he’s not an American, and you better let the German police take care of him!”
“I know he is!” said the Sergeant. He spoke lightly, as not to disturbed the people around him. There was no physical stain in the voice of the American when he said in German, he didn’t understand—sounding more helpless than scared.
“We’re American MP’s!” said the Corporal to the American at the bar, and again, the American did not answer.
The German police made an effort then. And when the German police spoke the young American pulled himself together focusing his eyes on all four of them. He swayed a tinge at the bar, and with his right hand he made a salute, with a flickering smile to the MP’s.
“Cheers, what’s the problem?” he said in English.
“You,” the sergeant said.
“Ah, me, what offence is this?” remarked the American GI, whom was only a private; now looking at the German policemen.
“Come with us across the street our lieutenant will want to speak to you?”
Once in the headquarters of the German police station, which shared it with the US Military Police, the private was sat in a chair, and questioned.
“Oh,” said the lieutenant quite angered, “you portray to be a German citizen, when you are an American Soldier (the Captain of the German police had received a phone during the questioning of the private, in the same room).”
“Ah,” said the private, “I see.” But he was half drunk, and it was clear he didn’t see, and didn’t believe what he was hearing, because it sounded like he was a traitor to his own country, if not embarrassed of it. For him he just wanted a drink and good time, and seemed to have been simply waiting for someone.
“I’m not sure about you private,” the lieutenant said. “Maybe your kind doesn’t care what they say to get a drink, but I’ve fought for America, in Vietnam, and you may have to someday.”
The German Captain said something to the lieutenant in German, something about the young soldier waiting for his rich girlfriend—German Jew, and in the process was arrested, and maybe the lieutenant could make an exception, because she could cause waves. The lieutenant didn’t like the German Police interfering, but he didn’t want to create or cause any friction, especially outside of the precinct, the police zone that the Captain was in charge of, lest he get not assistance thereafter.
“You seem to be an average intellect soldier, with perhaps extraordinary courage, this perhaps can compensate for your stupid act of denying your heritage, for want of this fact; but in any other case similar to this, the result would be heavier, so I will call it an underprovided misunderstanding, and let it go as that. But many of my friends have died for that American flag you march under, don’t ever deny it again. And whoever your friend is, let her know, we’ve been lenient.”
Again the private tried to pull himself together; he had been quiet for the most part, cheerfully quiet, and courteous. And you could say a bit confounded on what was actually taking place.
“There’s a car, green car waiting outside the station!” the Sergeant that brought in the private said savagely to him.
“What’s that?” the private asked. Then the Sergeant saluted the lieutenant, said as the private was swaying, as he stood up, “a green car sir, is waiting for the private, the Captain is talking to the lady inside the car!”
“Likely about nothing,” said the lieutenant still a little annoyed, but knowing it was more than that. The other German police officer, the one standing in the same room, also a lieutenant, said with a little resistance, “He wouldn’t call it anything!” The American MP Lieutenant forgetting the Captain’s lieutenant understood English as well as he understood German.
“What’s going on here?” asked the American lieutenant.
“You’re talking about one of our German Police Officers, one who takes pride in his job and country—like you my friend.” The American lieutenant paused for a moment, perhaps thinking, (his knees crossed), as if he was arguing with himself about whether he ought to get up from his pontiff chair or not.


No: 461 (9-6-2009)