CARD PLAYING AND TOILET TRAINING, COLD WAR STYLE
Oct 25 '02 (Updated Oct 31 '02)
The Bottom Line Sometimes even the simplest acts, ain't.
I recently noticed a series of posters going up around the gerbil factory, er excuse me office, where I toil on a daily basis. They're advertising a Euchre Tournament in support of the United Way. Now a quick aside here about the United Way. Once a year an we all find ourselves involved in the fund raising efforts for it over a period of several months. Now there is nothing wrong with this, and I'm sure that it's a fine and worthy cause.
Where I work though it is the favoured charity of our employers and political masters. Therefore fund raising efforts often approach a fanatical, nay zealot like, fervour around here. About this time every year one is bombarded with "e", voice, and plain old fashioned ordinary mail exhorting one to donate more and more and in many exotic manners.
Whole career paths have been decided by one's willingness to participate or not. That includes several promotions I'm aware of. Little minor things like skill and ability to do the job being of course irrelevant.
Any ways back to Euchre. I've been approached more than once to partake of this tourney and the noble cause it supports. I'm sure that my being singled out for such attention goes above and beyond the normal zealot like behaviour.
You see there is some connection between Euchre and those from Atlantic Canada. There is also some connection between Euchre and the military, particularly combat arms types. Naturally I fall into both those categories, ex military type and East Coaster.
I won't go into the connection between Atlantic Canadians and the military, who make up a disproportionate number of those in uniform. It obviously has something to do with the high normal rates of unemployment and general lack of careers choices available in that region.
For my part though I steadfastly refuse to join the tournament. In fact let it be known that I hate Euchre. In fact I've never even learned how to play the damn game, and have no intention of ever learning. In fact if the truth be known, Euchre was responsible for my almost becoming one of the few fatal casualties of the Cold War.
It was the in the Autumn of 1980 and I was based in Germany as part of the 4 CMBG (Canadian Mechanised Brigade Group) our somewhat under strength, under equipped, and under funded contribution to NATO. We were participating in the annual REFORGER field exercises.
Basically the purpose of this exercise was to practise how fast the thousands of American, British, Canadian troops, ok thousands of American and British, dozens of Canadian, could be moved to Germany to reinforce the forces already there in the event of a Soviet incursion. Hence the nifty name REFORGER, Return (of) Forces (to) Germany. The fact that we'd probably arrive just in time to be greeted by the Russians as they overran all of our bases, or more likely watched them all go up in a radioactive haze was of course irrelevant to the brass hatted morons who dreamed it all up.
While there we then amused ourselves by tearing all over the West German countryside like the bunch of over aged kids we were. This while the people nominally in charge amused themselves with lots of pretty maps, coloured crayons, and the belief they were actually in control of things. Of course we all tore around in large armoured vehicles which really improved things as it was harvest time.
Surprisingly this did not seriously tick off the locals. They of course were used to the sight of foreign armies running over the countryside after a couple of centuries of it. That is when their own armies weren't doing likewise to the rest of the continent.
In addition each large armoured column irrespective of nationality was followed around by a officer or two in a small jeep. Said officers were armed with large cheque books with which they issued compensation cheques with gleeful abandon after we'd torn apart some poor farmers years worth of hard labour and toil. There's your tax dollars at work.
In fact a particularly good and enterprising Burgher could even turn a bit of a profit if he played his cards right. Compensation was paid on the total value of the crop in the field in question, no matter how much was in fact destroyed. We of course tried, honest, to limit the damage we were doing. Hey the farmers had shotguns and pitchforks.
The farmer was then free to sell off any of the crop that wasn't damaged and which in fact he had already been paid for. With a bit of luck Franz or Helmut could replace last years BMW in the driveway with the latest model.
One evening in the middle of this exercise the mechanised infantry company of which I was a part of found ourselves just shy of a small German village. Sometime the next day we would probably get orders to "attack" said village, but for now we were due for a few hours off while the various Generals brought their maps up to date. Besides we were under orders not to fire off weapons or make other noises in such close proximity to towns and villages, especially at night. We could destroy their crops, but God forbid we disturb their beauty sleep.
Our company was arranged in a Laager. While this may sound like a refreshing local beverage, it is actually a well thought out night time defensive position. Actually it's really the modern equivalent of putting the wagons in a circle in case the Indians attack.
In the centre of this were our supply vehicles which were in the process of topping up the various fighting vehicles with fuel, ammunition, toilet paper, and other essentials. Anyone not engaged in this work or actually watching for the "enemy" was otherwise considered off duty for a few hours, myself included.
My vehicle and the other occupants, my section mates, decided to use this time to host the travelling Euchre game which was moving around the company. Soon the already cramped interior of our M-113 Armoured Personnel Carrier (armoured in the sense that it was a twenty year old obsolete box on tracks made of highly flammable magnesium and aluminium), was soon host to the best or at least most dedicated card players in the company.
Naturally their was not enough room for everyone. As I was not participating and had made that quite clear, I volunteered to go elsewhere. Actually it was more along the lines of "Corporal Smith either play friggin cards or get the f*ck out of the track will ya!" As this was from my Sergeant, I considered it a lawful order and complied.
Now there ain't too many places you can go in the middle of a night time Laager. Basically it was a small field ,or what used to be a field before a couple of dozen armoured vehicles decided to park in it. Now it was basically a clearing full of ankle or knee deep clinging mud.
I settled on the most comfortable place I could find, the roof of our carrier or track. I wedged myself in between the stores and tarps we had tied there and the heavy machine gun mount and relaxed. It was a bit chilly but I'd brought my sleeping bag, knowing I'd be there for some time if not the whole night. Those card games had a tendency to go on, and on. It was too dark to read, but not to worry soon I had plenty of entertainment.
The village it appeared was garrisoned by some West German troops who were acting as our enemy. Included among them was a small unit of tanks. In the field next to us was by coincidence a unit of Canadian tanks. In an ironic coincidence the Canadian tanks were the same type as the German ones. That is both German made Leopard 1 Main Battle Tanks.
While actually they were the cheaper older version. Canada is/was like the poor cousin in NATO who always gets the older kids hand me downs and used toys. Remember the twenty year old boxes we were driving around in.
The Canadian tank commander had obviously misplaced the memo about making noise at night in close proximity of locals. Either that or he just didn't care. Within minutes of my nestling into my perch, both tank units were engaged in a very realistic and very loud mock battle.
I yelled down to the card players to see if we were going to get involved in this and was assured that nothing had changed and that I was to "shaddup unless I was gonna play some cards eh." Taking this as confirmation that we were still off duty I resumed watching the show.
The tanks like our rifles had blank ammunition to simulate combat. The difference was of course that while our rifles sounded only slightly louder than the cap guns we'd used as kids, their blanks were really, really loud. They also created nice brilliant flashes. In addition both sides were using their large searchlights to seek out targets.
All this made me consider for a minute incurring the wrath of those below while I crawled down and rooted around for my camera. Of course I never realised that this light show totally ruined my night vision for the next little while. That would have rather grave consequences in few short minutes.
Totally engrossed in the live and free entertainment in front of me, I was brought back to reality by a sudden realisation. Yup it was that time of the day again. It was probably the Second World War surplus American rations we were eating, but I had to go to the bathroom, and rather badly.
Now anyone with military service behind them is well aware that this otherwise normal everyday activity can take on a whole new dimension when in uniform and in the field. Normally on exercise, latrines are constructed and/or at least in politically and environmentally correct Canada, port a potties are set up. This was not the case here. We were moving too fast and stopping too infrequently to do so. Besides we had already developed a much superior alternative.
As the entire exercise area was basically all of West Germany, including various towns and villages, we had plenty of places to conduct this rather personal task. Normally we would find ourselves either in or in close proximity to a town, village or at the least a farm house several times a day. The old timers, veterans of many such exercises soon pointed out that the locals for the most part had no problem with sharing their facilities. We were after all there defending their homeland, way of life and all that. We were also as I noted helping them pay for the new family ride.
One just strolled up to the outhouse and provided it was not occupied, then help yourself. For those of us really lucky there was the opportunity to use an indoor one now and then. One you could actually sit on and flush.
The drill here was to knock politely and then ask the House Frau. Even for those who had yet to master this most simple phrase in German, sign language was usually enough. Some of the nicer ones even left the back door open at night with a sign telling us to go right in, and sometimes even a night light left on just to help out. Such hospitality I tell you is just not seen everywhere these days.
Of course we did pay for this privilege. Once again those hoary veterans of many an autumn's drunken road trip, er excuse me military exercise, were a wealth of information. The drill was to leave a small token of appreciation for this most basic example of NATO co-operation. This was a roll of Canadian Government standard issue toilet paper. Now trust me anyone who saw or worse yet had to use the sandpaper that passed for toilet paper in Bavaria circa 1980, would understand that this was more than a fair trade for a few moments of porcelain bliss.
Of course this only applied to sit down jobs you understand. We were after all men. Stand up jobs, well they could be done just about anywhere and anytime, and in fact were.
Unfortunately much as it appealed to me, this time honoured tradition was not available to me this night. The town while visible was a little too far away. I really didn't have much time left. Even if I had I couldn't see a night light welcoming me.
Besides there was always the "fishing incident" to remember. A week early another company in our battalion, had stopped for a few hours in the early afternoon. It was a nice sunny afternoon and a Reserve junior officer attached to that company had wandered off. He'd found a small brook and decided to pass a couple of hours fishing.
Naturally he never told anyone where he was going, and naturally he dozed off in the nice warm sunny meadow. When he woke up a couple of hours later he had the shock of discovering that his platoon and in fact the whole company was gone. They were in fact several hundred kilometres away.
To add to his misfortune he had to beg a ride with some helpful if bemused West German military police back to his unit. After enduring their good natured ribbing, he was delivered to our Commanding Officer who was less than good natured over the whole event.
He was at present occupied with every lousy job and duty that became available while the CO decided on just what was going to be done with him. I was certain that although he may have appreciated a Corporal assistant it was not a job I desired. Therefore there could be no nocturnal repeat of this incident. I therefore opted for Plan "B."
This involved finding a convenient but secluded spot and digging a hole big enough to do my business and then get back to my comfortable perch. That's not really as easy as it sounds. I was in the middle of a muddy morass surrounded by a couple of dozen vehicles and 150 other men.
I grabbed a shovel, and a roll of TP from the storage bin and hopped of the track. I also grabbed my rifle, helmet, equipment harness, gas mask, and a small rucksack containing my NBCD (Nuclear Biological Chemical Defence) suit. This was a one piece thick overall designed to protect one from, you guessed it biological, chemical, and nuclear threats. The last one being in my humble opinion, rather optimistic.
These last two items were of course essential. With my luck the damn Soviets would choose that very moment to break a 35 year cease fire and launch a chemical or nuclear attack on Mrs. Smith's favourite son the minute he dropped trou.
Overburdened I stumbled across the field and out of the Laager. At the edge of the next field I carefully laid down the rucksack on the ground and my rifle and other equipment on top of it. Then I quickly scooped out a shallow hole. Because my night vision was totally shot, I really didn't pay too close attention to my surroundings. Particularly what was in the next field over.
Turning, I unbuckled my pants and squatted over the hole. The trick is to use the shovel handle to hang onto for support. One really doesn't want to tumble over at this point. Especially after you've started. After that it's a simple matter of making sure your pants are out of the line of fire and getting it over with as quickly as possible.
The location was not too bad. I could still see the village and most of the tank battle. That was a good thing as I had no magazine with me. Hey what can I say, I'm a guy and we're all multi task oriented in the bathroom. Not that I could have read it anyway without a light. Besides my hands were full.
About this time I noticed the tank battle was petering out. Actually it appeared that the defending Germans had pulled out of the village. In fact I soon realised that they had probably left after the first shot. For the last ten minutes the Canadians had in fact been expending a years worth of blank ammunition at what they thought were tank searchlights. They actually had been shooting at the streetlights of the village.
I'm sure the budding Guderian wanna be who commanded the Germans was at that moment several miles away. He was tucked up in a local Gausthoff down the road with his men and laughing about the quick one they'd pulled off on the dumb Canucks over a flagon of fine ale or two, or six.
Unfortunately for me though, a few seconds after I figured it out, so did someone else. The tank company commander, well actually squadron commander, tankers have this Cavalry delusion, realised that "a" the enemy were gone and "b" he'd just been made a fool of.
In that burst of enthusiasm and good sense that assured me he's soon be a General and have his own collection of pretty maps and crayons to play with, he acted. He immediately ordered his unit to charge forward and outflank the village and pursue the departed Germans. Obviously he was intent on catching up with them and stealing their flagons full of adult beverages before they were emptied.
Unfortunately the quickest route the tanks could take was through a certain field. It just happened to be the same field that I was until recently the solitary occupant of. Within seconds I found myself sharing it. I also soon realised that my mother's old adage of always wear clean underwear in case you're hit by a car was in fact totally pointless.
I realised I had two options. The first was to stay still and hope that the dozen careening tanks coming towards me would either see me and avoid me, or just miss anyway. I was after all a rather small target huddled there and trying to get even smaller.
The other one was to run for it, following the old military maxim that a moving target is harder to hit. I opted for this one after only a moments thought. I realised that I really didn't want my parents getting a telegram explaining how I'd been killed on exercise, complete with details on how my body had been found with a tank track mark on my back and my pants around my ankles.
Besides with my luck the amateur fisherman would be the one to conduct the investigation, and I really didn't trust his judgement. I had started to move before realising that particular maxim about moving targets wasn't really meant to apply to enraged tank drivers and half naked Infantrymen.
First though I had to finish the job at hand. This wasn't as easy as one would think. I was literally scared.… well you know the rest.
Eventually I finished and decided to forgo the paperwork just this once. I quickly grabbed my stuff and began a hasty retreat for the tree line. Now for those of you into extreme sports and such who find that bungee jumping naked from a low flying crop duster just doesn't do it for you anymore, I have a suggestion.
To really get the old adrenaline pumping try blindly running through a muddy ploughed field dodging fifty ton tanks whizzing past you at thirty miles per hour in the dark. For added enjoyment try carrying a shovel, roll of TP, rifle, rucksack, and other assorted articles in one hand while the other tries to keep your trousers from falling below your knees.
I did make it relatively unscathed. The roll of TP did not though I'm sad to report. After composing myself, well almost, I quickly returned to my little armoured box and home and away from home eager to share my experiences with friends and fellow warriors.
My repeated banging on the hatch and terrified cries of "let me in" were eventually met with the sympathetic response I was yearning for. The hatch was flung open and a head thrust itself out of the cloud of ever present cigarette smoke. It was my beloved Sergeant and sometimes card shark.
"Smith stop making so much racket you're disturbing the friggin game eh." This was of course followed by. "So ya gonna play a couple of hands? No! Well then shaddap and get back on the roof."
At that gentle reader is why to this very day I refuse to play Euchre.
This little trip down memory lane is my own pathetic contribution to the Granniemose Birthday Bash Write Off, sponsored by Artbyjude in honour of one of Epinions most loveable characters and her 80th Birtday. I can't think of a better way to mark an eleven week hiatus away from the site then to be invited to participate. For a full list of all participants and a link to their contributions please vist Jude's page.
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Member: James Smith
Location: Toronto Ontario CANADA
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