"Carols over The Wall"

                                    "Carols over The Wall"


    As a former "Army Brat" and a veteran who's spent time far away from home in a combat-zone, I feel a certain kinship with those who now serve. To quote a fellow author; "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times", the worst was missing home and not knowing when, or if I would get back to "The World", the best was the camaraderie we shared in situations that would try anyone's soul. Here is my recollection of "A Christmas Past"; one of "the best of times".
    It was the winter of 1977, one of the coldest I could remember. I was twenty-one and as sure of myself as any brash youngman could be. Life hadn't taught me those valuable lessons of humility that no one could give you, the ones you must learn the hard way; through pain and experience. I was a newly-wed and a new parent. I had just brought my bride and baby over to Germany to spend my last year of service with me. She had never left her hometown, never flown in a plane. Now she was in a foreign country with a new husband and a brand-new baby.
    I was part of a military intelligence unit whose job it was to monitor The East German Border, The Cold War was still in full swing and we had an important mission. Normally we of The GSR (Ground Surveillance Reconnaissance) Unit would rotate out every month. With three Squadrons in the unit that meant our squad would only have to be on The Border once every three months. But as fate would have it, our squad's number came up the month of December; Christmas on The East German Border.
    The morning our convoy pulled-out was one of those dreary overcast bone-chilling daybreaks that winter in Germany was infamous for. The sky was the color of molten lead and hanging as low and as heavy as its appearance. I can still remember the faces of the families coming out to see us off. They all wore that same look, a look I'd seen so many times before, that cross between forced gaiety and hopeless chagrin. At that moment my heart broke not only for myself, but for my squad and those we were leaving behind. Yet at the same time I felt a special strength enter me. I knew that I was not alone in my misery. Every member of my squad was feeling the same departure anxiety I was feeling. I knew that together we would find the strength to make the best out of a bad situation. We'd been through worse, and it was the strength of "the squad" that always brought us through. It would again this time.
    We were loaded aboard our designated vehicle of choice; the all purpose deuce and a quarter. Two and a quarter tons of steel flatbed truck with an olive-drab canvas canopy to cut the wind. For the next hundred and fifty kilometers we huddled together in the back of what seemed to be a transport without a suspension system. We felt every bump and pothole the long road had to offer. And with every jar and every turn of the truck, the bitter winter wind found its way beneath our layered clothing to nip and bite at our exposed skin, thus making a miserable situation a bit worse. The best part of that trip was its end.
    By the time we arrived at Camp Lee, disembarked, got ourselves situated in our barracks and ate; it was time to bed down for the night. The next morning we would head out for The border.
    The morning began with a "handicap black" briefing. This was the meeting in which we were issued our radio call signs and the codes for the day. As was par for the course the final thing you are told before every tour of duty on The Border was not to create an "international incident", as though we were going to rush right out and do something stupid so that History would record that it was us who started World War Three. We didn't think so. Not if we could help it.
    The Border observation post itself was little more than a flat-top stone bunker embedded on the side of a hill. The perimeter was surrounded by a barbed-wire barricade and camouflage webbing covered everything. The days went by and we rotated on and off observation; one team of four actually on site while the rest of the squad garrisoned back at Camp Lee where it was warm and decked-out in all the trimmings of The Season.
    The luck of the draw was against us that year and three other unlucky fellows and I found ourselves on site Christmas Eve. There were plenty of Holiday rations, marmites filled with turkey, ham and all the fixings. (No festive libations; one must keep a clear head on The Border.) and even though there was plenty of food and non-alcoholic beverages, we all were careful of how much we ate. Overeating led to napping and napping could lead to that "international incident"; GSR asleep at their post when The Communists made their move. Besides, the snow was piling-up and the nearest restroom was an outhouse located outside of the barbed-wire barricade in the land of nocturnal predators.
      We certainly must have been a sorry sight, four lads thoroughly immersed within our own personal pools of self-pity. There was Moynihan; a redheaded blue-blood from Boston, Butch Rodgers; a cowboy from Oklahoma, Terrell Ching; a student of Zen from California, and me; a brown boy from Bama.
      To entertain ourselves we engaged in that age-old military tradition of lying about what we would be doing if we were home. We spoke of the food we would be eating and the parties we would be attending, of the fine rides we'd be turning corners in and the babes we'd have on our arms. When Terrell talked about his grandmother's Bird's Nest Soup, I could just about taste my father's Collard Greens. And when Moynihan drooled over the memory of the savory aroma of his aunt's New Brunswick's Stew, I smelled the cornbread baking in my mother's oven. If The Army had taught me anything, it had taught me that America was indeed a "melting pot", a pot with many different seasonings and aromas, but the stew itself was all Americana. We all shared a common stock, a foundation upon which we stood; freedom. The more we talked, it seemed the sadder we got. Suddenly there was a lapse in the conversation and we all grew quiet. One by one I looked at the faces of my companions and someway, somehow, as our eyes met we all knew we were thinking about the same thing; "the man and the woman".
      On our last rotation to the site we had witnessed a Border Violation, a man and a woman making their bid for freedom; an attempt that was successful for only one of them.
      It had been near dusk when we first spotted them. The twilight time was often the time used to make a run for The Border. There was just enough light to navigate the dog-lines and the minefields. Contrary to the image seen frequently in movies of imposing walls and barbed-wire fences, the actual Border itself is mostly symbolic, a few stone markers designating the imaginary line. The hard part of getting past the primary obstacles is behind you once you get to the true Border. This is not to say that it is a cakewalk, for there's still the ten-foot vehicular ditch, the dog-lines, and the minefields to get past. The ditch had been their undoing.
      The days prior to the attempt had been days of planetary confusion. The world wasn't sure whether it wanted to issue forth rain or snow. Sleet and slush was the result of this terrestrial indecision.
      We could see them as they approached the far side of the ditch; running full speed for their lives. We could not help but root with all our hearts for them, but we knew that we were forbidden to offer any physical assistance until they were well on our side of The Border. This was always one of the points emphatically stressed in "handicap black" briefings. The reasoning's behind this rule was not only political in nature, but also practical. There was a real and present danger of floating landmines the nearer one got to The Border.
      We watched through our field-glasses as they crossed the quagmire that was the bottom of the ditch. It was obvious that they were on their last legs. As they attempted to scale the near bank of the ditch, the woman's legs gave way and she fell. She had reached the limit of her endurance. Halfway up the side of the muddy incline the man stopped and looked back at her; she waved him on. We could see The Robars (Soviet counterparts of our jeeps) coming in the distance and we knew that the dogs wouldn't be far behind; a fact we were sure they were also aware of. For a moment that seemed frozen in time the man just stood there. The woman repeated her wave of goodbye or acceptance, perhaps a bit of both. The man continued up the slope and disappeared into the woodland. It was the last we saw of him.
      There wasn't a dry eye in the bunker at that moment. What relationship the pair had shared, husband and wife, sister and brother, mother and son, or just comrades in their quest for freedom; we didn't know. The acts of courage on both of their parts had moved us all.
      With that memory in our minds, on that Christmas Eve, sitting in that lonely shack; we all shared a single epiphany. While we were bemoaning our lot in life, the absence of a few of the luxuries and conveniences that we had grown accustomed to as Americans, all those two wanted for Christmas was something that we took for granted everyday of our lives; freedom. At that moment we knew the real reason we were in that shack so far from home and family on a Christmas Eve, and it had little to do with our Government or Its policies. It had to do with us as a people; a free people. We were there to represent our mothers, who had raised us right, our brothers and sisters who we must set the example for, our fathers whose loins we had sprung from, and last but not least our forefathers, the ones who had stood on battlefields before us. We were there to stand for the most important concept the world had to offer; freedom. One by one we walked out into the frigid winter night, stood on the edge of our perimeter, faced East Germany and sang every Christmas Carol we knew. We sung loud and proud to the people of Communist Germany, for it was Christmas for them too. Nothing manmade could change that.

                                                      "A Voice"