Découvrez votre prochain livre préféré

Devenez membre aujourd'hui et lisez gratuitement pendant 30 jours
Life In The World Wind

Life In The World Wind

Lire l'aperçu

Life In The World Wind

Longueur:
424 pages
6 heures
Sortie:
Nov 13, 2020
ISBN:
9781643505633
Format:
Livre

Description

There was a ringing in my dream, a ringing in my sleep. The phone yelled for me to wake up. I thought the ringing was my head. On some uncountable reverberation of a caterwauling, chalkboard-enhancing echo, I attempted to seize my tormentor. I failed, knocking the phone off its cradle. Sitting nearby, the phone made a sound like a human voice. "Hello." I had my doubts of it actually being a human since I have a higher opinion of the basic goodness of man than to believe a being would deliver s

Sortie:
Nov 13, 2020
ISBN:
9781643505633
Format:
Livre

À propos de l'auteur


Lié à Life In The World Wind

Livres associé
Articles associés

Catégories liées

Aperçu du livre

Life In The World Wind - Lewis A. Haeflinger

Prayer

I

Welcome to Germany

It was the early fall of 1989. The economy foretold the waning days of the Warsaw Pact. Depression in the Communist Bloc stood out even as the West enjoyed prosperity. The Soviet Union was still strong, but its grip and influence faltered. Mikhail Gorbachev was opening the long, cold silence. The cold war lay dying from a mortal economic blow. The USSR was broke, and its people were tired.

Freedom cried to emerge from the viselike grip of oppression. Germany wanted to be one, not a disjointed two. Each was occupied by foreign troops, though the people welcomed only one. West Germans wanted the security NATO and the United States provided, not to mention the dollar and spending influence that came along. The East German government tolerated the Iron Curtain in order to hold onto its slipping power.

The United States still had a full complement of soldiers guarding the security of the West and all the NATO powers. As such, America needed servicemen and women to man the walls, the bastion of freedom. The call was out for volunteers to be all they could be, see the world, and earn pennies a day. We were the first line of defense, and it was my turn to man the wall.

I was just a mutt, a smart pup, a face in the sea of humanity. To my way of thinking, I was the pride of South Carolina, the heart and soul, a Gamecock. I had the world by the short hairs. The world was my pitless cherry. Young, smart, and invincible—that’s how youth feels when first released into the wilds. Looking back, I was really none of the above, yet maybe a little touch of each.

I was a carefree pawn, knowing mostly fun and ignoring the big picture. I craved adventure and revered exploration and discovery. I was the cat with all its curiosity and maybe more than a few of its lives.

I suppose I was a cross between Gomer Pyle and GI Joe. I was neither as totally goofy as Gomer nor as gung-ho as Joe. I was an American serviceman going to my permanent duty station for the first time since joining up in January of 1988. One and a half years of training is a lot to finally head to work. Most jobs train for a few weeks and then give benefits after they decide to keep you after six months. The Army gives benefits immediately but trains at leisure over the whole career until called upon.

I had been to Europe before but never to live and never in the military. I had been a touring exchange student, knowing only parties and fun and maybe just a little learning—partying all night in some new old city and sleeping away some of the bus trips to the new experience around the bind. The bus trips were blurs; I was wondering idly where we were headed next and who hoarded the aspirin. As such, I wasn’t exactly a stranger to traveling the semi-friendly skies.

I’ll start at the beginning of the trip. Actually, I’ll start on the night before I left for Germany, formally the Federal Republic of Germany . . . West Germany to all novices and ne’er-do-wells like myself. I think it best to establish a straightforward look at my easygoing spirit by describing my trip to Atlanta to catch my flight and the small hiccup I released at the dinner table. Don’t worry. My record has been expunged . . .

I was visiting home for a few days to say my goodbyes. My cousin, Susan, came to dinner to introduce her boyfriend to the family. They were graduating college, and he was heading to accept a commission in the Army. I suppose she had plans, but the plans seemed contingent on him.

All afternoon, the attendees were all atwitter, except maybe the boyfriend. He was not part of the subtext. He was the object of the controversy.

Will he or won’t he? My mother preened with anticipation.

This is so exciting! my sister chimed in.

Will he or won’t he what? I asked, already regretting the question.

Ask for her hand in marriage. Mom rolled her eyes that I would have to ask.

I never understood that expression. Why ask for the hand when you’re apt to get all or nothing? Go for the gusto. How about asking for her foot? It’s at least as big a part of her as her blessed hand.

Well, anyway this series of dribble went on until the couple arrived and the introduction ensued. Empty twitter . . . yada dada . . . yoga boogie . . . you know, the fluff and dribble.

We sat down to dinner, and all got quiet. Everyone looked around, and the pregnant pause extended. I saw all the cow eyes and lost my patience and almost my lunch. Something had to be done. I saw my duty, and I acted.

So, buddy. What’s the deal? Are you marrying her or what?

A total hush fell, followed by a gasp and then nervous laughter. Everyone wanted the answer but dared not ask the question. Now that it was out in the open, though, they nodded in unison expecting an answer.

I would always hear the old I cannot believe you said that! What nerve. Yes, I heard all righteous indignation and bug-tussle. What a pain. I didn’t wield a shotgun, chill. But say what you will—they left happy and engaged. You’re welcome.

At least now they might not miss me quite so much.

The next morning, duffel bag in hand, I jumped in the back of my brother’s pickup truck. His girlfriend called shotgun, and I wasn’t about to argue. They were dropping me off on the way home to Montgomery, Alabama. I just needed the ride to catch the flight and start my new life. The wind whipped me the entire two plus hours to the Atlanta airport. My hair was short enough to fail to beat me to death. When we arrived, I was wind-burned and ragged, but at least I was there on time.

Atlanta airport was clinical and dull. Nothing but the business of putting me on a plane for parts unknown or, rather, not yet known.

The airport was an overflowing blob with people spewing forth toward—or regurgitating from—everywhere. I’m sure someone traveling from Amsterdam to Zimbabwe would have to change planes here. Frankfurt was a hub to the other spokes. When a German died, he had to pass through Frankfurt to get to the Pearly Gates. Of course that assumes his direction, but it probably works the other way as well. Boy, I hoped I would take the right flight. No pearliness or damnation yet for me.

Planes took off and landed at the international turmoil in some level of order. The skies under the iron fist of Fatherland efficiency. I picture constant communication with the control tower. Stressed guys with glasses and pocket protectors tell the planes when to go and where to get off. That’s how I pictured the scene in the tower. Of course, I also add Colonel Klink with a swagger stick and monocle. As Sergeant Schultz said, I know nothing. What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic.

Alit and deplaned, I survived another trip in the skies. No terrorists, babies, or even an erotic fantasy about a stewardess having me join the mile-high club. The stewardess adventure was the only one I regret having missed. Some sultry yearnings are just plain more welcoming than terrorists or even babies. The mile-high club might very well be the cause of an eventual baby or two.

I arrived in Frankfurt to a quiet reception of German security wielding submachine guns in an indifferent manner. I’m sure in third-world countries, people yawn at an Uzi, but they are a rarity to a suburban kid. I’ll admit I took a stare or two. Ogling can be good for the soul.

Security was a show arranged by politicians to appear concerned for people in general. I could see the political campaign posters, blue border with red and white interspersed on a streaming banner.

Look how we protect against terrorism!

Reelect us! We care.

We care? Yeah, the politician cares the world over. All are the same, whether they profess divinity for rule or Mom’s apple pie. He cares about his reelection. He cares about his power and his pocket. Can we pass yet another raise? No one will notice. People were too busy traveling and spending. As you can tell, I am such a fan of the political man. Yee-hah! Elect them all, and let God sort them out.

The stated reason for security was smuggling at the end of the eighties. I never really agreed with the total effort to sniff out the drugs and thought it a waste to concern with Cuban Cigars and rum. Concerns of smuggling are but a gnat’s penis compared to the problems of the world.

Exclamations of discontent were rarely the detonation of a bomb or the staging of a skyjacking. The weapons-grade airline was still an untapped market. Only token concern existed for Abdul the plane diverter and next to no thought that he would succeed in blowing himself or anyone else to bits. Chuck Norris and friends always won the day. This was even earlier than Yippee ki yay, Mother bleeped! Don’t you know?

Bombs and such made the pulse quiver only when you traveled near the Middle East. That is puzzling. I never understood how terrorists were only expected to take direct flights.

I will mention while I’m on the subject, whatever happened to writing a letter to your congressman? Doesn’t he work for us? Shouldn’t he get canned if we blow up? I know what you’re thinking, Congress has women too. Then can her as well.

Alas, there was no boom or high-pitched wail. Maybe I would experience the fun next time . . .

Long concourse walkways dominated the airport. The walkways plainly hinted at the correct direction, but that wasn’t good enough. Every few feet, signs instructed the passengers to stay the course. Please don’t ask for answers from local personnel. You probably couldn’t find airport employees anyway.

Being a somewhat normal American male, I would not ask directions even if the signs were all in Swahili. I merely strolled in the general direction of what I thought might be baggage claim. My aim was to retrieve my bags and traverse the obstacle course known as customs. My main goal was to keep my skivvies intact.

Wandering through the airport in Frankfurt is not so different than any other major jetport or bus terminal for that matter. The main difference is the variety of languages heard and read throughout the walkways. Each sign must be translated to the top three or four languages apt to be spoken by the various passengers traveling to and through the international city.

Customs was generally a joke until one day, someone realized that you could actually use luggage to ship different valuables from place to place with relative ease. Ten to twenty years later, the government figured it out also. Then the smuggling fad for drugs slipped into the worry for bombs. Though why someone would take a bomb on a plane only to remove it and try to pass through customs is a mystery to me.

Do you have anything to declare? The official seemed well-constipated in tone and demeanor. Same effusion, different day.

I glad I arrived alive? I couldn’t resist and hoped it was the socially correct response he required.

Move along. The blank look told me I had another fan.

I made my way to the military reception area, which was located with the USO. The woman at the USO gave out free donuts and said that the next bus to the processing station wouldn’t be along for a few hours. How long do they expect it to take to eat a donut? It would not take long even if the hole was filled. At least they had magazines, pool tables, and television when the donuts gave up the ghost and passed on to the next realm for processing.

After the flight, I was less than excited about another long wait. I was, however, used to the Army way. To hell with Be all that you can be or An Army of one; Hurry up and wait should be the motto of the Army. We did more waiting before 6:00 a.m. than anyone else did all day.

I shot pool and the breeze with the guys who were also heading to the in-processing station. My friend from language school, Debra, declined to take part. Her forte more matched bowling. She wasn’t much for shooting pool. She was even too tired to shoot the breeze, though I never thought breeze shooting was especially taxing. She sat and stressed about the future. Leave it to her to worry about the beyond-your-control realm. Each of us passed the hours of jollies in preferred means.

Finally, the bus picked arrived. I was all set until the driver went for a break and to await a flight had not yet touched down. The extended wait finally ended, and off we went to the Rheine Main Air Force Base. Oddly enough, they were connected.

Yes, there were military transports, but we flew commercial. I didn’t know I was fortunate. I would learn to praise the commercial later.

The airbase operated as a distribution center. All the soldiers came there first. The distributors then assigned and shipped troops to units located throughout Germany as well as other parts of Europe.

I had no idea where I would be stationed. My orders went no further than the reception station at Rhein Main. The Army had the perverse desire to surprise me with where I was to spend the next two years. Oh! This is so unexpected! How do I thank you?

I checked in and was assigned a cot and given basic instructions as to where to eat and when I was expected at formation in the morning. I was then released to explore the area.

The air base was its own isolated world. Civilians had trouble coming and going. In fact, few came and went through the restricted gates. It was more like being on the grounds of a huge embassy complex. A closed base back in the States might also be similar.

I was not yet truly in West Germany. American bases kept more to the flavor of the United States than the host country. Everyone was either American or spoke English. The conversations were as everyday local as any in South Carolina. Sports and women were the usual topics in just about any situation.

I found the base theater but had no interest in watching a movie about teens discovering puberty. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy teenyboppers romping around topless in a million-dollar beach house raising a thousand dollars to thwart some mean developer from building another million-dollar house. Some times are just not right for sitting in the dark!

The local bar, also known as the NCO club, was too far away to walk. Besides, I had a touch of the traveler’s bane, jetlag. When I traveled before, I felt jetlag coming back to the States, not going over. This time, I had partied before leaving and had not been able to sleep on the plane.

Jetlag feels like you have arrived outside yourself. You are tired and out of sync. Your body is not accustomed to here, but you’re no longer there. If your brain grants sleep, you recover quickly enough. I could feel sleep’s welcome embrace, so I headed to the barracks.

The generic cold barracks could not deter me. The bunk could’ve been granite and it would’ve still been fine. I slept the night away and thus recovered.

The morning broke out beautifully. I ate breakfast and headed to formation. Formation went fine as the sergeant called the roll. Each soldier in turn was assigned a time to go check on his orders. All the new soldiers were anxious to learn of their lot in life, their new units. My appointment was not until sixteen hundred hours. That’s four in the afternoon.

Military time is kept on a twenty-four-hour clock so there is no confusion. There was no a.m. or p.m. Thirteen hundred was not a cursed time or a broken clock; it was one in the afternoon.

The formation ended only after the assignment of work details. Soldiers aren’t given time off until all the chores are done. Local cadre picked out people for the different tasks.

A sergeant picked me to help him move furniture. The fact that I’m over six feet tall and weigh almost two hundred pounds earmarks me as a soldier that can carry his load and then some.

The detail was a breeze. It was heavy work, but it only lasted for around an hour. Many of the details lasted all day long. I was free to roam until the afternoon formation.

I went and got a Stars and Stripes to catch up on the news and what Calvin and Hobbs were doing. Stars and Stripes is the newspaper of the military. It’s watered down, but the comics are intact.

The afternoon formation went like the morning one. The new arrivals got called out for appointments to get their orders. I already had my appointment, so I waited for my detail. I got another meaningless assignment and got out after an hour or so.

Perhaps I should explain myself. I am the military designation 98Golf, a voice intercept operator with a specialty of understanding Russian. I speak a passable Russian. I could survive quite well in the Soviet Union, assuming they didn’t shoot me as a spy. Russians can easily tell I’m not a native, but they would never guess at me being American. Americans are generally known in most countries for their ignorance of languages. Hell, sometimes we can’t even speak English!

Once, a German girl corrected me on an improperly spoken sentence. She didn’t know the unwritten rule of the native linguist. A native linguist is a person who speaks the language so well that they can be grammatically wrong and still be correct. Put it to the test. Try to speak proper English for a few minutes. It just doesn’t feel or sound right.

At 1600, I picked up my orders. The orders said I was not to pass go and I couldn’t collect two hundred dollars. The Get out of Jail Free card could not even be used until my next turn.

Actually, reading through the legalese, I learned my fate. My orders sent me across town. Frankfurt would be my base. I was assigned to Charlie Company of the 533rd MI Battalion, a band to be known as the War Lizards. My friend Debra was originally assigned there, but she was sent elsewhere. I don’t know why they traded her for me. Knowing the Army, I was always supposed to go there.

I still had to wait to be picked up by my unit. By unit, I’m strictly referring to military unit, not my Johnson. It took two days to be collected. It might as well have been my Johnson.

The unit was not notified of my arrival. Thus was the way of the Army, our Army. The rest of the unit was in the field. The skeleton crew did get me as soon as they found out I was there. They expected me, but I did not know when I was coming.

Welcome to Military Intelligence. Need to know? What a crock! We knew almost everything we should or should not know. The only information I didn’t learn in a timely manner was where I would spend my career.

I learned my permanent party assignment at the airbase after I was already committed. I was in Europe. Knowing Army logic, I was surprised my orders didn’t say to go stateside or even to Korea. Staying close was a fluke.

Once I learned of my fate, I needed to have the obligatory toast on my good fortune. Debra joined me even though she swore I winked at the girl handing out assignments in order to get her job. I had done no such thing! I was just lucky.

We went to the NCO Club and tasted the local brew. The beer was refreshing and strong, far higher alcohol content than normal American piss water.

I normally didn’t drink beer in the States. It always gave me a headache. I think the preservatives required in the beer back home bothered me. Drinking was not enjoyable when you knew you would get a headache every time you drank. Back home, I stuck to liquor.

We toasted our new assignments and promised to keep in touch. We parted after one drink. Her unit sent a driver as soon as they learned of her arrival. The driver would be waiting at the temporary barracks for Debra soon. I was kept in limbo.

Just to be clear, this limbo was not the back-bending pole traversal. I would be better with the pole.

II

My Little Unit

First of all, a unit is your military posting, not your little buddy. Yes, I know where your mind was going. It does give new meaning to the next part.

My unit finally sent the duty driver to collect me after two days. The driver said I should have checked in a couple of days ago. He wanted to know why I hadn’t called before. Like I had a choice! The answer was obvious: soldiers in transition were manpower for the airbase personnel. They wanted our strong backs and fuzzy orders.

During the ride, I heard a news report about a local banker assassinated by terrorists. They planted a bomb under his car. He got in and cranked the engine. Boom! One less banker dared to be known as a leader in the community when the terrorists wanted to make a statement. How dare he live and support his family. The cad!

I will never understand the cowardice necessary to kill innocent people in order to demonstrate how wonderful and righteous a cause can be. How does that translate to righteousness? How dare they evoke religion to justify murder! The Muslim faith has nothing to do with such a murderous philosophy. The Koran actually instructs tolerance of other faiths.

These terrorists were probably European and weren’t likely to be Muslim. They wanted anarchy or world peace or to nuke the whales or some such request that they believe justifies murder and mayhem. When it comes right down to it, does anyone really care what a murderer has to say? It is much better to kill a terrorist than listen to him. Kill them all and let God sort them out.

My unit was located on the eastern outskirts of Frankfurt. It was pretty convenient really. Of all the places I could end up, Frankfurt was one of the best. What a stroke of luck! It was a truly international city. The old world flare shines forth as beautiful, historic and exotic. I could explore the alleys and spires at my leisure, enjoying all the nuances of my new home.

If I was ever to tire of the same splendor, I could take advantage of Frankfurt’s position as a crossroads to other European wonders. Whenever I deemed, I had easy access to other enchanting parts of Europe.

Our barracks sat along cobblestone avenues. The area was closed to civilians, but a casual security prevailed. Troops on guard duty stood and welcomed whoever came with an eye to enter. Security tightened only in response to terrorism or whenever brass came around.

It reminded me of a story my father told me about when he was in the Army. This one-star general walked past a private one day while on maneuvers. The general noticed that the private failed to salute. The general stopped the private and challenged him.

Private!

The young soldier came to attention and stood rigid and tall. Yes, sir?

What does this star mean to you?

You’ve got it made if you don’t fuck up! The private made a sharp salute and went on his way.

The general was a touch miffed, to say the least. I think he was angrier about the accuracy of the statement than anything else. He had it made as long as he didn’t screw the pooch.

I presented my orders and signed in from leave. The officer of the day assigned me a barracks room. He said the room was temporary until a more permanent arrangement came available.

The room seemed adequately spacious to me. The sergeant living there was slotted to have the entire room because of his rank. The more rank you have, the more square feet you need to live. That was fine by me, because I didn’t plan to live in the barracks if I could help it.

My temporary home was situated on a circle at the end of the street. The street consisted of cobblestones that could’ve easily been laid back when jousting was the height of cool. It’s hard to believe that jousting had the exact same flair of presentation as professional wrestling. Well, live and learn.

Nice oaks grew up through the cobblestone, belying its age. The net affect made the scene more shady and picturesque than military. I looked upon the trees and immediately gained the strategic significance. The trees undoubtedly translate to raking and sweeping details. Only God can make a tree, but only the Army can make a tree suck. The Army can sure taint your view.

I chose a corner and piled my meager possessions. I figured I would let the sergeant decide where it belonged. It was his home.

Once satisfied my stuff would remain relatively safe, I went walking about the village streets. Every once in a while, little corner beer vendors sold locals brew to drink out in the street. No one here thought anything of open containers. I even spied two road crew workers drinking beer while a third shoveled dirt. I bet the two with beers earned a better wage.

Upon my return, I met Carnes. Carnes was a sergeant in my new company. Like me, he was a Russian linguist. He was short and seemed eager to compensate for his stature. He told me about his prowess in boxing and how much he worked out. I congratulated him. What else could I do? He was my roommate for the time being.

Carnes invited me along on a trip downtown with him. He said he wanted to show me a little of the Frankfurt way of life. He had a pickup truck the Army had shipped over from the States. I had nothing special planned, so I accepted. We got in his pickup, and off we went.

We wound our way through small back streets until we emerged on an entry to the Autobahn. I had only ever ridden on the Autobahn in a tour bus, so I sat back and enjoyed the smooth ride.

The Autobahn is an engineering marvel. Hitler commissioned the road system to facilitate the movement of his armies, but he accidentally introduced to the world the future of transportation. Banked turns and limited access paves the way for rapid and efficient transit of individual vehicles. The US road system came from the example of the Autobahn. Even from evil intent, sometimes a little good comes through.

Carnes got off in downtown Frankfurt and drove to a scenic area of cafes. He parked on a street lined in trees that shaded herds of bicycles. Everyone seemed to roam in leisure on bikes or afoot. I equated the scene to some nature show on the Serengeti with the human animals herding toward their local watering hole, a pub.

Aside from their love of strong drink by the pail, Europeans are more health conscious. People in Europe crave outdoor activities far more than their American cousins. We have more of a love affair with the automobile. Europeans rely more on public transportation and alternative methods.

Carnes wanted to snack at a local bakery. The bakery was quaint and homey. A young German with blond pigtails stood behind the counter, inviting customers with her eyes and easy smile. The aroma made the mouth instantly water.

He ordered in broken German, relying on gestures and nods to supplement language. When he was done, Carnes looked at me with pride and offered to order for me. I already spoke German, so I merely thanked him and ordered. The lady asked how long I had lived in Germany. She said my language skills were impressive. The limited dialog made me seem far better than I was.

I learned my German in high school and college. I took German because of all the movies on World War II and the adventure each offered. Smashing the Nazis was a daydreaming boy’s fancy. What can I say? They didn’t offer Japanese.

Carnes looked annoyed. He was trying to impress the new trooper only to find the guy was functionally efficient in German. From the look on his face, I knew I had just alienated one sergeant and revenge would come. So much for friendship—at least I’ll know from where the other shoe might drop.

He did give me a ride back to the barracks, but I had the distinct feeling that he had planned a longer trip. I wasn’t sure whether to thank him for the ride or apologize for knowing some German. I ended up thanking him and heading for the room. He drove off. The slight squeal of tires marked the end of a beautiful friendship. A rerun of Casablanca was not in the cards. It wasn’t even foggy out.

As it turned out, I was fortunate to come back early. Shortly after my return, I started to feel bad. I poured sweat and got lightheaded. I climbed in bed, suffered, and finally slept. My first day was less than stellar.

The next day was spent trying not to allow the wall to move back and forth too quickly. I was sick as a dog. Rising only to find the porcelain god, I prayed to die. At the time, I feared my survival. Fearing survival sounds strange unless you’ve ever been in that category of illness.

I reclined with a loving embrace encompassing the cool porcelain and rested the underside of my chin on the toilet seat. In this pose, I could freely evacuate, causing my stomach to go from an innie to an outtie, much as your belly button chooses contour.

It is generally good in this repose to reflect on the life choices made and to tour a life squandered in moral turpitude. I hoped I had at least some squandering to reflect and hollowly promise to make amends. Making bargains to one’s maker is a craft learned and refined by stouter hypocrites than I. I am merely five in a scale of ten on the Hippocratic Oath scale of empty promise. Not to be confused with the Hypochondriac Oath taken by doctors . . . or is that people who believe themselves sick? I get those confused.

Also note for the record, as I lay across the cool bowl, I still had enough wherewithal to hope for more chances to squander. As you know, squander makes the heart grow fonder. You might not live longer if you live the straight and narrow, but it will sure feel like it.

I recovered despite my best wishes. A bright and clean sunny day welcomed my senses. That very day cleared my head and attitude. After that, I wasn’t sick again the whole time in Germany. I guess I had to get acclimated or maybe I had just paid my dues. Maybe it was just a case of Hitler’s Revenge or some left-over ordinance. It was better than the constant runs of Montezuma’s version, but I do prefer Mexican food, if given the choice.

When I fully recovered, it was Monday morning and time to learn about my unit. The battalion was split into five companies; Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, and Headquarters. All units in the Army use the alphabet to voice their companies. A is for Alpha. B is for Bravo. C is for Charlie. Since Charlie was my unit, there is no further need for the recitation of the alphabet Battalion style.

Charlie Company was my unit, home, and family. I was a war lizard. The war lizard name actually came later, but the image always fit, a slow-moving track that plodded along and seemed able to take anything in stride. The creature survived against all odds, both foreign and domestic.

The first duty I had was to take a PT test. PT is physical fitness. When a soldier arrives at his new unit, the commander is required to make sure the new trooper is in good condition.

We wandered over to an adjoining park the unit used for exercising among the locals. The park was neat and clean. Every blade of grass seemed well tended. Paved walkways meandered through the trees along the edges of the open expanses. The park included soccer fields with lines fully drawn and goals set up with new nets. The fields were even enclosed in fences.

The German women showed a distinct proclivity toward exhibitionism. They relaxed topless under the warm rays of the sun. Beside the unclad females, a family might picnic or just sit and enjoy the early autumn weather.

They didn’t pay much attention to our nearby presence. It must be strange to visit your neighborhood park only to find foreign troops doing pushups or running. I suppose after long enough, foreign troops become commonplace.

I must admit that I paid some attention to the topless parts. I’m just not used to seeing pretty girls casually baring their breasts. I’m even less

Vous avez atteint la fin de cet aperçu. Inscrivez-vous pour en savoir plus !
Page 1 sur 1

Avis

Ce que les gens pensent de Life In The World Wind

0
0 évaluations / 0 Avis
Qu'avez-vous pensé ?
Évaluation : 0 sur 5 étoiles

Avis des lecteurs