The Russians are coming!

Beginning in 1987, I became the intelligence analyst in the S-2 for the “Fix Bayonets!” 4th Battalion, 41st Infantry Regiment, 2nd “Hell on Wheels” Armored Division (Foward), Lucius D. Clay Kaserne, Garlstedt, Federal Republic of Germany. And, I was assigned to Headquarters and Headquarters Company. I have many wonderful stories about this unit, a few that are terrifying, more than a couple that are moving, but I could fill volumes about plain old soldiering, which is both unremarkable and routine.

But, not this story.

It was May, 1988 and 4/41 Inf. was rotating back to the main unit, the 2nd Armored Division, Fort Hood, Texas. The entire battalion, all 700 and something of us, were being relocated to Ft. Hood, while the 2nd Battalion, 66th Armored Regiment was rotating from Ft. Hood to Garlstedt. It was a large movement of forces.

Well, many of us tearfully were bidding goodbye to Garlstedt and it was an emotional event, because as hostile as the weather was there, as remote as the outpost was and as disagreeable and furious as the North German winter could be, it had become a home for many of us.

During my tours in the Army, I never volunteered to be sent to non-airborne units. I basically thought that such units would be a kind of punishment. And, fresh from the XVIII Airborne Corps when I got there, I believed Garlstedt was going to suck. Quite the contrary, though, I made some of the best friends I ever had in my life there: Mike Harsh, Bruce Fogle and Randy Sellers, most notably among them. I also learned so many life lessons there that I could not imagine not serving with the "Iron Deuce."

Anyhow, this story is about after we cleaned up and cleared the kaserne and the unit was on its way back to Texas. Like any other battalion, 4/41 had a relatively small amount of classified information that had to come with the move. Half of the material were papers, the other half were on fragile floppy disks. None of this information could be, by treaty, examined by any airport official in Europe, or the United States as well for that matter (back then). It was all very routine stuff actually, and really not anything that would shake the world. Nevertheless, there were regulations.

So, my boss, 1Lt. John Smith (enough with the fake names! but i know the real John Smith would have a kitten if I didn’t and I liked him), and I conferred with the Division (Forward) G-2 at Garlstedt and this is what they said: 1. When transporting the information both the courier and the escort must be armed; 2. The courier and escort must have paperwork to produce for the airport officials, as well as proper identification; 3. The carrier for the information must be durable, opaque, locked with a combination and always in the hands of the courier; and 4. The courier and escort must be in civilian clothes. Immediately, I was glad I had one decent suit. Alright, sounds different but it is fine.

So my wife, household belongings and personal belongings go ahead. I said goodbye to the guys and told them we'd go out on the other side of the Atlantic the coming weekend. Then “John” and I got ready for our trip. We were the last ones to leave Garlstedt. It was all very sad, actually. So, we go to Rhein Mein, in Frankfurt and we are making our crossing. I forgot what kind of flight we were on (I slept most of the way), but to make sure all went well John handcuffed me to the large briefcase I was transporting and put the key in his jacket. I was and am sure that he got the handcuff bit from old spy movies. Between the M1911A1 I had, the magazines for it, and this weighty rock on my wrist, the whole thing was very uncomfortable.

John was loving this chance to be all ‘mysterious Intel officer’ (hey, if I am using a false name I am telling the darn truth). John was a former Marine who became an Army Intelligence Officer after attending college in a provincial area of the United States. He was commissioned as an Intel officer and immediately put in charge of an Advanced Individual Training company at Ft. Huachuca, Arizona, which I was in, coincidentally, when I graduated from the Intelligence Analyst Basic Course there, in 1985. Consequently, John (a very capable officer) had only been assigned there and at Garlstedt and had no real seasoning with live work at that point. Tactical units were rugged but S2 shops do not deal with any weighty missions or “live work.” So, this was his over-eager chance to be cool, in my opinion, and he was living it up. Of some note, he made sure he wore mirrored shades throughout the journey. I couldn’t help but laugh a little.

It was sticky going from terminal to terminal, but it all worked out. The flight went from Frankfurt to Gander, New Foundland, to somewhere in Georgia, I believe, and then onto the Fort Hood Air Force Base; if it had another name at the time I can’t remember it.

The funny part happened in Gander, though. John and I were sitting alone along this wide concourse. Almost no one was there, except for airport workers. Some people on the flight were over in the restaurant area but we wanted to be away from everyone for the sake of security. John wanted me to remain perfectly still, though, despite the fact that, after a long flight, I needed to use the restroom. The key to my argument was ‘there is no one here and I have to -- have to -- take a leak.’ John, now the very conscientious officer (maybe too much so?), said no. He asked me how he knew I was not going to trade the documents in the briefcase with blank pieces of paper in the restroom. I stared at him a long moment to see if he was serious.

He was.

I do not remember my whole response to that but the beginning part was ‘are you fucking nuts? were you hit in the head with a shovel or something?’ The rest of my statement involved the fact that I was an intelligence analyst in the Army, who was cleared and didn’t plan on going traitor in a bathroom in New Foundland, which I didn’t know existed yesterday!

He finally saw my point. But, as the discussion between us wound down, lo’ and behold, in comes an Aeroflot plane pulled up right next to ours (it seemed right on cue), and people began to get off. John was staring intently. I broke his revery by saying that the flight was most likely a bunch of business people and tourists doing what these people do in every country. He looked a little more comfortable. Besides, the passengers from the Russian plane were moving toward the restaurant area -- except two of them.

As if they were right out of Central Casting for “International Russian Bad People,” two burly men with thick, fur Russian-style coats, walking side by side just as John and I were, parked themselves about 30 meters from where we were. John was stock still.

It was the Cold War. The Intelligence War during the Cold War was not always bloodless. People did get hurt, from time to time (usually when something was worth it, from what I read in the newspapers). It was a time when so many of us, particularly those of us in uniform, were convinced the Cold War would inevitably end with a hot war. But, none of that changed the cold, hard truth that I was going to take a leak -- and do it real darn soon.

To John I said in a low tone, ‘I am going to take a leak. Pissing does not mean my loyalty is wavering. It means I have to piss -- just like you;  Ltc. Voessler (our battalion commander); or Ronald-fucking-Reagan (our then president). Without a by-your-leave I headed to the bathroom, John following behind me. As I went to the bathroom, so too did the two Russian guys begin a slow walk to the same bathroom.

Surreal.

John and I enter the bathroom and, as I fumbled for my fly (with the briefcase handcuffed to my wrist), John stands behind me like some fierce, quiet guard dog. Then, the Russian guys come in and one goes to the urinal directly beside me, while his partner stands directly behind him, parallel to John. Similarly, the Russian man at the urinal is undoing his fly rather nervously. Everyone looked incredibly tense. By now, even I believed something may be up with these guys, and there was no one else in the bathroom. You could have heard a pin drop, if not for the sound of running water.

Myself and the Russian guy taking a leak are urinating but everything is very quiet and menacing. I could hear my heart pounding. The absurdity of the moment struck me and I had to make a wiseass comment. Without being able to stop it, I said in a mock British accent, “A bit awkward, ay chaps. What for and pip, pip and all that.”

Everyone laughed a little. Even John.

Meanwhile, I prayed nothing would happen. Do not get me wrong, John and I were in a dangerous profession -- and I didn’t mind dying (it's not my top choice, but it is what it is). But, I would prefer something better than perishing in a New Foundland washroom with my trousers at half-mast: it was a bit too undignified even for me. If we could all just wait a moment and shoot it out on the concourse I would have been eternally grateful to everyone present, even if I were killed. It never came down to that, though.

I zippered up after the most worrisome washroom incident of my life before then and even up until now. The Russian did the same. I left first, followed by John, trailed by the Russian escort and then, I presume, the Russian courier last. Both groups went back to their respective slices of the concourse.

“Hope you enjoyed it. You’re not taking another one until Georgia,” John said.

Whatever. A thought struck me, though.

‘Say, John, if things did get shitty in there (a washroom joke), what was your plan?’

He answered, “Well, I would have shot you so they could not get at the documents and then shot them and then used my key to get the briefcase off your arm.”

‘Oh, so, in other words, while I was trying to actually engage my closest target, the guy at the urinal (with my fly open at least), the urinal guy’s partner would have been shooting you, you would have been shooting me, as would, no doubt, the urinal guy. Both of us would have died in a foreign bathroom and the bad guys or remaining bad guy would, no doubt about it, get the classified ash-and-trash we are bringing over. Do you see a fundamental flaw in this reasoning, Lieutenant James Bond, or can I offer my insight here?’ I said.

John was my friend, which was why he let me talk to him like that when we were alone. But, I was angry. He thought for a moment and then said, “I should have shot the guy’s partner as you shot the guy at the urinal.”

I laughed. ‘Yes, sir. I’d have to agree with Plan B there, sir. Plan A had me getting shot by both my American partner and the Russians. So, who exactly would come off looking ‘patriotic-light’ here during the autopsy -- bordering on outright communist? Either the dead guy with the Russian and American slugs in him, respectively, who has his hand cut off for them to get the briefcase, or the, at least, severely wounded partner who killed his partner, thus allowing for Russians to run off with our stuff. You could either plead treason or extreme stupidity. And, I’m going to say treason looks better than galactic stupidity.’

“That would have been a bad idea for me,” he said absently out loud.

‘For you!? It would have been one hell of a lot worse for me, pal! I’m dead in this one. OK, so we have it straight for the rest of the flight...if anyone attacks me for the briefcase between here and Hood -- I vote we both shoot at them. Can I get an ‘Amen’?

Very seriously, John looks up and said, “OK, we’ll do it your way.”

How do you not laugh at that?

So, we made it back to Ft. Hood with all of our fingers and toes, John finally took the damn briefcase off my wrist (which had turned green because of a skin condition I have, by the by) and I was driven to the Holiday Inn, where my then-wife, Patty was waiting for me. I was tired. I didn’t want to talk. I smelled like an animal and I just wanted to sleep. I showered quick, jumped in bed and woke up some hours later, at about 7 p.m. 

An old man now, I look back at this event and cannot help but smile. It's too good of a story for me to write it somewhere.