Back by Popular Demand: The Russians in New Foundland Story

The Russians are coming...and going 
to the bathroom

By Rev. J.J. Purcell

When I was a child, brought up during the 1970s, there seemed to always be this notion in the back of my head that, if the world did ever end, it would be due to a fiery holocaust between the two great nations of the day. I was not alone in this belief. It was a popular fear that, at some point during the Cold War (1948-1990), someone from one side or the other would begin the unthinkable: thermonuclear war.

Fallout shelters were constructed in backyards and school children were instructed how to “Duck and Cover” to save themselves should a missile blast through the sky and explode anywhere near their school.

Throughout the Cold War, both the Soviet Union and the United States fought intelligence campaigns like never before or since. Civilian and military US and Soviet agents, and their respective allies, were running around all over the globe, collecting bits of information on the other side at a breakneck pace. In the world before the Berlin Wall fell and before the Great Digital Age, the chances of agents or couriers bumping into each other, anywhere on the earth, were both rare and always fraught with peril. Paranoia had become an art form within the two governments and, consequently, many of those who worked in the intelligence field from both countries.

In intelligence circles, being assigned to a section that was working against the Soviet Union directly was called “working the big top.” Meanwhile, the fabled day when Russians and Americans, and all their respective allies, would meet in battle was sometimes referred to as “Super Bowl” by Americans and the “World Cup” by Brits.

This is a true story about something that happened to me during 1980s, near the end of that Cold War, when I was an enlisted man in the US Army. It was another day and time from now.

What would cause World War III? For some ridiculous reason or maybe because someone just wanted to do it. There is no sane justification for nuclear war; there never will be. Once the two great nuclear powers (China is a great nuclear power, but not involved in this story) had gotten done measuring the size of each other’s manhood then life would go on, beyond that monumental contest of wills. Right!? Like after a nuclear war there was going to be baseball seasons and nice lunches with cakes.

Well, beginning in 1987, I became the intelligence analyst in the S-2 (Intelligence and Security) Section for the “Fix Bayonets!” 4th Battalion, 41st Infantry Regiment, 2nd “Hell on Wheels” Armored Division (Forward), Lucius D. Clay Kaserne, Garlstedt, Federal Republic of Germany. And, I was assigned to Headquarters and Headquarters Company there. I had been promoted to the rank of specialist before arriving to Europe and earned my corporal stripes while I was serving overseas.

The battalion I served in had a simple job: They were rifle soldiers, Bradley Infantry, and if there was a fight then the battalion would get the call to go kick as much Russian ass as we could before the unit and its soldiers disappeared in a flash of atomic brilliance. We never got the call, though, so baseball seasons and nice lunches with cakes continued unabated. Still, the United States Army in Europe and NATO were military organizations that built gigantic armies for only one reason: defeat the Russians if it came to it. The message was clear: The Soviets will never back down, and neither would the United States.

It was May, 1988 and 4/41 Infantry was rotating back to the main unit, the 2nd Armored Division in Fort Hood, Texas. The entire battalion, all 500 and something of us, were being relocated to Hood, while the 3rd Battalion, 66th Armored Regiment was rotating from  Hood to Garlstedt, which was this cow town in a provincial part of Northern Germany where the Division (Forward) was located. It was a large move of forces because it involved not only the battalion’s soldiers and equipment, but also our wives and kids. I was light in the kid department, but both my wife and myself were under 21 years old, so you’d think the Army would have gotten a discount on our flights back to the U.S.

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 as the fury of the North Sea winter could be, it had become a home for many of us. By ‘many of us’ I was not referring to myself in any way; I wanted to go back to the U.S. on the next raft if need be. Heck, I didn’t even request Germany for assignment in the first place. My preference in overseas assignment had been Korea and that was what I requested. What came back, though, was an all-expense paid trip to the Fatherland.

I don’t know why I never liked Germany. It’s like asking someone why they don’t like grape soda or pineapples. I suppose those things just left a bad taste in one’s mouth and they were not appealing.

I might have known, though. Germany seemed to be in all of my family's cards. My grandfather fought there in World War I with the American Army. My father fought in Europe during World War II with the United States Army. My uncles and cousins either took part in the war or the occupation of Germany in the 1940s and 50s, and now I had spent my tour there. There should be a prize given to people who are third-generation occupiers/ ‘partners in peace’ -- maybe a blender or nice toaster or some such thing. A little something from Uncle Sam saying, ‘Thanks.’ Well, there were no blenders awarded. It was hard soldiering, though, and a lot of being in the field, the longest deployment being four months or so at a clip. A lot of living out of doors will make the time fly on a tour, as I recall it. However, my wife had not been such a big fan and she was very happy to be heading back to the Continental United States too.

During my time in the Army, I had trained and served as a paratrooper and never volunteered to be sent to a non-airborne unit. Airborne units are those that use airborne delivery systems for their soldiers and weapon systems and are considered more elite than other units in several ways. So, I thought non-airborne units to be a kind of punishment resplendent with sloppy soldiers, incompetent leaders and lots of getting things wrong while shouting very loudly. And, fresh from the XVIII Airborne Corps when I got there, I believed Garlstedt was going to be a poor experience for me immediately and remain in that status until departure. Quite the contrary, though, I made some of the best friends I ever had in my life there among the other enlisted men I served with. The unit was also top-notch.

This story is about after the battalion cleaned up and cleared out of the kaserne (what ‘forts’ were called in Germany then) and went back to Texas to join the main division again. While everyone else traveled en masse, my boss and I were travelling apart from everyone, in what amounted to my only European intrigue of the Cold War.

Like any other battalion, 4/41 possessed a relatively small amount of classified information that had to come back with the unit during the move. Half of the really important stuff were papers, the other half were fragile floppy disks that stored various kinds of information. None of this information could be, by treaty, examined by any airport official in Europe, or the United States as well for that matter, at least back then. It was all very routine stuff actually and really not anything that would shake the world anyhow. Nevertheless, there were regulations.

So my boss, 1Lt. John Smith (it’s a fake name I’m using for him), and I conferred with the Division (Forward) S-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. Alright, sounds dramatic but there are good reasons for everything.

So my wife, household belongings and personal possessions went ahead. I said goodbye to the guys and ‘see them on the other side of the Atlantic.’ Then ‘John’ and I got ready for our trip. During my time in Germany, the guys in my small section spent more time with each other working than we did eating, sleeping or with our families combined. So, while the chain of command was strong, there was informality and sometimes first names bandied about between officers, NCOs and enlisted men. John and I were the last ones to leave Garlstedt from our unit. It was all very sad, actually, when it came to seeing the headquarters building emptied and our colors struck; still, life goes on. We got to the U.S. Air Force base at Rhein Mein, in Frankfurt, to begin our crossing. I forgot what kind of flight we were on (military or civilian), but to make sure all went well John handcuffed me to the large businessman’s  briefcase I was carrying. I was a little surprised. Between my M1911A1, .45-caliber pistol I carried, the magazines for it, and this weighty rock on my wrist, it was very uncomfortable and a blind man could see my pistol and the handcuffs on the case. What sports jacket was ever made to carry all of this stuff?

John was loving this chance to be all ‘Mr. 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 big redneck school out where people wearing shoes was a big deal. He was commissioned in the Military Intelligence Corps 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 did not deal with any weighty missions or “live” intelligence work, where lives are at stake and aircraft plans were placed on microfilm and shoved up someone’s ass to cross checkpoints. The unit I had been assigned after Intel school and before Germany had been a shop that did a lot of “live work,” but I was never asked to transport classified anywhere.

When I was first assigned to my battalion, it was a shock when I found out I was going to work for John at 4/41 Infantry It was  like showing up for the first day of work and finding out your old English teacher was your boss. By and large the S-2 dealt with routine security matters, like security clearances and, in the field, “enemy” analysis during wargames. So, this was his over-eager chance to be cool. Of some note, he made sure he wore mirrored shades throughout the entire journey, even  indoors a good amount of the time. I couldn’t help but laugh a little. I was far too uncomfortable to be cool myself.

John and I had seen a fair amount of crap together, from a few "Storms of the Century," one in Germany and one in Denmark while the unit was deployed, to all of the highs and lows that come along with a tight-knit organization. Consequently, around people, especially soldiers, we always kept it formal. Alone, though, not so much. John and I had needed friends in each other more than he needed a specialist or I needed a first lieutenant. Therein, when we were away from people it was always informal, and irreverent most times.

Physically, it was awkward going from terminal to terminal, but it all worked out. The flight went from Frankfurt to Gander, Newfoundland, then another plane to some Air Force base in Georgia, and then onto the Air Force base adjacent to Ft. Hood.

The strange part happened in Gander, though. John and I were sitting alone along this wide concourse. Almost no one was there, except for airport workers. Most people on the flight were over in the restaurant area, but we wanted to be away from everyone for the sake of security. John ordered me to remain perfectly still there, 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 a hard-ass, 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 moment to see if he was serious. He seriously asked me this. At that time, I was a young man very prone to going to the clubs at night alone or with my wife and sleeping in whenever the battalion wasn’t in the field: Who was letting me do that in Russia and get paid? And, there was no Busch Gardens or any other theme parks there, let alone anything decent to watch on television. On that basis alone, John should have known better.

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 held a clearance and didn’t plan on going traitor in a Newfoundland bathroom, 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 and it pulled up right next to ours, and people began to get off. It was right on time for some drama. Aeroflot was the national airline of the Soviet Union back then. John was staring intently, like some sled dog in the wild. 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.

Two of them weren’t. Two big hairy guys, looking like extras in a Sylvester Stallone movie were walking toward our neck of the woods.

As if they were right out of Central Casting for “International Russian Bad People,” the guys wore thick, fur coats and those hats that looked like something furry was sleeping on their heads. They walked side-by-side, just as John and had been. They parked themselves about 30 meters from where we were. John was stock still, and so was I.

If this was going to be game time, full bladder or not, I suppose it was going to be game time. It was surreal to think Russians who were strapped were so near us. Their rigs were as concealed as mine, which wasn’t very at all. John had some nice suit and looked like a GQ model from a magazine cover. He looked like a shorter, redneck version of Daniel Craig as “James Bond.”

It was, after all, 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). Some people actually were killed. But, none of that changed the rock-hard truth that I was going to take a leak -- and do it real darn soon. The only question was where it was going to happen. My pride forbade me emptying my bladder into my only nice set of suit trousers.

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 Reagan (our then president). When ya gotta pee, ya gotta pee.’

Without a by-your-leave I headed to the bathroom in a strut looking far more confident than I was, with John closely following behind me. As I went to the bathroom, so did the two Russian guys. This wasn’t happening. How could this be happening?

So it wasn’t happening, I thought. Now!? Here!? It had to be here!?

John and I entered the bathroom and, as I fumbled for my fly (with the briefcase handcuffed to my wrist and my shoulder rig even less concealed than usual), John stood behind me like some fierce, quiet guard dog. Then, the Russian guys came in and one went to the urinal directly beside me, while his partner stood directly behind him, parallel to John. Similarly, the Russian man at the urinal was undoing his fly. Everyone looked incredibly nervous. You could hear a pin, or zipper, drop. By now, even I believed something shitty was going to happen, pardon the pun.

Myself and the Russian guy were urinating but everything else seemed frozen in time. The only sound was running urine for a moment. 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, really.’

The Ruskies laughed. Even John did.

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. Well, I did but when you sign on to the Army you know the possibility comes with the territory somewhere.

But, I would prefer not perishing in a Newfoundland washroom with my trousers at half-mast: it was a bit too undignified a way to go for anyone. If we could all just wait a moment and shoot it out on the near-empty concourse I would have been eternally grateful to everyone present, even if I were killed. It never came down to that, though.

I zipped up after the undisputedly after the most tense washroom incident of my life before or after. 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. With each passing moment, it seemed a little less likely something would happen until finally even John felt reasonably comfortable.

“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 bad in there, what was your plan?’

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

I was mad. It was the dumbest thing I had ever heard. ‘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 that), the urinal guy’s partner would have been shooting you, you would have been shooting me, as would, no doubt, the Ruskie 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.

‘We should have shot the bad guys and not each other: that is my wisdom of the day. Shooting at each other while other people are shooting at us is insane,’ I said.

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

Well, give the man a prize.

I laughed. ‘Yes, sir. I’d have to agree with Plan B there. Plan A had me getting shot by both my partner in the back and the Russians, the whole time with my underwear wrapped around my shins. You could either plead treason or extreme stupidity to a court after that career-ender for you.’

“That would have been a bad idea for me,” he said 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, when 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, by the by) and I was driven to the Holiday Inn, where my 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 quickly, jumped in bed and woke up some hours later, at about 7 p.m.

I never did let John live down the near-bathroom shooting incident he contemplated for me that day. Of course ‘never’ was just three months, before he was promoted to captain and re-assigned within the Division. I stayed in the Army for a while longer, but didn’t have a chance to get caught with my pants down like that again, thankfully.

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