A friend who lives in Florida wanted a war story from me.
"A true one", he said. "No bullshit".
So I gave him this.
Okay. To illustrate the leadership and judgement qualities I possessed in my meteoric, but short-lived, military career, I offer you this.
It was late winter, 1968.
Garmisch-Patrernkirchen, Federal Republic of Germany.
The sky was clear and the weather mild as a group of A-teams from C Company of the 10th Special Group slithered along like a green snake. Our hideous Army-issued skis were supposed to be suitable for cross-country and downhill skiing.
They were suitable for neither.
7 feet long, wide, solid wood, heavy and painted white, the troops jokingly called them "White Stars" after the popular high-tech top of the line Kneissl White Star.
Historical note: Initially a World War II plan to invade Norway with the winter-trained 1st Special Service Force was scrapped and the skis went into warehouses until, in a stroke of military genius, someone said, "Hey lets issue these things out!"
They should've said "Hey here's some firewood!".
But you dance with with you brung, so off we slid on numerous forays through the Alps in our Winter Warfare training. Winter Warfare training is a lot like desert training only there's more water (beneficial) and your toes can fall off (not so beneficial).
We also used snowshoes at times. Something the locals were not at all familiar with. Neither was I, being from Florida, but that's another story for another time.
So there we were on the outskirts of the old 1936 Olympic facility. The map said we had on bodacious climb and then turned south for a few kilometers where we would pick up a truck convoy. In cross-country skiing someone has to break trail. You change off frequently when the point man gets whupped and stick a fresh body up front. We traversed up a pretty steep slope most of the morning, making frequent switchbacks as we got higher. At last we reached the top just as I rotated into the point position.
"Lucky break", I sez to myself. "It's flat and packed up here". We had reached the well used Olympic site and families of Germans, ski bunnies and Jean-Claude Killy wannabe's were everywhere having a great time. We poled along with our clown skis, overstuffed rucksacks and sweat-stained berets as we waved and greeted the multitudes. They were quite used to seeing GIs wandering about the countryside. It was the Cold War period after all and we were there to keep it from warming up.
"Guten Morgen" I cheerily exclaimed to each smiling Teutonic face I encountered. "Gruss Gott"
One of my team members called from behind me. "Hey Ell-Tee, do you know where we're going?"
"Of course", I said "I've got the map right chere", pointing to my head.
For 10 minutes or so we had a marvelous time schussing along the flat manicured trails. We passed a restaurant, packed with people looking out at the sunny slopes. We also passed a sign at the entrance to a path. It was in German. My German was not too good. I ignored it.
I noticed a lot of the people up at the restaurant were standing on the balcony or inside at the pictures windows and waving excitedly at us. I waved back. I was MacArthur. I was Patton with my troops behind me on parade. I was Caesar returning triumphantly to Rome! They waved even more enthusiastically. Some would say frantically.
I waved back. American Hero smile on my face.
We passed another sign. Couldn't read that one either but one of the men behind me could. "Oh Shit" was what I heard.
It was too late.
Suddenly, the benign, pleasant pathway narrowed. We passed a small building, I thought it said, "Luger". Odd place for a gunshop, I thought. I was wrong. It didn't have an R on it.
Along with the narrowing came a difference in surface texture. From packed snow to....ice.
Now the Army White Stars are inadequate on snow. On ice they become instruments of death. You have no control and basic physics takes over. Momentum, inertia, gravity, all that stuff.
Next, after the solid ice surprise, came another. The angle of the narrow trail increased from 5 degrees to 25 degrees to OHMYGOD degrees. The sides of the trail rose on each side. I began to hear shouts from the long line of troops behind me. Perhaps a few curses. They faded away as the wind in my ears drowned out everything else after a few seconds. I wouldn't have been able to hear them anyway over the screams of terror. Mine.
Once you're skiing down an Olympic Luger trail (without the r), You don't have a lot of control. I suppose that's why they put up those 'Eintritt Verboten" signs. If you ever see an Eintritt Verboten sign turn around immediately. Germans, not known for their impish sense of humor, never kid about those.
So down we went at ever increasing speed. then we hit a corner. I'd never skied on a wall like that. Some of the guys took that opportunity to shoot right up and out of the Trail 'o Death at that point. Actually I'm not sure that it was by choice. I think they were yelling "Yahoo" but, as I said, I couldn't hear too well from the wind rushing in my ears..
Down, down, down we sped as I alternately prayed and cursed. Sometimes I was on my skis, sometimes my butt, I even went down backwards at one point. It seemed I could hear demonic laughter in the chattering of the skis. After what seemed like 12 or 15 hours on this e-ticket ride the trail widened out. The tall ice sides dropped down. It straightened out, flattened out and ended.
In the late winter Bavarian mud and gravel.
While the Army skis are poorly designed they at least do slide well on snow an ice.
On mud and gravel, not so much.
I was the first one in line to come to an abrupt stop. The other 50 or 60 men then plowed into me in rapid succession. Such a tangle of men, equipment and skis has probably not been seen since in Europe.
The good news is the only one witness to my fall from Caesar/Patton-like status was an old farmer on a honey wagon about 50 yards away. He seemed interested. I wondered what he did during The War.
Oh, and the half dozen A-teams behind me.
As the groans curses and wind noise abated, I thought I heard a voice in my ear....All Fame is fleeting.
I heard the incident became known as "The Charge of the Ice Brigade", but I could never confirm that. I think they put a statue up to honor me at the Olympic stadium.
Maybe not.
Bob
P.S.At least I know what a
Luge is now.
Good Times
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