Reasonable Rascal
Veteran Member
Chapter XVII Part V
Dateline: Andrea
Over the course of the 13-odd years since she’d obtained her nursing license Andrea had worked a myriad of positions throughout and within the institutions she’d been employed by. Initially she thought it was just her natural curiosity for something new and different. After a while though she began to realize what it was she was actually looking for: education and experience in as wide a variety of skills as practical, even esoteric in some instances.
Her time spent doing limited relief work in Central America had taught her valuable lessons about how to make do, and how much people could endure if their expectations weren’t too high to begin with, something her regular patients back in the US too often seemed to carry with them.
During one period in between staff positions she had actually tried the travel nurse avenue, making very good money in doing so but also learning fairly quickly over the course of 2 13-week assignments between Arizona and upper California that travel nursing was not going to be a way of life for her, no matter how well it might pay.
Andrea suffered a rather rude awakening when she discovered first hand how some patients in otherwise touristy areas expected to be treated. It was almost as though they were there in the hospital for a vacation, with the expectation that they would be waited on literally hand and foot, rather than there to receive medical care appropriate for their complaints.
Granted there was the occasional overbearing or otherwise pompous jerk or drama queen to be found back in the Midwestern states, but nothing on the level of routine encounters that she suffered through on her travel assignments. Patients with acute gastric disorders actually screamed and threw tantrums if they weren’t served what they thought they should be offered in the way of food and drink. Never mind that their doctors had deliberately chosen for them medically sound diets that reflected their altered state of health, and which would give their systems a chance to rest and the medications and antibiotics the opportunity to work their magic.
Andrea had followed with rapt fascination the accounts of medical relief workers with non-governmental relief agencies in war-torn areas such as Afghanistan and Iraq. While the latter had its moments after the first few years it was actually fairly safe for all concerned. But the ‘Stan, as it was known to those who served there, was another matter entirely.
Barely a year before the present events Andrea had chanced to make the acquaintance of a nurse who had actually served for months in the ‘Stan with an NGO group. He proved to be a wealth of information on austere procedures. His accounts of make-do medicine went into her mental files for later use if and when she ever had the need. How little did she realize just how soon she might have to draw on her new-found knowledge.
Dateline: Kentucky/Tennessee Area
The fight wasn’t over. Rather it had reached a sort of stand-off, with the men inside the building refusing to come out, and those on the outside puzzled by the lack of response to their demands. They had peppered the building such that there were hundreds of holes through the sides, windows and doorways. Granted, no few shots had been aimed so high as unlikely to have hit anyone who stood less than 6 and a half feet tall, but those attackers who possessed some semblance of self-control had deliberately aimed low enough to hit anyone who had been merely crouched inside.
A few wags had managed to pepper the outsides of the armored vehicles, just to make a statement rather than expecting to do any real damage. There was a low hum of murmuring in the air amongst the patriot forces. As the seconds ticked by it gave way to quiet conversations between neighboring men and women. Few amongst them actually thought the fight would be over so quickly, and no few secretly wished it would continue.
Nate Booker found himself puzzled. The building had been well ventilated. It should have been obvious by the volume of fire that the surrounding force was overwhelming. The occupants were cut off from the Giat armored cars, so they wouldn’t be of any benefit. Now well over a minute after the initial barrage of shots there had been not one shot fired in return. Aside from the low moan from within there were no sounds of occupancy. Surely the scouts hadn’t missed an evacuation of the forces within. It was virtually inconceivable.
A hasty meeting of the minds was called. Several men – and one woman – gathered in a sheltered spot both out of sight of and in no danger from fire from within the building.
Brad Garrett spoke first: “That was durn sur’ one heckoffa load o’ lead poured into that there buildin’.” Heads nodded in agreement all around.
Another man, known to Nate by sight but not by name, chimed in. “I figure roughly 600 or so rounds went in. But call me stupid if even one shot was fired in return. Heck, were it me in there I’d a least popped off a couple rounds after we ceased firing, just as a matter of defiance. Kill me if’n you can is my way of thinking but by golly I’m gonna take a coupla you with me.”
Nate, for his part, stared at the man. Something about what he’d said…..
Tandy Sue Hartely, the lone female member of the small assembly and one of the few in the entire assault force, took the moment of silence to add her thoughts. “It’s almost as if they’ve left. Maybe one person left behind just to make sure no one took advantage of them being gone and ransacked the barracks. But that doesn’t make any sense,” she said, frowning as she did so. “I mean, if’n it were me I’d have taken the tanks with me. What good are they otherwise if you don’t use them.”
Others in the group overlooked her use of the word ‘tanks’ to describe what were heavily armed 8-wheel assault vehicles rather than traditional tracked heavy armor. They weren’t here to argue semantics, and besides, Tan, as she was referred to by those who knew her well, was well-known as a real fireball when it came time to fight, whether in a honky-tonk or on the battlefield.
There followed a moment more of silence while everyone examined their own thoughts on the matter. Nate knew that whatever decision was made, or even if no decision were forthcoming, that ultimately the responsibility rested upon his shoulders.
Finally, clearing his throat, Nate spoke up. “What if… bear with me for a moment here because I’m still trying to think my way through this; what if they had an escape route. All that heavy movement we heard for a minute. Could they have been clearing access for a pre-planned getaway?”
Like a light going off in several heads at once several faces gleamed in dawning recognition.
“Daaa-yum! Why didn’t WE think of that!” The speaker was the man Nate didn’t know the name of, an oversight he’d have to correct when time allowed for a proper introduction.
Tandy hurriedly interjected her thoughts on the matter, and she didn’t bother to mince words. “Those blue-hatted polecats! They done dug themselves an escape tunnel. They’s in the caves! Those sneaky, good-for-nuthin’, struttin’, sneaky Krauts!” Again, no one bothered to correct her, minor point as it was. The UN forces were comprised mostly of Belgians and Luxembourgers with perhaps a couple of Alsace Germans thrown into the mix.
Thinking quickly Nate formulated a plan of action. “Radio the other teams, give them a heads up and tell them to place every single or even suspected exit point under direct observation. Report any activity, and if needs be fire on them enough to keep them bottled up if we can.”
“Meantime get a couple of squads together and find out who’s still in there and if there is anything we can do for them. Otherwise secure the premises and get those vehicles fired up and moved someplace safe until we can find crews who can operate them.”
Everyone present nodded in affirmation and the huddle began to break up as they carried word back to their respective sectors. Two working squads were formed from men known to their sector leaders to be at least familiar with building assaults, and by the way carrying weapons appropriate to the task. One man was a veteran of Fallujah and was quickly designated as lead man for his team, which was even more quickly tasked with the front entry.
There was a mad scramble as the teams took up positions and quickly delineated roles. Elsewhere radios crackled and other assault forces found throughout the park quickly shifted positions and reorganized to meet the new threat.
The Giats were quickly secured and drivers found who could operate them in road mode if not actually make the main weapons function. For now they wouldn’t be needed, or so it was hoped.
Wasting no further time the two entry teams made ready while sharpshooters welded cheeks to stocks in case they needed to intervene should the entry teams meet greater opposition than what was apparent. On hearing the bird call as imitated by the poacher-turned-militiaman they kicked in their doors and entered, spraying their ends of the building as they did so with a magazine’s-worth of rapid fire.
“Clear!” “Clear!” Monosyllabic shouts rang out throughout the building. Other than the initial entry fire there were no other reports. Nary a single responding shot rang out to greet them.
Cautiously picking their way through the rubble of the few areas the building was divided into they found a barricade of footlockers and other furniture piled slightly off center in a larger area obviously used as a common barracks. The sound of labored breathing came from within the pile.
Carefully, exposing themselves as little as possible, they approached the improvised bunker. The sounds within were growing stronger as they grew closer. They paused for a moment, and then one of the braver men drew himself up to peer over a lower point in the riddled pile of debris.
An olive-skinned man was on the floor, legs drawn up, hugging himself. There was blood issuing forth from at least 2 wounds. Sensing he was being observed the man’s pain-wracked face turned to look at his observer, and his moans resumed for just a moment, then he spoke.
“No disparen! No disparen! Estoy herido!” (Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I am wounded!)
Dateline: Andrea
Andrea Steinkuehler was an unusual girl to say the least. Of German-Dane heritage, with the hint of a possible Hungarian somewhere in the family tree, she had been born and raised in the German immigrant community of Schleswig, Iowa.
Though her family had more or less left their German heritage behind after immigrating in the 1880’s, ever since she was a little girl, and had first learned of her heritage, Andrea had at least tried to embrace all things pertinent to her European ancestry.
At the age of around 4 years – as best she could recall – she had made the chance acquaintance of a friend of her grandfather’s, one Dietrich Trommler. Dietrich had proven to be a fascinating fellow, who would bounce the little girl on his knee while he spoke of the days of his youth, his service with the Kriegsmarine in the war, his subsequent capture in the port of Bizerte, Tunisia, and his eventual internment in a POW camp in Algona, Iowa.
Dietrich had been born in the area of Schwerin, Germany, in the year 1922. His father was a veteran of The Great War, and a lukewarm advocate of Germany as a mighty country. After the war he had made his way home to his native state of Mecklenburg where he took up with the family farm.
In 1926 his father, sensing that remaining in his native land might not be in the best interests of his growing family, took to relocate them to first Neumunster in the state of Schleswig-Holstein, and then 19 months later, having put away a small reserve of cash money, again to farm country between Kiel and Schleswig, where Dietrich eventually came of age.
Being the oldest son Dietrich was at first exempt from military call-up, as he was needed to help with the family farm. But after a younger brother had been reported as missing in action during Operation Barbarossa Dietrich decided that he could not in good conscience stay behind and milk cows, raise sugar beets and rye, and otherwise avoid the war.
Despite his father’s entreaties Dietrich reported for enlistment, and given his choice of services selected the Kriegsmarine, hoping he would be stationed in Kiel, close to family and home. While he was initially successful in this he was soon after transferred, and found himself assigned as a Zwillingsockel gunner stationed amidships on a German Schnellboot that was first assigned to patrol the Ostsee, and later transferred complete with crew to Mediterranean duty, assigned to the seaborne wing of the famed Afrika Korps.
Andrea often found herself laughing at Dietrich’s German accent. He had worked hard over the decades to diminish it as much as possible in his quest to fit in to this adopted homeland, but the rolled r’s and harsh ick-like sounds when he pronounced certain words always seemed to come through. Once he identified himself as the operator of the mysterious Zwillingsockel she underwent a transformation. She of course had no idea what he was talking about, something to do with socks and shoes she imagined, but it sounded exotic. From that day forward Andrea undertook with all her child-like seriousness to have Dietrich teach her to speak his native language.
Dietrich, for his part, had sired 4 sons, but never a daughter. Andrea became his de facto adoptive daughter, and the subject of his fatherly affections. Where none of his own kin ever sought to learn their father’s native tongue here he had an eager student willing to learn to converse with him in his own language, one he had so long tried to suppress.
One day, when Andrea was approaching her 11th birthday, she asked Dietrich how he had met his American wife, Betty.
“Ach! So you want to know how I met the mother of my children? So, I will tell you.”
Taking his meerschaum pipe out of a pocket of his hickory-striped bib overalls he put it between his teeth and clenched it, a habit of his when he was reminiscing. He never smoked it save for the confines of his home office or sitting room, but the habit had been ingrained for decades.
“Well, as you say, I vas just minding mine own business, walking down the street in Algona, vondering vhat I should make of mine self now that the var is over. See… this I haf told you before, but after the Reich surrendered and ve vere freed not all of us vanted to go back home. For close to 2 years now I haf been vorking the farms in Iowa, milking die cows and harvesting die hay and die korn.”
“They say – the government – that ve can go back now, Germany needs us to help rebuild. But I do not go, mein Liebchen. Nein, I decide to remain here, in Amerika, where die jobs are many and new friends I have.”
“But Uncle Dietrich, how did you meet your wife?” Innocent eyes gazed up at her adoptive uncle from where she sat on a small dais near his chair in her grandfather’s den, the scene of so many hours of storytelling by the adults who helped shape her into the woman she would become.
“Ja, I come to that.” Dietrich felt enough at ease with Andrea’s grandfather, as well as his precious little granddaughter, who was a frequent visitor to the family homestead, that he let slip his efforts to control his accent. To those who were close to him it merely endeared him all the more.
“So, there I vas, valking down die street in the big town of Algona, US of A, vondering vhere I find a good job and place to live, und dere she vas, Das Mädchen unter der Laterne.”
His eyes grew rheumy, a fact not lost on either Andrea or her grandfather, who was seated in his own favorite overstuffed leather chair. Dietrich had lost his beloved wife nearly 2 years before to a fast-growing cancer. Since then he had been a more frequent visitor to her grandfather’s farm, Cronk’s Café, and the local sale barn where he spent hours watching the livestock sales and trying to second guess the buyers as to how much a lot of animals were worth vs. what they would eventually sell for.
“She vas the most beautiful sight I have ever laid mine own eyes on. She was so pretty, and vhen I ask her name, she tells me she is vorking at the Rexall drug store, outside of vich she was leaning against the lamppost, and that if I vished to buy her a lime phosphate she might even tell me her name.”
Our young Andrea was entranced, and truth be told, her grandfather was interested as well, having never heard the story of how his friend had met his American wife, thus sealing his decision to remain in the US.
“She tells me, after I pay for her phosphate of course, vith vhat little money I haf from vorking on die farms vhat use die prizoners for working so young Amerikan boys can go fight in die var.”
Dietrich paused, his eyes unfocused as he evidently remembered those days long past. Andrea and her grandfather were used to these periods and wisely maintained a respectful silence until he worked it out for himself.
“Her name, she says, is Betty Lillian Schulte. The Betty I do not know about, just that it is an American girl name, but Lillian Schulte in German. Ve talk for a bit, while die people, they see me in my prisoner uniform, even though ve are free to come and go as ve please by den, and they frown their faces at us. But me, dis I do not care.”
A smile spread across his face as he remembered the day in Algona when he sat on a round stool at the soda fountain inside the Rexall Drug in Algona, Iowa, in late October 1944.
“I zing to her, you know. I sing die song Lili Marlene.”
Breaking out right there in her grandfather’s study the suddenly youthful Dietrich broke into song, sung low but with a smile of his face.
“Vor der Kaserne
Vor der grossen Tor
Stand eine Laterne
Und steht sie noch davor
So woll'n wir uns da wieder seh'n
Bei der Laterne wollen wir steh'n
Wie einst Lili Marleen.
Unsere beide Schatten
Sah'n wie einer aus
Dass wir so lieb uns hatten
Das sah man gleich daraus
Und alle Leute soll'n es seh'n
Wenn wir bei der Laterne steh'n
Wie einst Lili Marleen.
Schon rief der Posten,
Sie blasen Zapfenstreich
Das kann drei Tage kosten
Kam'rad, ich komm sogleich
Da sagten wir auf Wiedersehen
Wie gerne wollt ich mit dir geh'n
Mit dir Lili Marleen.
Deine Schritte kennt sie,
Deinen zieren Gang
Alle Abend brennt sie,
Doch mich vergass sie lang
Und sollte mir ein Leids gescheh'n
Wer wird bei der Laterne stehen
Mit dir Lili Marleen?
Aus dem stillen Raume,
Aus der Erde Grund
Hebt mich wie im Traume
Dein verliebter Mund
Wenn sich die späten Nebel drehn
Werd' ich bei der Laterne steh'n
Wie einst Lili Marleen.”
Andrea thought it one of the most lovely songs she had ever heard, though her knowledge of the German language was still quite immature, and some of the words escaped her understanding. But the wistfulness of it, the longing, struck a chord within her. From that day forward she redoubled her efforts to learn as much of the German language as she could.
Andrea had longed to visit Europe and thus the countries of her ancestors, but her foreign travels such as they were never brought her to the shores on that continent. Canada, Mexico and Central American countries were the only entry stamps ever to see the inside pages of her passport by the time the invaders came to America.
End Chapter XVII Part V
More to come soon!
Dateline: Andrea
Over the course of the 13-odd years since she’d obtained her nursing license Andrea had worked a myriad of positions throughout and within the institutions she’d been employed by. Initially she thought it was just her natural curiosity for something new and different. After a while though she began to realize what it was she was actually looking for: education and experience in as wide a variety of skills as practical, even esoteric in some instances.
Her time spent doing limited relief work in Central America had taught her valuable lessons about how to make do, and how much people could endure if their expectations weren’t too high to begin with, something her regular patients back in the US too often seemed to carry with them.
During one period in between staff positions she had actually tried the travel nurse avenue, making very good money in doing so but also learning fairly quickly over the course of 2 13-week assignments between Arizona and upper California that travel nursing was not going to be a way of life for her, no matter how well it might pay.
Andrea suffered a rather rude awakening when she discovered first hand how some patients in otherwise touristy areas expected to be treated. It was almost as though they were there in the hospital for a vacation, with the expectation that they would be waited on literally hand and foot, rather than there to receive medical care appropriate for their complaints.
Granted there was the occasional overbearing or otherwise pompous jerk or drama queen to be found back in the Midwestern states, but nothing on the level of routine encounters that she suffered through on her travel assignments. Patients with acute gastric disorders actually screamed and threw tantrums if they weren’t served what they thought they should be offered in the way of food and drink. Never mind that their doctors had deliberately chosen for them medically sound diets that reflected their altered state of health, and which would give their systems a chance to rest and the medications and antibiotics the opportunity to work their magic.
Andrea had followed with rapt fascination the accounts of medical relief workers with non-governmental relief agencies in war-torn areas such as Afghanistan and Iraq. While the latter had its moments after the first few years it was actually fairly safe for all concerned. But the ‘Stan, as it was known to those who served there, was another matter entirely.
Barely a year before the present events Andrea had chanced to make the acquaintance of a nurse who had actually served for months in the ‘Stan with an NGO group. He proved to be a wealth of information on austere procedures. His accounts of make-do medicine went into her mental files for later use if and when she ever had the need. How little did she realize just how soon she might have to draw on her new-found knowledge.
Dateline: Kentucky/Tennessee Area
The fight wasn’t over. Rather it had reached a sort of stand-off, with the men inside the building refusing to come out, and those on the outside puzzled by the lack of response to their demands. They had peppered the building such that there were hundreds of holes through the sides, windows and doorways. Granted, no few shots had been aimed so high as unlikely to have hit anyone who stood less than 6 and a half feet tall, but those attackers who possessed some semblance of self-control had deliberately aimed low enough to hit anyone who had been merely crouched inside.
A few wags had managed to pepper the outsides of the armored vehicles, just to make a statement rather than expecting to do any real damage. There was a low hum of murmuring in the air amongst the patriot forces. As the seconds ticked by it gave way to quiet conversations between neighboring men and women. Few amongst them actually thought the fight would be over so quickly, and no few secretly wished it would continue.
Nate Booker found himself puzzled. The building had been well ventilated. It should have been obvious by the volume of fire that the surrounding force was overwhelming. The occupants were cut off from the Giat armored cars, so they wouldn’t be of any benefit. Now well over a minute after the initial barrage of shots there had been not one shot fired in return. Aside from the low moan from within there were no sounds of occupancy. Surely the scouts hadn’t missed an evacuation of the forces within. It was virtually inconceivable.
A hasty meeting of the minds was called. Several men – and one woman – gathered in a sheltered spot both out of sight of and in no danger from fire from within the building.
Brad Garrett spoke first: “That was durn sur’ one heckoffa load o’ lead poured into that there buildin’.” Heads nodded in agreement all around.
Another man, known to Nate by sight but not by name, chimed in. “I figure roughly 600 or so rounds went in. But call me stupid if even one shot was fired in return. Heck, were it me in there I’d a least popped off a couple rounds after we ceased firing, just as a matter of defiance. Kill me if’n you can is my way of thinking but by golly I’m gonna take a coupla you with me.”
Nate, for his part, stared at the man. Something about what he’d said…..
Tandy Sue Hartely, the lone female member of the small assembly and one of the few in the entire assault force, took the moment of silence to add her thoughts. “It’s almost as if they’ve left. Maybe one person left behind just to make sure no one took advantage of them being gone and ransacked the barracks. But that doesn’t make any sense,” she said, frowning as she did so. “I mean, if’n it were me I’d have taken the tanks with me. What good are they otherwise if you don’t use them.”
Others in the group overlooked her use of the word ‘tanks’ to describe what were heavily armed 8-wheel assault vehicles rather than traditional tracked heavy armor. They weren’t here to argue semantics, and besides, Tan, as she was referred to by those who knew her well, was well-known as a real fireball when it came time to fight, whether in a honky-tonk or on the battlefield.
There followed a moment more of silence while everyone examined their own thoughts on the matter. Nate knew that whatever decision was made, or even if no decision were forthcoming, that ultimately the responsibility rested upon his shoulders.
Finally, clearing his throat, Nate spoke up. “What if… bear with me for a moment here because I’m still trying to think my way through this; what if they had an escape route. All that heavy movement we heard for a minute. Could they have been clearing access for a pre-planned getaway?”
Like a light going off in several heads at once several faces gleamed in dawning recognition.
“Daaa-yum! Why didn’t WE think of that!” The speaker was the man Nate didn’t know the name of, an oversight he’d have to correct when time allowed for a proper introduction.
Tandy hurriedly interjected her thoughts on the matter, and she didn’t bother to mince words. “Those blue-hatted polecats! They done dug themselves an escape tunnel. They’s in the caves! Those sneaky, good-for-nuthin’, struttin’, sneaky Krauts!” Again, no one bothered to correct her, minor point as it was. The UN forces were comprised mostly of Belgians and Luxembourgers with perhaps a couple of Alsace Germans thrown into the mix.
Thinking quickly Nate formulated a plan of action. “Radio the other teams, give them a heads up and tell them to place every single or even suspected exit point under direct observation. Report any activity, and if needs be fire on them enough to keep them bottled up if we can.”
“Meantime get a couple of squads together and find out who’s still in there and if there is anything we can do for them. Otherwise secure the premises and get those vehicles fired up and moved someplace safe until we can find crews who can operate them.”
Everyone present nodded in affirmation and the huddle began to break up as they carried word back to their respective sectors. Two working squads were formed from men known to their sector leaders to be at least familiar with building assaults, and by the way carrying weapons appropriate to the task. One man was a veteran of Fallujah and was quickly designated as lead man for his team, which was even more quickly tasked with the front entry.
There was a mad scramble as the teams took up positions and quickly delineated roles. Elsewhere radios crackled and other assault forces found throughout the park quickly shifted positions and reorganized to meet the new threat.
The Giats were quickly secured and drivers found who could operate them in road mode if not actually make the main weapons function. For now they wouldn’t be needed, or so it was hoped.
Wasting no further time the two entry teams made ready while sharpshooters welded cheeks to stocks in case they needed to intervene should the entry teams meet greater opposition than what was apparent. On hearing the bird call as imitated by the poacher-turned-militiaman they kicked in their doors and entered, spraying their ends of the building as they did so with a magazine’s-worth of rapid fire.
“Clear!” “Clear!” Monosyllabic shouts rang out throughout the building. Other than the initial entry fire there were no other reports. Nary a single responding shot rang out to greet them.
Cautiously picking their way through the rubble of the few areas the building was divided into they found a barricade of footlockers and other furniture piled slightly off center in a larger area obviously used as a common barracks. The sound of labored breathing came from within the pile.
Carefully, exposing themselves as little as possible, they approached the improvised bunker. The sounds within were growing stronger as they grew closer. They paused for a moment, and then one of the braver men drew himself up to peer over a lower point in the riddled pile of debris.
An olive-skinned man was on the floor, legs drawn up, hugging himself. There was blood issuing forth from at least 2 wounds. Sensing he was being observed the man’s pain-wracked face turned to look at his observer, and his moans resumed for just a moment, then he spoke.
“No disparen! No disparen! Estoy herido!” (Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I am wounded!)
Dateline: Andrea
Andrea Steinkuehler was an unusual girl to say the least. Of German-Dane heritage, with the hint of a possible Hungarian somewhere in the family tree, she had been born and raised in the German immigrant community of Schleswig, Iowa.
Though her family had more or less left their German heritage behind after immigrating in the 1880’s, ever since she was a little girl, and had first learned of her heritage, Andrea had at least tried to embrace all things pertinent to her European ancestry.
At the age of around 4 years – as best she could recall – she had made the chance acquaintance of a friend of her grandfather’s, one Dietrich Trommler. Dietrich had proven to be a fascinating fellow, who would bounce the little girl on his knee while he spoke of the days of his youth, his service with the Kriegsmarine in the war, his subsequent capture in the port of Bizerte, Tunisia, and his eventual internment in a POW camp in Algona, Iowa.
Dietrich had been born in the area of Schwerin, Germany, in the year 1922. His father was a veteran of The Great War, and a lukewarm advocate of Germany as a mighty country. After the war he had made his way home to his native state of Mecklenburg where he took up with the family farm.
In 1926 his father, sensing that remaining in his native land might not be in the best interests of his growing family, took to relocate them to first Neumunster in the state of Schleswig-Holstein, and then 19 months later, having put away a small reserve of cash money, again to farm country between Kiel and Schleswig, where Dietrich eventually came of age.
Being the oldest son Dietrich was at first exempt from military call-up, as he was needed to help with the family farm. But after a younger brother had been reported as missing in action during Operation Barbarossa Dietrich decided that he could not in good conscience stay behind and milk cows, raise sugar beets and rye, and otherwise avoid the war.
Despite his father’s entreaties Dietrich reported for enlistment, and given his choice of services selected the Kriegsmarine, hoping he would be stationed in Kiel, close to family and home. While he was initially successful in this he was soon after transferred, and found himself assigned as a Zwillingsockel gunner stationed amidships on a German Schnellboot that was first assigned to patrol the Ostsee, and later transferred complete with crew to Mediterranean duty, assigned to the seaborne wing of the famed Afrika Korps.
Andrea often found herself laughing at Dietrich’s German accent. He had worked hard over the decades to diminish it as much as possible in his quest to fit in to this adopted homeland, but the rolled r’s and harsh ick-like sounds when he pronounced certain words always seemed to come through. Once he identified himself as the operator of the mysterious Zwillingsockel she underwent a transformation. She of course had no idea what he was talking about, something to do with socks and shoes she imagined, but it sounded exotic. From that day forward Andrea undertook with all her child-like seriousness to have Dietrich teach her to speak his native language.
Dietrich, for his part, had sired 4 sons, but never a daughter. Andrea became his de facto adoptive daughter, and the subject of his fatherly affections. Where none of his own kin ever sought to learn their father’s native tongue here he had an eager student willing to learn to converse with him in his own language, one he had so long tried to suppress.
One day, when Andrea was approaching her 11th birthday, she asked Dietrich how he had met his American wife, Betty.
“Ach! So you want to know how I met the mother of my children? So, I will tell you.”
Taking his meerschaum pipe out of a pocket of his hickory-striped bib overalls he put it between his teeth and clenched it, a habit of his when he was reminiscing. He never smoked it save for the confines of his home office or sitting room, but the habit had been ingrained for decades.
“Well, as you say, I vas just minding mine own business, walking down the street in Algona, vondering vhat I should make of mine self now that the var is over. See… this I haf told you before, but after the Reich surrendered and ve vere freed not all of us vanted to go back home. For close to 2 years now I haf been vorking the farms in Iowa, milking die cows and harvesting die hay and die korn.”
“They say – the government – that ve can go back now, Germany needs us to help rebuild. But I do not go, mein Liebchen. Nein, I decide to remain here, in Amerika, where die jobs are many and new friends I have.”
“But Uncle Dietrich, how did you meet your wife?” Innocent eyes gazed up at her adoptive uncle from where she sat on a small dais near his chair in her grandfather’s den, the scene of so many hours of storytelling by the adults who helped shape her into the woman she would become.
“Ja, I come to that.” Dietrich felt enough at ease with Andrea’s grandfather, as well as his precious little granddaughter, who was a frequent visitor to the family homestead, that he let slip his efforts to control his accent. To those who were close to him it merely endeared him all the more.
“So, there I vas, valking down die street in the big town of Algona, US of A, vondering vhere I find a good job and place to live, und dere she vas, Das Mädchen unter der Laterne.”
His eyes grew rheumy, a fact not lost on either Andrea or her grandfather, who was seated in his own favorite overstuffed leather chair. Dietrich had lost his beloved wife nearly 2 years before to a fast-growing cancer. Since then he had been a more frequent visitor to her grandfather’s farm, Cronk’s Café, and the local sale barn where he spent hours watching the livestock sales and trying to second guess the buyers as to how much a lot of animals were worth vs. what they would eventually sell for.
“She vas the most beautiful sight I have ever laid mine own eyes on. She was so pretty, and vhen I ask her name, she tells me she is vorking at the Rexall drug store, outside of vich she was leaning against the lamppost, and that if I vished to buy her a lime phosphate she might even tell me her name.”
Our young Andrea was entranced, and truth be told, her grandfather was interested as well, having never heard the story of how his friend had met his American wife, thus sealing his decision to remain in the US.
“She tells me, after I pay for her phosphate of course, vith vhat little money I haf from vorking on die farms vhat use die prizoners for working so young Amerikan boys can go fight in die var.”
Dietrich paused, his eyes unfocused as he evidently remembered those days long past. Andrea and her grandfather were used to these periods and wisely maintained a respectful silence until he worked it out for himself.
“Her name, she says, is Betty Lillian Schulte. The Betty I do not know about, just that it is an American girl name, but Lillian Schulte in German. Ve talk for a bit, while die people, they see me in my prisoner uniform, even though ve are free to come and go as ve please by den, and they frown their faces at us. But me, dis I do not care.”
A smile spread across his face as he remembered the day in Algona when he sat on a round stool at the soda fountain inside the Rexall Drug in Algona, Iowa, in late October 1944.
“I zing to her, you know. I sing die song Lili Marlene.”
Breaking out right there in her grandfather’s study the suddenly youthful Dietrich broke into song, sung low but with a smile of his face.
“Vor der Kaserne
Vor der grossen Tor
Stand eine Laterne
Und steht sie noch davor
So woll'n wir uns da wieder seh'n
Bei der Laterne wollen wir steh'n
Wie einst Lili Marleen.
Unsere beide Schatten
Sah'n wie einer aus
Dass wir so lieb uns hatten
Das sah man gleich daraus
Und alle Leute soll'n es seh'n
Wenn wir bei der Laterne steh'n
Wie einst Lili Marleen.
Schon rief der Posten,
Sie blasen Zapfenstreich
Das kann drei Tage kosten
Kam'rad, ich komm sogleich
Da sagten wir auf Wiedersehen
Wie gerne wollt ich mit dir geh'n
Mit dir Lili Marleen.
Deine Schritte kennt sie,
Deinen zieren Gang
Alle Abend brennt sie,
Doch mich vergass sie lang
Und sollte mir ein Leids gescheh'n
Wer wird bei der Laterne stehen
Mit dir Lili Marleen?
Aus dem stillen Raume,
Aus der Erde Grund
Hebt mich wie im Traume
Dein verliebter Mund
Wenn sich die späten Nebel drehn
Werd' ich bei der Laterne steh'n
Wie einst Lili Marleen.”
Andrea thought it one of the most lovely songs she had ever heard, though her knowledge of the German language was still quite immature, and some of the words escaped her understanding. But the wistfulness of it, the longing, struck a chord within her. From that day forward she redoubled her efforts to learn as much of the German language as she could.
Andrea had longed to visit Europe and thus the countries of her ancestors, but her foreign travels such as they were never brought her to the shores on that continent. Canada, Mexico and Central American countries were the only entry stamps ever to see the inside pages of her passport by the time the invaders came to America.
End Chapter XVII Part V
More to come soon!
