I Won't Hurry You

"Well, Lieutenant?"

I really had no choice. The operation was for Elke, and Elke was my responsibility.

"Yes, Sir, I volunteer."

The Colonel nodded as if this was expected and said, "You're relieved from all duties. I'll speak with Captain Myer. Go with the First Sergeant, and he'll explain how it's going to happen."

We drove to a building some distance from the office.

Something had bothered me ever since Elke came back from Choiden. "Top, they never were going after Sophie, were they?"

"Lieutenant, you and I don't know the answer to that question. War and spying is nasty business, and sometimes bad things happen. No good can come to you and Elke if you let that question fester in you.

"You should focus on the mission.

"Right now you're going to meet the team. You're going to face a great deal of hostility from these men. They train as a team and you're breaking up the team. They know you didn't make the decision, but you're an officer. Their attitude against you doesn't make sense, but it's the real world."

As usual, the First Sergeant was right. I walked into a small room and three pairs of hostile eyes stared through me as he made the introductions. There was no hand shaking, smiles, or even an attempt at politeness. The three were all infantry sergeants, obviously in great shape, and they looked mean. The head of the team was a soldier named Waters.

Top took me over to a wall where a large cardboard was nailed up. The room layout of the farmhouse and barn was sketched on the cardboard. He started pointing out the various rooms when I heard one of the men mutter, "Candy ass Lieutenant. Probably hasn't fired a gun in..."

Top whirled around; it was a person I hadn't seen before—his face was hard and I could see a vein throb in his forehead.

"Waters, you're a god damn, fucking moron. The Lieutenant volunteered for this; you know he wasn't part of the decision, and you don't know him. You're making an assumption—an assumption that can get your team killed.

"The Lieutenant will do his job, which is anything you tell him to do.

"Are you going to do your job, Waters?"

"Jeez, Top, take it easy. I was just..."

"It ain't 'Top,'Sergeant; it's First Sergeant."

The room was deadly quiet. Finally, Waters said, "I'll do my job, First Sergeant."

I'd never seen this side of Franklin and was surprised, if not a bit scared. The gentle sarcasm and chiding which was the personality that I had seen was gone; in place was one tough soldier who wouldn't back down to anyone.

His face relaxed and the tension in the room dissipated.

The plan was meant to be simple. The two other sergeants would go over two nights before the grab, hunker down, and observe the buildings to make sure that nothing that Elke had described had changed. Waters and I would go over on the night of the operation and meet up with the first two. Assuming no surprises, we would overpower the staff and take over the building at 0300—that time of night everyone should be asleep or wishing they were.

"We" was not quite correct. The three sergeants would overpower the staff. When the buildings were secure, Waters would signal me to approach the buildings. My job was to gather any information in the house such as codebooks, signal communication and records. Elke had spotted two safes that were open when the communication room was staffed, and a filing cabinet in the Commander's office. We were hopeful to get some useful information.

Waters asked when I had last fired a rifle. Somewhat embarrassed, I told him at Officer's Basic School, which was over a year ago. He made the decision that I would only carry a sidearm with three loaded magazines.

We would go over and come back in a liquor truck that was used for smuggling—the Russian border guards got a case to let the truck go over the border, the mayor and army garrison commander of the city got two cases each for allowing the smuggling, and the restaurants paid an enormous price to obtain the scotch for their customers. Everyone was in on the take—the truck had been crossing twice a week for months. The truck had a false compartment in the front; it looked like the liquor was stacked against the wall, but the wall hid a two-foot concealed space right behind the cab of the truck.

We would stay at the farm house until our truck came back at about 0600. The four soldiers and three kids would squeeze into the hidden compartment and cross back into West Germany. It would be a very tight fit with seven of us in such a tiny space, and it was obvious why the team was limited to four members.

There was also a "Plan B." Everyone but me winced when "Plan Bravo" was described. Our normal helicopter was "the bubble" that could be used for observation, or medical evacuation with two stretchers lashed to the outside struts. It was called the OH-13H Sioux.

Our division had recently received the Sikorsky model S-55, which the army designated as the H-19C. It was designed as a utility troop carrier with a crew of two and a top speed of 75 mph. It was the first helicopter that could carry soldiers or wounded inside the hull, and the payload was about 1000 pounds. The helicopter was still being tested; the jury was out whether this new concept was viable.

In any case, an H-19C would be flying just inside the American sector border starting at 0300. If something went wrong with the truck, we would call it in and exit through the air. The calculation was that it would take 12 to 14 minutes from the time we called until the helicopter arrived at the landing zone.

To make Plan Bravo even dicier, the radio we would use—a modified PRC-10—had a limited range and we were at its limit.

Nobody liked Plan B. It was risky, the helicopter was still experimental, and infantry troops wanted their feet on the ground. The payload of 1000 pounds was pushing the limit for four soldiers with their equipment and three kids. To better the payload odds, it would be flying with only one pilot instead of its normal two.

After hearing about the helicopter, I winced also—this was not the way I wanted to come back.

As Top drove me back from the planning meeting he asked, "How many times have you fired your sidearm?"

"One hundred times, Top—twenty-five times at each of the summer camps, and once as a requirement for passing the Officer's Basic Course."

"So you haven't fired in over a year?"

"Yea."

He turned the jeep around and we headed for the armory.

He looked at me, "Check out a sidearm and bring three magazines and 500 rounds with you."

We drove to the firing range and as we arrived, a sergeant ran over and spotted the First Sergeant.

'Hi, Top. What do you need?"

"A place on the short range, and keep the officer-in-charge away from me."

The sergeant grinned, "No problem."

We stood in front of the target thirty feet away. "Lock and load, Lieutenant. Three magazines."

I fired away and when I was finished, we walked up to the target. Top looked at it for a few seconds and finally said, "Lieutenant, there is bad and god awful. What do you think?"

"I'm a little bit south of god awful."

His plan over the next two hours was to make me an expert. He quickly abandoned that idea and tried to make me adequate with the sidearm. Finally he came to the conclusion that he should teach me how not to shoot my fellow soldiers.

We were driving back from the firing range when Top said, "Lieutenant, I strongly suggest you don't chamber a round unless Waters tells you."

The answer was obvious; I agreed.

That night I told Elke about the change of plans. Already stressed to the limit with fears about Sophie, when she learned I was going with the grab team, she lost it—crying for hours. All I could do was hold her.

The two sergeants went over the next night. They used the radio to send a single, pre-arranged number each night that said the insertion was successful, they were observing, and nothing had changed from what Elke had told us.

Two nights later Waters and I slipped under the liquor truck and pulled ourselves into the hidden compartment and resealed the floor hatch that we had come through. It was a tight fit and coming home would be much worse.

The First Sergeant had assured me that he would meet Elke at her apartment and take her back to the base as soon as he knew we had crossed the border.

Waters and I had an uneasy truce. Nothing was said until we felt the truck braking. "We're at the border," he whispered.

We heard some laughing, the back door of the truck was opened and then shut, and the truck slipped into gear as it lurched forward. Thirty minutes later the truck stopped again and we heard two knocks on the panel. We unlashed the floor plate and dropped out. The truck left and continued its journey.

It was pitch dark and I could hardly see Waters standing next to me. He whispered, "Don't move; they'll find us."

Minutes later I heard two fingers click—the two sergeants were there and quickly led us to their observation post in a clump of trees next to an open field about 200 yards from the farmhouse. They had dug a shallow depression between two bushes, lined it with a blanket and then covered themselves with brush. During the day they were invisible, but had a clear look at the farm house and barn. At night they carefully explored the farm field locating the landing zone if Plan Bravo were executed, and deciding the best approach to the buildings without being seen.

There was one hitch—we were expecting two guards, two communications soldiers, the woman who cared for the kids, and the Commander. They told us that the Commander had left the farm house in the late afternoon and had not returned.

We hunkered down to observe, waiting for 0300. Waters whispered, "Lieutenant, nothing is going to happen for a while; just try to sleep."

He had become a comedian—there was no way I could sleep.

Our hiding place was next to a large farm field. I could smell the fertilizer—probably cow or horse manure or both—permeating our area. I thought, "I'm in a world of shit."

I nervously giggled to myself—I had exactly described my situation.

The time came and the three disappeared into the darkness. Before they left they gave me the binoculars, radio, and the marking lights in case Plan Bravo took place.

One sergeant would take care of the woman first, and then join the other two. Waters would take out the outside guard, and then the three would enter the house. I was watching through the binoculars—twenty minutes later I spotted a shadow appear behind the outside guard who was smoking. The cigarette fell to the ground. There was no sound.

Another fifteen minutes went by, and then I saw a single beam of light flash in my direction—the signal that the house was secure.

I ran to the house and entered the main room. Four men and a heavy-set woman were lying on the floor handcuffed to one another. They were all unconscious—each had been given a shot that would knock them out for at least five hours; we would be long gone by then. The truck was expected at 0630.

Waters immediately posted an outside guard and sent the other sergeant to watch the kids. When it was time to leave we would wake them and give them candy that was treated with a drug that would keep them drowsy and quiet.

He turned to me, "Do your thing, Lieutenant."

I walked into the communications room and found both safes open. I opened a duffel bag that I had brought and dumped the contents of both safes into it. There would be plenty of time to see what we got later.

I searched the rest of the room and found nothing else.

Next was the Commander's office. It had a desk with a phone, a bed, filing cabinet, and a bookcase—it was exactly as Elke had described it.

I searched the filing cabinet first. It was unlocked, which made me suspicious. There were some folders in it that I put in the duffel bag, but I didn't believe any sensitive information would be left in an unlocked filing cabinet.

I searched the bookcase next, but other than some pornographic picture books there was nothing else. I spotted a door to the closet and opened it. Much to my surprise I found a heavy, very large safe.

I yelled, "Waters. Come here."

Waters stared at the safe and said, "No one told us about this."

"Can you blow it open?" I asked.

"No way, Lieutenant. We didn't bring that kind of stuff with us."

He tried the handle to confirm it was locked, cursed, and walked away.

I was frustrated—there had to be something good in the safe, and I couldn't get to it.

For minutes I stared at the safe in dismay, but then I remembered something. A month earlier the security section of the battalion had come into our office during the weekend. After five hours they had found the combinations of over fifty percent of the safes in the room. Both enlisted men and officers had written the combination to their personal safes and hid them in their desks or underneath things on their desks. It was assumed they wrote the combination down when they first got it, but then, when they were sure that they had it memorized, they forgot to destroy the paper with the combination.

Colonel Weldon was embarrassed and chewed ass from the top down—no one was spared his anger at such a stupid, lazy action.

With nothing to do I went back to the commander's desk and searched every drawer, checking to make sure nothing was taped to the underside—nothing. I searched each item on his desk and still didn't see anything until I pulled a picture frame apart—the picture was of him receiving a medal from a general. On the backside of the picture was taped the combination.

I was excited and hurried over to the safe. Seconds later I twisted the handle and the door swung open.

"Waters," I yelled.

Waters walked in and stared, "Shit, Lieutenant, you did it. Take everything."

The safe contained about 50 audiotapes. On each of the tapes was attached a piece of paper that had a name on it. Three large manuals were in the safe. I opened one of them and it appeared to be a diary or log of activity. There were about 30 folders—some very thick and others with only had three or four pages. In some of the folders there were pictures—of naked men and women. The women were all extremely pretty, but the men ranged from muscular bodies with military type haircuts to old men with protruding stomachs and white hair. Finally, I found a thin notebook—each line had a day of the year and a six-digit number after the day. I couldn't make sense out of it.

I emptied the safe and put the contents into the duffel bag, which by now was quite full. I walked into the communications room to find Waters. He sat at the desk calmly smoking a cigarette.

He looked at me, glanced at his watch, and said, "A little more than two hours and we're gone."

I replied, "I think I found some good..."

At that instant, the phone rang.

Waters and I stared at the phone. He said what I had just thought, "Fuck!"

It rang a second time. "We have to answer it," I said.

"We're fucked," he repeated.

I picked up the phone and altered my voice to a higher pitch and said in German, "Do you know what time it is?"

A voice responded, "Who is this?"

I replied, "I worked 12 hours today and finally got to sleep, and I get an imbecile who asks me do I know who I am.

"What number did you dial, idiot?"

"68-66543."

"You dummy. You dialed the wrong number."

I slammed the phone down.

I looked at Waters. "He's going to call back. I'll answer in Russian and try to fake it, but I think we're in the shits."

The phone rang again. The Russians are uncomfortable talking on the phone and tend to take an aggressive posture. I answered with a typical Russian response, "So talk."

"Who is this?" the same voice demanded.

I ignored the question. "Me? I'm on my duty station."

There was a two second pause and then I heard the click as he hung up.

I looked at Waters, "I think it's the boss and he's on to us."

I didn't like Waters, but I have to admit that in a second he made a decision. He yelled to the outside guard, "We're going to Plan Bravo, get the kids and set up a landing zone."

He reached for his radio and yelled, "Eagle, Farmer. Plan Bravo. I repeat, Plan Bravo."

I heard the response, "Roger, Farmer, 14 minutes."

Waters replied, "It might be hot."

"Roger."

Waters looked at me. "The town is five miles away. It will take him some time to get troops. My guys will take care of the kids and set up the landing zone. Your job is to get the duffel bag to headquarters. Any questions?"

"No, Sergeant."

I heard the screams of little children as they woke up to soldiers pulling them from their beds.

Waters left me to make sure his men knew where to set up the landing zone—deep in the farmer's field with no obstructions for a helicopter coming in.

He came back to the house and we stood there watching the road. Waters was smoking another cigarette.

The radio came alive, "Three minutes."

We both saw three sets of headlights coming into view about 1500 yards down the road.

"Fuck! Let's go, Lieutenant—the train's leaving with or without us."

We started running just as we heard the distant sound of the helicopter. The other sergeants with the kids were at the landing zone. We were maybe 200 yards away.

I had just thought, "The irrigation ditches will stop the trucks from coming into the field—we're going to make it," when I heard the sound of automatic weapons start firing.

The helicopter swooped in and landed. The sergeants with the kids climbed aboard. We were only 40 yards from the helicopter when I heard a thud, and grunt. I heard Waters gasp, "Shit."

I looked back and saw he was down, writhing in pain.

"Fuck," I thought.

I ran back to him and yelled, "You've got to stand up so I can carry you."

I reached and grabbed his arm and I pulled as he braced himself on his good leg. As soon as he was standing, I put my shoulder into him—Waters on my left shoulder and the duffel back hanging from my right.

Those 40 yards seemed to take forever. I heard bullets hitting the ground near me, but the distance was still great enough to prevent accurate fire.

The helicopter's engine started racing even before I got to the door; Waters was yanked from me and pulled into the helicopter. I threw the duffel bag on the helicopter's floor just as I heard the engine go to full power and start to lift.

I reached for the edge of the door and caught it; the helicopter lifted and half my body was dangling out the door. Hands grabbed me and violently pulled me into the helicopter—I banged my leg really hard, but it didn't matter—we were at 20 feet and moving.

Someone pulled the door shut and the noise abated a little. I lay on the floor of the helicopter as it picked up speed and altitude. The kids were in the corner held by a sergeant. I spotted Sophie—a miniature version of Elke.

The other sergeant was cutting the pants leg of Waters to expose the wound. It was obvious he was in great pain.

"Do you want some happy juice?" he asked Waters.

He gasped, "Once we cross the border."

Ten minutes later the sergeant yelled, "We're across."

As the sergeant took the needle out to put him out of pain, Waters looked at me and said, "You ain't so bad after all, Lieutenant."

Ten seconds later Waters closed his eyes. I had crawled over to Sophie and hugged her as she slept in her drugged state. I assumed that everyone could see how scared I was; my body was shaking and I felt I could lose it at any time.

"Lieutenant."

I looked up. The other sergeant looked at me and pointed, "Lieutenant, you got dinged."

I glanced down and saw that blood had stained my entire right leg; I felt the first spasm of pain.

"Ten minutes out, Lieutenant," yelled the sergeant.