Fraternization Ch. 02

*****Author's note:

To those of you who are familiar with the German language, I apologize for butchering it. I am simply too lazy to bother with learning how to produce umlauts (the little dots over some German vowels) with an American keyboard; if they wanted me to use them they should have won the war. Also, I never could get the hang of which words to capitalize, so I've just used English grammatical rules. Again, to the victors go the spoils. That being said, I learned enough German to get around the country without starving or pissing myself, and I know how to ask, "Do you have any bombs or explosives or a pretty daughter?" which came in handy when working the main gate. Spelling and grammar aside, everything else about Germany should be pretty spot on, for those looking to get a realistic glimpse into another time and place.

*****

Chapter Two

The van pulled through the front gate of Spangdahlem Airbase, Germany, shortly before 1500 local.

"You want to go to billeting, or what?" Tom's driver, Bill, asked him.

"Um, if you could actually drop me off at the Security Forces squadron, I'd appreciate it," Tom requested. "I should probably check in there, first."

"Sure thing." Bill hung a right and drove past the base hotel on their way to the police headquarters. He pulled into the parking lot and told Tom, "I'll wait for you here."

"You sure, sir? I can hoof it back to Billeting from here."

"Nah, you go on ahead. Us cops gotta take care of our own," the retired Security Policeman (as Security Forces were called back before 1997) replied. "Besides, I'm ahead of schedule, not having had to make but three stops on this run. I've got time to kill."

Tom thanked the old man and hopped out, heading inside. He saw a sign for the administration office upstairs and checked in with the clerks. A pretty Senior Airman checked his ID, had him sign in and then handed him some paperwork. "Here you go, Airman Baird. Take this form to the housing office and they'll assign you a dorm room."

"Actually," Tom corrected, "I just sewed on Staff Sergeant on my way over here and haven't had a chance to get my ID card updated yet. Do I still get a dorm room?"

"Oh! In that case, no, they'll be putting you off base. You've got eight days for house hunting. So..." she checked her calendar, "we'll see you back here at 0730 on the seventeenth." She smiled up at him, clearly finished.

Tom hesitated. "That's it?"

"Yes, sir. Have fun!"

"Ok, thanks." He turned and went back to the waiting van, feeling a overwhelmed. I guess this is what it's like being an NCO, he thought. They just expect you to know what you're doing. It was only his second time PCSing (or transferring, as civilians called it. The military, true to form, had opted to create an initialism out of Permanent Change of Station rather than use the common term; why use a single, common word when you can use three and then shorten it in a way that no one on the outside would understand?). His first PCS move had been to Korea, where all the new arrivals were met by representatives from their squadron as they got off the plane and were hand-held through the entirety of inprocessing. The contrast between that and his arrival in Germany was a bit disconcerting, and Tom felt rather like he was left flapping in the wind.

Climbing in the front passenger seat, he asked Bill to take him to billeting. "I'll just pop inside with you, to make sure you're squared away," Bill volunteered. "They have a few different buildings scattered around base and it'll be easier if I hear first-hand where you're going."

It turned out to be a good thing, because, to Tom's dismay, he was informed by the front desk that they had no rooms available on base. "You'll be staying at one of our contracted hotels nearby, sir," the clerk informed him, handing the address to Bill. She gave a paper in German to Tom. "Just give this to the hotel and they will send the bill to us. You are authorized eight days, so try to find a place to live before that or you'll be paying out of pocket."

Tom and Bill headed back to the van and Tom offered to get a cab if Bill wanted to cut loose; the old man had done his job by just getting him to Spangdahlem from the airport.

"It's not a problem," Bill assure him. "I'm friends with the proprietor anyway. Runs a nice little gasthaus with a good bar."

The gasthaus in Nattenheim was a picturesque inn nestled in the heart of the little town. Like most small hotels in Germany, it was a combination of restaurant, pub and sleeping quarters, serving not only as a stopping point for wayfarers but also a gathering place and watering hole for the locals. Bill led Tom inside and introduced him to the owner, who spoke very little English; fortunately, Bill was fluent in German. Tom presented his voucher and Bill did the talking, which eventually ended with Tom being handed a glass of beer and led up two flights of stairs to his room at the top floor. Bill showed him the list of numbers on a card by the phone and pointed out which two were for taxis to get him back to base. "Just call one of them tonight and arrange for pickup tomorrow morning," he said.

Tom took the old fashioned, metal key from the proprietor and said, "Danke," stretching his own command of the German language almost to the max. To Bill, he held out his hand. "Thanks again for everything, sir. I really do appreciate all your help. I'd have been SOL without you."

"Not a problem," his driver waved dismissively. "Just don't give me a ticket if you see me speeding on base."

"Fair enough," Tom said with a laugh.

As the door shut behind the old man, Tom looked around the small room. The walls were made of wood paneling, though Tom was happy to see that it was actual, polished boards rather than the cheap faux-wood sheets that adorned trailers and basement dens across America. The light of the setting sun poured through a skylight set in the low roof that slanted down over the bed, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. Tom sat on the bed, settling on the soft, white comforter and kicking off his shoes. The innkeeper had invited him down for dinner at 1900, but the long day and the jet lag were starting to catch up with him. It took the last of his remaining energy to arrange for a cab in the morning and grab a quick shower before sliding under the comforter, nestling into the down pillow.

As sleep approached, the nearby church bells tolled out the hour. He sighed contentedly and thought about his trip, images of Vanessa filling his mind. His cock rose slightly, remembering the feeling of her lips, but even it was too tired to do more than twitch once and then collapse. He drifted off to sleep, imagining that his head was pillowed not on feathers but on the soft mounds of his lovely captain.

***

Tom rose the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the world despite waking several times in the night. His first priority was to get a rental car, and Bill had told him that there were a couple of companies on base. After he had wheels, he could focus on finding a place to live. Having just been promoted to Staff Sergeant, the Air Force's first Noncommissioned Officer rank, it would be his first time living off base since joining up. His first duty location, down in Georgia, had provided single-occupant rooms with a shared bathroom, and Korea had consisted of dorms (the Air Force found the term "barracks" too militaristic) with two to a room, sharing a bathroom with another two, so he was looking forward to finally getting his own place. After four years in the dorms he knew that he wanted to avoid apartments, and the housing allowance he received from the military would more than cover a single-family dwelling in the local area. He just hoped he could find somewhere good in his allotted time.

Thanks to the jet lag and early bedtime the night before, he was up before his alarm and still had a couple hours before his cab was scheduled to arrive. After visiting the latrine to jettison all unnecessary cargo, he pulled on his running clothes and eased down the stairs, not wanting to bother any other guests. Dawn was just breaking over the sleeping town when he stepped out on the sidewalk. The morning was cool and crisp, and from somewhere nearby he heard a rooster crow. Across the street was a large garden where dew dripped from the leaves and the first song birds were just warming up their vocal chords. Up the street the white tower of the local church rose high, and the bells rang again, declaring the time to be 0600. Tom grimaced and determined to watch out for houses near churches. The bells, which had first struck him as quaint and pleasant, had lost their charm during the night. He was not sure if the practice of ringing every hour, on the hour, was universal in Germany, but he did not want to take any chances. At midnight Tom had decided that the locals must a unique breed, unwilling to invest in the own clocks but still possessing a burning desire to know the time. At 0300, he figured that the job of bell ringer must constantly be open due to the incumbents no doubt getting lynched with their own rope on a regular basis.

After a leisurely jog through the quiet (at least until 0700 rolled around) he returned to his gasthaus in time for a quick shower before breakfast. Entering the restaurant, a pretty, young woman greeted him and gave him a menu.

"Do I just sit anywhere?" he asked, unfamiliar with the local protocol.

"Yes, please sit where you like," she indicated the open dining area. Tom was the only guest present and had his pick, settling on a table with his back to the wall and a view of the doors.

"You are in room three zed one, ya?" the girl asked him, her accent strong but her command of the language good. Tom would find that most of the younger generation was fairly fluent in English, having been required to take several years of it during school. Still, it took him a minute to translate the British "zed" before he nodded, "Yes, ma'am."

"Mein father said that an American had arrived last night," she said with a smile. Tom liked her smile. Her teeth were white and straight, no doubt thanks to a little orthodontic work in recent years, and her cheeks dimpled prettily while her blue eyes sparkled. It became evident that she liked what she was seeing as well when she added, "He did not say that he was so handsome."

Tom blushed, a bit taken aback by the forwardness of the compliment, and stammered, "Ah, well, I don't suppose that would have been something he'd notice. Or want to report, if he had."

The girl laughed and said, "Parents can be so neglectful sometimes. Well," she clapped her hands together, getting down to business, "we are glad you are here. Will you stay with us long?"

"For a week, probably. I just got here and need to find a house."

"Ach, only a week!" Her lips turned down in a pout just as pretty as her smile. "You must come back and eat with us often, then," she declared.

Tom was agreeable, saying, "I'm sure I will. After all, this is my favorite restaurant in these parts."

The girl gave him a puzzled look. "But you have not had any food yet."

"True," Tom allowed, "but since this is the only restaurant I've been to around here, it is definitely my favorite."

This earned another laugh from his waitress, which was what Tom was going for. "Very logical," she said, her eyes crinkling in merriment. "I will let you look at the menu and be back in a moment. Can I offer you any caffe?"

"Yes, please."

"Sugar? Cream?"

"Just black, thank you." The girl nodded approvingly and departed. She returned a few minutes later and asked if he had decided on his order. Tom had studied the menu closely, trying to piece together what various things were, doing his best to find English cognates before finally giving up. "You know," he said, "since this is my first German breakfast, maybe you could just bring me whatever is traditional, please?"

She smiled again, dimples showing to good effect, and left him once more only to return a short while later bearing some strudel, a side of some kind of sliced meat and cheese and some fresh fruit.

"I hope it is enough," she said, apprehensively. "German breakfasts are not usually very big. We do not like to start our days feeling stuffed like a boar."

"This is great," Tom lied, not letting the dismay show on his face. Remember to stop by the commissary and grab some granola bars or something, he told himself. Still, the food was good, stressing quality over quantity, and the best part was that his waitress asked if he minded if she sat with him while he ate. "Please do, as long as you don't mind me eating in front of you," Tom replied, indicating the chair across from him.

"Please, what is your name?" the girl asked just as he took a mouthful of strudel. He hurriedly chewed and swallowed before answering, "Tomas Baird, but my friends call me Tom. And yours?"

"I am Anja Weber," his waitress replied.

Tom held out his hand, "Pleased to meet you, Anja." They shook and she smiled again. Tom was taken by her blue eyes and dark, brunette hair pulled back in a pony tail to keep it out of people's food. Her light blue blouse was slightly puffy, especially at the short sleeves, with a lacy neckline cut low enough to show just a hint of cleavage. It had fallen away nicely as she leaned over to set down his plate and Tom had been treated to a glimpse of a matching blue bra containing two soft orbs of ample flesh. A long, green skirt clad her from the waist down, flowing loosely but still clinging enough to suggest shapely legs and show off a firm backside, which Tom had noted when she had departed for the kitchen. Minus the dark hair, she was about as stereotypical a specimen of German maidenhood as Tom had ever hoped to find.

He pegged her at roughly his own age, maybe a year or two younger, and was relieved to learn that he had not been checking out a deceptively well-developed minor when she revealed that she had finished school the year before and was headed off to university the next month. Tom was not sure what the age of consent was in Deutschland, but he knew what the UCMJ said it was, local laws notwithstanding. He had flaunted military justice enough the day before and was not looking to make a habit of it.

Anja asked him questions about America as he ate and he did his best to keep from talking with his mouth full. He, in turn, asked her about some German words and phrases, trying to build his meager vocabulary. "How do you say, 'please'?" he asked.

"Bitte," she said, pronouncing it "bit-ah." "But, bitte is also how you say, 'You are welcome,' if you add 'schon.'" She pronounced it "shoon." "Though 'bitteshon' is formal, and we say 'bitte' for 'you are welcome' for short."

"So, bitte for 'please,' and bitte for 'you're welcome'," Tom tried to keep up. "Is it kinda like leaving off the 'you're' in English? Like just saying, 'Welcome,' to someone when they say 'thanks?' Does 'schon' mean 'you're?'"

"Ach, no, 'schon' is 'nice' or 'pretty'. But with 'bitte' it is like saying 'you're welcome' politely."

"Like saying, 'Thank you, kindly,' then," Tom said, nodding. Anja shrugged, not being familiar with the saying. "So," Tom continued, innocently, "what is the word for 'very'?"

"Sehr."

"And how do I say, 'You are'?"

"Sie sind. Sie," she pronounced it "zee," "is 'you,' 'sind' is 'are.'"

"Ok, let me see if I got this right," Tom said, putting the phrase together in his mind before attempting, "Sie sind sehr schon."

Anja blushed and smiled, saying, "Dankeshon."

"Danke for the lesson," Tom smiled back, his eyes twinkling playfully. Before he had a chance to continue, he saw a black sedan with a yellow taxi sign on the roof pull up in front of the gasthaus and silently cursed its timing. "My ride is here," he said apologetically. "What do I owe for the meal?"

"Nothing," Anja said, shaking her head. "Breakfast is included with the room."

"Well, thank you again for the food and for the German lessons, schon, uh, fraulein? Frau?" He struggled to find the right word.

The girl laughed, saying, "Fraulein is correct. Frau is for a married woman."

"Gotcha. Anyway, I've got to run. Will I see you this evening?"

"I will be here," she said, indicating the dining area.

"Excellent." Tom stood and headed for his waiting cab. With a last, backward glance, he gave a little wave to the pretty girl who was leaning over, gathering his dishes, offering a departing peek down her shirt.

***

A quick ride to base brought Tom to the Sixt rental car office, where he procured a vehicle. He had been worried that he would need to get an international license before they would rent to him, but it turned out that his stateside diver's license was good enough for the Germans. Next stop was the Housing Office, where he signed in and was given a large book filled with rental listings. He picked out several, jotting down addresses and phone numbers, deciding to go scope them out before setting up walk-throughs. No point wasting time if the house was, say, right next door to a church with an active belfry.

A quick stop by the Base Exchange, or BX, to grab a cheap, prepaid cell phone and a local map and he was ready to explore. He was tempted to get a GPS, or spring for a smartphone that would work in Germany, but decided against it. He needed to gather more intel on which local carrier was best and he disliked GPSs in general. Something about the dictatorial nature of Bitchin' Betty telling him how far to go and when to turn rubbed him the wrong way. Plus, he had learned that relying on a GPS was a surefire way to not learn your way around. He preferred an old-fashioned, paper map with the wide open possibilities it presented. No robotically accepting the "best" path as determined by his tech overlords, Tom would figure out where he wanted to go and then plot his own course. It just felt more American.

Tom's eschewing of German efficiency in favor of American independence led to a highly enjoyable day of exploration, multiple u-turns and several instances of ending up in the wrong town completely. He learned that German roads did not rely on the points of the compass, but rather listed signs to the next town upon leaving the last one. Consequently, he had to figure out all the villages in between where he was and where he wanted to go, writing down the list of unfamiliar names, hopping from one town to the next. The roads followed the land, twisting and turning through gullies and around hills, and he could well imagine them starting off as foot paths trod by Germanic barbarians and Roman scouts, then expanding for knight-ridden horses and peasants' carts before making the jump to automobiles and panzers. He followed the ancient highways and byways, exploring the German countryside, racing through fields and forests, deep ravines and rolling hills. Everything was neat and contained, with none of the spread-out farm houses and country living he was familiar with back home. The villages were modern versions of their medieval selves, tight, compact for protection and ease of walking, surrounded by fertile farms and dark woods, the farmers apparently living on outer edges if the presence of tractors and harvesters was any indication. Tom had been hoping to find a place out in the country with no neighbors in sight, but he was forced to give up the notion. On the plus side, the roads between villages were free of traffic entering from driveways and side streets, and he was able to race along at speeds that would have been far too risky in the States.

Afternoon was showing a definite tendencies to start identifying as evening by the time he completed his list. Of the dozen or so possible homes, four stood out as being worth a walkthrough and he had made appointments for the next day. His navigations skills paid off and he made it back to his hotel without incident, recognizing a couple towns along the way as places he had gotten lost in. He was tempted to head directly to chow in hopes of catching Anja, but decided on a quick shower and a change of clothes, wanting to present a better image than his cargo shorts and t-shirt.