My Favorite 911 Memorial

Walking around a bend of the Rennsteig (see my last post for a description of this wonderful foot trail in Germany), I came upon a stone memorial to a military engagement that occurred there in 1944.



This Memorial stands beside the Rennsteig Trail.



The world being full of these stone and iron reminders of the valor and bravery of "our side" in some past struggle between right and wrong, I usually just walk past them. Its not that I do not appreciate the sacrifices made by people who have come before me. It is just that I often think we memorialize the wrong things. Worse, these memorials sometimes preserve in the minds of yet another generation the idea that there were only two sides in any war, our side and "evil." Twice worse, evil would have prevailed had it not been for the military prowess of our side. War was the answer and the solution. It often seems "God Almighty" needed to borrow the United States Military for a few years because evil was getting a little too much for him to handle.















The "Other Side" as seen through propaganda posters. (Click on them to see them in more detail.)


Thrice worse, there is evidently some psychological need to dehumanize our enemy. In order to justify to ourselves the great wrongs we think we must accomplish to "win" a war, our enemy must not be imagined to be people. They have to be monsters, devils, animals...but not people. Else, how could we ever use nuclear weapons on cities, chemical weapons on agricultural efforts, "shock and awe" theatrics against civilian populations, torture against their soldiers whom we capture in battle. No, we must first think of the other side as somehow less than human. Then we can live with our actions, no matter how inhuman these actions may become.



                                                             Nuremberg 1945



                                               Camp x-Ray, Guantanamo, Cuba 2002



                                               Dachau Concentration Camp, Bavaria 1945









Bataan Philippeans 1942










Chemical Warfare against Agricultural Lands in Mekong Delta in 1970












Largely Civilian City, Nagasaki Japan in Fall and Summer of 1945







Mai Lai Vietnam in 1968









Resisting the urge to think of my own side as "right" and the other side as "evil," I normally just walk on by war monuments.

But this time I stopped and translated. I don't know why, perhaps I was tired and in need of a short break from hiking. But I stopped and translated.



The original monument explained simply, "In memory of the fallen American and German pilots in an air battle over the Thuringen Forest on September 11, 1944."

I thought to myself, "How interesting, how civilized, to include the attacking enemy flying over your homes in the memorial."





Then I read the explanatory sign positioned several meters away.

"On September 11, 1944, roaring through the sky of the Thuringen Forest, an air battle between the German troops and the Allies was underway. This battle involved 84 young men, six German ME 109 and two American P51 Mustang aircraft. The result was 5 deaths on the German side and 2 deaths on the American side. This memorial should remind us of this air battle so war does not ever repeat."












"The result was..." Now that was a nice touch!

This little battle was not amplified to have been the most important turning point between the progress of the forces of light over the forces of darkness. It was not reinterpreted as a strategic victory. The benefits, if any, gained by the loss of life are not listed. And the actions taken by the various pilots are not spun into heroic ballads. In fact, we do not even learn about the reasons the battle was fought. The result was seven dead young men.

Can we ever control that all too human need to conveniently de-humanize our enemies? I look forward to the day in the future when we will be far enough removed from current struggles "between good and evil." Perhaps we will even count the dead humans on all sides of our current wars when we sing the songs of triumph and claim to have "won" anything at all in return for their "sacrifices."

Nur wo du zu Fuss warst

"Nur wo du zu Fuss warst"

Clio  walked into a bar one day and saw Calliope sipping on her Kostritzer,  She says, 
"Calli, I did not know you hung out in this place!" I heard her say that but I did not hear 
Calliope's reply. The music was so loud.

Like all true stories, were I to begin telling this one at the very beginning you would not 
believe me and you would probably not understand it, either. This is because history, 
unlike the past itself, does not come at us in chronological order. It (history) happens
 in the present as we reflect on the past. Also, who could ever pinpoint the true 
beginning of any historical event? Events are like rivers, there are many springs and 
creeks which feed into a river. They have no one true "source." So the best place to 
begin this true story is right in the middle, at that point you want to explain with a 
historical explanation: several days ago at about 4pm on October 18, 2010. At 
about that time, in the cold and fog after a full day's walk, we crested a hill 
and saw the small village of Schlegel. At that very moment, I just knew that it 
was the right place.

 Sandy,  (my main Muse) and I were backpacking the Rennsteig Trail, an 
ancient and famous foot path through two forests in Central Germany. We 
were on the last leg of the trail, heading southeast and within twelve 
kilometers from the end of our nine-day walk. Taking it slowly, we were 
seeing the sites, visiting the exhibits and not making very good time 
(if you are one of those people who measure a trail by watches and calendars).

This 170 kilometer footpath connects two important river systems and has 
formed the boundaries for three or four kingdoms, principalities, and regions
 since the early 1200s CE. As such, the Rennsteig, which means "race way,"
 is mentioned in the memoirs of traveling theologians such as Meister
 Eckhart (1260-1328) and Martin Luther (1483-1546), but has been very 
significant geography for writers including a tax collector named Johannes 
Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), The Brothers Grimm (1785-1863), 
Thomas Mann (1875-1955) and, very likely, Germaine de Stael (1766-1817), 
although I doubt if she covered any of it by foot. Also, this was the route taken 
by two of Napoleon's three columns on the way to his 1806 victory in Jena,
 a battle that a philosophy professor then at the University in Jena would call, 
"The End of History." But, codslaver, Doctor Hegel, History was only just 
getting started! During the last half of the 20th Century, the southern part 
of this trail would form one of the most important boundaries between the 
so called "Free World," and "Communist Block." Depending on the sources 
you choose to believe, around 1000 people were killed as they tried to 
escape East Germany by crossing these militarized borderlands. So the burden of history 
weighs heavier than a rucksack when we walk this trail, especially when we consider how 
this epic struggle between empires affected the people living nearby.

Small parts of this trail had been important to my own personal history as well.
 During the Cold War, the southern leg of the Rennsteig had been deemed "off limits" 
because that part of the trail formed the border between East and West Germany. 
The East Germans, under the direction of the occupying Soviet Forces, had 
fortified their side of the border and declared it closed. In response to this 
military "threat," West Germany, under the direction of its occupiers (the 
United States, France, and the United Kingdom), constructed elaborate 
border monitoring devices and moved tens of thousands of NATO soldiers 
into place, creating a defensive barrier from the North Sea to the 
Czechoslovakian border. Both sides told their people that the other
 side was preparing for an imminent invasion.

Such was the situation when I was first sent to Germany in the early 1980's in the capacity
 of an intelligence analyst with the US Army. I was stationed in Nuremberg with the 2nd 
Armored Cavalry Regiment, a unit tasked to monitor a small part of this vast borderlands.

One very cold afternoon during the Winter of 1984/85, I was ordered to perform a long 
weekend of what was known then as "border duty." This was a very rare opportunity for 
me, because most "border duty" was handled by our subordinate units who were stationed 
very near the border. The explanation given was that our Regimental Commander had 
decided that all intelligence personnel should all have some border experience. I was excited.

We quickly packed our cold weather gear. Then several of us from the Regimental 
Headquarters who had been ordered to weekend duty convoyed our jeeps along 
beautiful forested roads. Crawling north, we arrived at the Border Operations Center 
("BOC") sometime after dark.

In the Army you get used to the cold and the dark. You also learn to follow any 
orders you are given. So we locked our duffel bags to our assigned bunks; we were 
handed our evening dinner (a bagged meal that could fit in our uniform pockets), and 
we reported to the safety briefing in the "BOC," another nearby tent surrounded with
 three coils of razor wire. At the briefing we were informed that we would be spending 
our three days there working four hour rotating shifts; four hours of sleep, four hours 
of observation duty, four hours of BOC duty, and back to sleep for four hours. This 
would insure that we each would each have five or six daylight and nighttime shifts 
in both the observation post and the BOC.

Sometime later that night I was awakened and told to report to the observation post for 
my four hour shift. Forbidden the use of flashlights in tactical situations, I followed the
 razor wire to the observation post about 500 meters up the nearby hill. The walk
 through the dark was uneventful. The observation post turned out to be 
a wooden platform surrounded by dirt mounds scooped out from the top 
of the hill. A field desk under a tarp in the center of the platform held a 
telephone, a log book, and a thermos pot. The soldier I was to replace 
gave me the binoculars and a very brief introduction to my duty for the night.

"Nothing moving down there tonight. Each hour, just write down everything
 that happens, here in the log. If nothing happens, just write 'nothing to report,'" 
he said as he signed the log book by the light of his wristwatch.

"If anything does happen, call the BOC on this field phone and tell them. Stay 
here, and stay on your feet." Then he was gone.

He was right; nothing did happen. The thermos turned out to be empty. 
No enemy  tanks appeared on the horizon and I could happily write, four t
imes, that there was "nothing to report." The observation platform overlooked
 farmland, mostly. On my left, a hint of the dark outline of a forested hillside;
 on my right was a tiny village with two dim streetlights burning over the gravel
 town center. Directly below the observation post and between me and the
 little town was a grassy strip that I had to assume to be the international 
border, the notional edge of the "free world." After what seemed like ten 
hours, my replacement showed up. I gave him the same briefing and went
 back down the hill to the BOC for my second shift.

In the BOC my job was to monitor the field phone connected to the observation 
post. If it were to ring, I was supposed to answer it and decide if the situation 
was urgent enough to wake the duty officer, who was asleep in the covered j
eep out front. The duty officer had a radio and the authority to make any decision
 necessary.

"Don't wake that Captain up for anything insignificant. He's on 24 hour duty. If 
you have  to go up to the Observation Post, get somebody else to sit in here," 
then, as before,  he was gone.

Again, nothing happened. I wrote four times in the BOC log, "nothing to report." 
As I stepped out of the dark tent into the morning  winter fog, I realized that I 
had just completed my first full shift of border duty.



My next shift, the following afternoon and evening, was not so monotonous. First,
 I could see more of the beautiful German countryside and even watch some of the
 people in the little town move, once or twice, between some of the buildings. More 
important, our regimental commander had decided to fly some of his staff to the 
border that afternoon to inspect the operations there. For me that meant the 
observation post got a full thermos of coffee, (not to drink, but to have on 
hand in case he asked about it.) We were told to touch up our uniforms, do 
a good police call around the area, clean the latrine, and "square away" the 
bunk tent. Some of the first helicopters arrived just as I was being relieved at
 the observation post. So I was standing by the phone at the BOC when the 
Colonel arrived for his "situation report."


During my evening shift at the BOC, several more of our helicopters arrived
 and departed. Also, an "intercept" squad set up several large 
antennae and additional tents near the observation post
 to listen to the radio traffic sent back and forth on the other 
side of the border. Understandably, all of the activity on our 
side of the border had attracted the attention of East German 
border military units on the other side. By the time my BOC shift
 was completed, I could report in the log book that there were 
three mobile personnel vehicles and a dozen or more East 
German border military personnel moving in or around the t
own. My shift completed, I went to the bunk tent and fell quickly
 to sleep.

Awakened just before my shift was to begin, I quickly took my 
place back at the observation post. Things there had changed. Our Colonel and
 his staff had all flown their helicopters away during the evening. But the little village 
below me was in an uproar. Through the binoculars I had a clear view between several 
houses into the little gravel town square. Every street and alley leading toward 
the square now contained a vehicle with its headlights on and beaming toward 
the square. The East German border military had assembled the entire village, 
perhaps eighty to a hundred people, in the small square. In the center of 
the square, on top of a van like vehicle, stood a uniformed man with
 a megaphone, lecturing the crowd.

I did my best to describe the situation in the logbook. As I now recall, the lecture 
continued for more than an hour as the people of  the town stood in the cold, 
after-midnight air of mid-January. I could not hear what was being said, but only 
the man in uniform seemed to be speaking. I remember some of the faces: 
grandmothers in scarves, grandfathers in bib overalls, moms, dads, 
teenagers, children, babies, all standing or being held for more than 
an hour while some uniformed bully gave a mandatory talk on what I imagined
to be the merits of Marxism and the corruption of Capitalism. The faces told 
the real story. Somber, expressionless, and patient, these people were used 
to being pushed around by uniformed representatives of "the State." Even the 
teenagers appeared to stand and listen, to offer no hint of aggravation. Finally,
 when the megaphone wielder tired of talking, he climbed down from the back
 of the van, got inside, and the vehicle moved forward as the crowd parted. Then 
the crowds went home and lights went out. It was probably 2am.

When your paradigm shifts it is not always evident to you at the time. As I stood there on the
 observation post, trying to make sense enough of what I had witnessed to write a short 
synopsis  for the log book, I knew I felt angry. But what was not apparent to me then was
 the extent to which this indignation had changed me, changed the fundamental way I 
think about things.

 Since that night on the observation post, I have distrusted most ideology. From that point 
forward, the political spectra we now call "the left" had become as distasteful to me as the
 "the right." I had witnessed, all too firsthand, that Marxist socialism could become tyranny 
as easily as National Socialism or unbridled capitalism. After my night on the observation 
post, I would measure any government's value by the extent to which its people--especially
 the minorities among them--could live their lives in peace and quiet. Those places where 
teenagers feel safe to thumb their noses at a police officer, where grandfathers might 
decide to sit at home playing poker rather than to attend a political rally, and where babies
 get to sleep the night through without disturbance, these were to me the signs of a healthy
 governing system. Graffiti, skateboards, punk rock music, diversity of opinion, and protest
 marches all became, for me, the markers of an empowered population, a situation 
that only seems to exist where the government is under the control of its 
people and where the people are under the control of a just body of law.

Perhaps a thousand times since, I have told the story of that winter night. My
 wife and daughter have too often heard me describe the people's faces as I
 have used their situation to explain my feelings about any government that 
uses force to control its own people. So a few days ago, at about 4pm on 
October 18, as Sandy and I were walking along the Rennsteig, she understood 
exactly what I meant when I pointed to a nearby hill on our right and said, 

"There was the observation post! If we come to a little town, just over this hill, right
 there, then this is exactly the place!" was about all I could say.

A few steps later and the slated roofs of a small village began to appear, exactly 
where they should be. It had been twenty-five years. I had changed; the town had 
changed. But we were walking into the very same place that had meant so much to
 me; now, I learned from my map, it was the village of Schlegel.

The Town Square: Now With A Garden


As we entered the town from the west, the Rennsteig brought us into the little square 
in which I had witnessed the winter assembly, so long ago. Much of the square has
 been turned into a little garden, as if to prevent its future use in such ways. But the 
streetlight still stands in the center.

We walked through town to find a room for the night, stopping first at the
 guesthouse.  A very nice gentleman there told us that he had no rooms 
ready, but that he could prepare dinner for us later. He sent us further into
 the village looking for a family nearby  who could rent out a sleeping
 room in their home for the night. As we walked back and  forth through 
the village, asking directions and inquiring about a place to sleep, we
 realized that these people had not encountered many Americans, despite
the Rennsteig  running directly through the town. The people were all very
 curious, helpful, and extremely friendly. One family interrupted their own 
dinner to show us,  specifically, which home on the next street had two rooms
 for rent.

We Found a Room Here!






We found a beautiful room, took our showers and then returned to the guesthouse 
for a  late dinner. As promised, and despite the fact that the guesthouse was closed,
 the owner very nicely prepared a hot meal for us as we sampled the local beer.

The Guesthouse in Schlegel


Perhaps the best part of the evening occurred when the owner joined us at our table
 while we ate. He seemed surprised to learn that we were Americans. When I asked 
him about the mid-1980's and what it was like to live on the border, he excitedly told 
us about a time (perhaps it had happened several times) when the Americans came 
with their helicopters, tanks, and big antennae. He described the whirlwind of excitement 
caused by these American shows of military force and reiterated how concerned his 
people were that the Americans were preparing to invade. For the very first time I was 
forced to consider the emotional ramifications of having "the enemy" arrive with a half 
dozen helicopters, tracked vehicles, mysterious electronic devices and lots of 
uniformed soldiers and parking it all on a hill overlooking a small village.

On the way out of town the next morning, I could barely speak. 


My own recollection  of that night in 1985 had been proven 
to have been horribly one sided. The historical "Truth" of
 that night, I now realize, does not exist. Instead, the guy 
behind the binoculars at the observation post, the only 
witness to all of the events that night, had missed the 
most important question, "How had the American show
 of force, modern equipment, and helicopter mobility 
encouraged the tough guy response by the East German 
Border Police?" In some ways, I admitted, we were all partly responsible for that cold winter assembly 
twenty-five years ago.

But as we turned to take some final photographs of the village of Schlegel before 
completing the Rennsteig, I realized that my lingering memory would be that the town 
today is quiet, prosperous, friendly, and safe. Somewhere on the
 way out of town, on theRennsteig, is another sign, a wooden trail 
marker. In German, this one says simply, "Only when you have gone
 there by foot, have you ever really been to a place."