"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 times, 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 jeep 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 town. 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 the Rennsteig, 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."