Enlisted Men's Club, Bad Hersfeld, Germany, 1966

Back in 1966, the Army was made up from enlisted men and

draftees alike. Many of the younger enlistees didn’t have a

clue as to the BS and authoritarian demands which they were

about to encounter. The draftees were royally pissed about

having been drafted in the first place, and generally they were

vehemently opposed to their forced conscription into service.

The Cold War was in full swing in Europe, and Vietnam was

ratcheting up at a fevered pace in Southeast Asia. And then

there was West Germany in the middle of it all. Given the

threatening dynamics of the world situation, other than the

good old US of A, for G. I.s at least, Germany was a far more

suitable place one could hope to be stationed.

There was a bevy of fraulein, myriad gasthauses in

every town, and enough beer and bratwurst to meet the

needs for everyone’s appetite and taste.

For me, the 3^rd Reconnaissance Squadron of the 14^th Ar-

mored Cavalry in Bad Hersfeld, Hessen, was such a place. I

was a gangly and mild-mannered 18-year old, naive enough

to believe I was ready for just about anything I could face.

At the time, I was still below the legal age to drink alcohol

back home, but there were no such restrictions in Germany

where even a pint-sized toddler could lawfully be given a

swig or two of beer. That’s where my unit’s Enlisted Men’s

Club enters the story.

At eighteen, I was not used to the bar scene per se. But after

my first visit to the base EM Club, I soon discovered, I could

get used to the idea—buddies, music, beer, young ladies and

dancing—party time after hours every night.

Now, most G.I.s are good guys, sober that is. With all that tes-

tosterone, the pent-up anger and frustration due to the loss of

certain freedoms and all, it made sense that a measure of alcohol

injected into a warrior-conditioned mindset is bound to cause a

problem. With all their inhibitions liquored away, drunken G.I.s,

soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen alike love to fight. Too much

booze can indeed make one believe that they are ten-feet tall and

bullet proof.

So that being said...I was sitting at a table in the EM Club with a

couple of my newly-made friends. We took turns buying rounds

of beer. The live entertainment would start around 8. The frau-

leins were seated in booths sipping their Zombies and Singapore

Slings, warming up for the live music and dance soon to begin.

The Wurlitzer jukebox box over in the corner of the large hall was

playing the Beetles, Twist and Shout. At the time, the world was

all lovely and fine.

And then, a stumbling drunk bumps into my chair spilling

my beer. Excuse me, I turned and said to him. Oh yeah, we’ll

see about that, he slurred back at me. Unless I did something

to diffuse the building tensions, blows were sure to follow.

Before this present situation of mine, my friends, who had

been stationed here quite some time, told me about the no-

torious brawls which frequently broke out here at the EM

Club. Bottles of beer and fists would fly, cursing, yelling

and screams would follow, as the combatants would crash

into the Wurlitzer and shatter the glass cover. Blood and

beer everywhere until the skirmish could be brought under

control. That Wurlitzer, though, can’t count how many re-

pairs been made on that. Everytime there’s a fight, the juke-

box always seems to get the worst of it, my friends told me.

It was almost a weekly happening around here, they added.

And I, being somewhat of a pacifist, would do my best to

ensure that I would not be involved in such deplorable be-

havoir.

Say Buddy, I said to my agitator, let’s save our aggression

for the Commies at the Warsaw Pact. Huh? he responded

confused. We’re on the same team here, I explained. Let

me buy you a beer. Er...a...well, sure! Have a seat. I pulled

out the chair next to me, and went up to the bar and ordered

two beers. A cheap way out of what could have been a costly

fight, I figured—fifty-cents a bottle as I recall.

Well anyway, five minutes and a few hefty gulps from the

bottle, and my near adversary got up from the table without

a word and staggered off into the crowd. My guess is he was

either still itching for a fight or looking to run into some other

pansy-ass sucker like me to buy him another beer.

I do recall, however, the newly repaired Wurlitzer was playing,

Can’t Get No Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones which was

popular at the time.

                                                            -30-

Chris Hanch 5-13-2020