I met Charlie when I came to the 38th Trans in 1967. The 38th was on Coleman Barracks in the town of Sandhofen, just outside of Mannheim. The Battalion was located on the infantry side of the Kaserne, wedged between two infantry battalions. That put us conveniently close to our shops and motor parks, but periously close to about 1200 infantry troops that didn't care for REMFs (Rear Echelon...you work out the rest). I was a twenty -year old buck sergeant. I had come back from Vietnam at the beginning of the year, spent some time at Fort Huachuca in Arizona, met MamaCharlie, got out of the Army, moved back to California, married MamaCharlie, rejoined the Army, and got transferred to Mannheim, all in the space of 10 months.

The Army had a confusing rank situation back in the sixties. We had "hard stripes", which meant you were an NCO, or you could be a "specialist" which meant you could draw the same pay as an NCO but not be bothered with any of the leadership stuff that goes with it. Not everyone understood exactly how that worked out. There was the corporal, a hard stripe pay grade E-4, who theorically would have authority over a specialist 5, pay grade E-5. But in many instances, Spec5s were put in charge of things that included corporals. It could be very confusing; I am getting confused all over again just writing about it.

The idea was that some folks were better at doing a certain job than they were at supervising others doing that same job. So soldiers who stayed in for a career should be able to be promoted and make more money, but they shouldn't necessarily be forced to perform leadership functions. At one time there were such things as Spec7s running around the Army. So you could wind up with a situation like I wound up in at the 513th Trans, 38th Trans Battalion...a twenty year old buck sergeant in charge of a squad containing four Spec5s who had been in the Army longer than me, knew more about their jobs than I did, and really weren't impressed with the combat patch on my right shoulder. One of the Spec5s in my squad was Charlie.

Charlie was from Kentucky. He swore his first pair of shoes were the boots the Army issued him. He was country to the bone. He was in his thirties, been in the Army 15-16 years, been a truck driver in Germany for a long time, knew where everything was and knew every trick in the book when it came to goofing off. Charlie was maybe 5 foot 5, a little stocky, a devoted lover of beer, and could smell a dollar bill at five hundred yards. When I was discussing my processing-in needs with my new platoon sergeant, Dave Bean, Charlie stayed close and kept an ear open. As soon as the subject of the finance office came up, Charlie was Johnnie-on-the-spot, volunteering to take me across town to the finance office to process in there. Dave gave me a warning look but agreed. On the way to Funari Barracks where Finance was located, Charlie filled me in on everything to do with the squad I was taking over. He told me his life story, emphasizing how hard it was to make it on Spec5 pay when you had a hungry mob of kids in the house and how those unexpected expenditures rose up all the time, in fact, right now.....

Once the paper work was filled out and I drew my travel pay, the balance of my re-enlistment bonus, and what was due me from the previous month, I had a sizable chunk of cash in my pocket. I wanted to get right to the bank and set up an account and get the money into a safe place. Charlie insisted we stop and grab a beer or two before we did anything else (it was about 1:30 in the afternoon). I insisted we get to the bank first. The way Charlie was looking at me, I felt like a pork chop would feel walking next to a hungry coyote. But I owed my dad, the Chief, a few hundred dollars and I needed the rest to set up housekeeping with my new bride. MamaCharlie and I had met in April, married in October and here it was early November. I was anxious to find an apartment and get her over to Germany (she was staying with my folks until I could find a place to live). I managed to win that round but after the bank and couple of other minor stops, it was almost 4:00 so I relented and sat down in a Gasthaus with Charlie and bought a round in thanks for being my taxi and guide. Four rounds later, we headed back to Coleman. He was a pretty persuasive fellow, that Charlie.

Charlie wasn't just country, he was backwoods country and his wife was a prime example of a backwoods princess. She was a good six inches taller than Charlie and while she wasn't really fat, she was stout. I bet she clocked in close to 200 pounds. She cooked, cleaned, laundried, made babies, worked all day at being mom...most of the day with one child or another on her hip. I didn't know why the other guys in the platoon snickered whenever the subject of Charlie's Mrs came up, but they apparently knew stuff about her I didn't. I only got close to her twice. Once on that first Thanksgiving that I spent in the platoon, Charlie invited me and a couple of others to his house for dinner. I was miserable the whole time; I had a roaring case of Strep Throat but didn't know about it yet. I had a temperature and missed a lot of what went on... I was pretty out of it. Mrs Charlie decided that I was a drunk and not a very good one, either.

The second time I was close to her was a slightly different circumstance.

After work, the NCOs would often gather at a local Gasthaus in the little town just outside the back gate of Coleman Barracks. I think the town was Scharhof or something like that...I don't recall the name of the Gasthaus. This was as traditional as any formal activity. All over the Army, business was conducted with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Many problems that couldn't be ironed out through official channels were solved easily when the sergeants had a couple of beers together and came up with "back-channel" solutions.. Weekday or weekend, the Gasthaus meetings were a normal part of doing business. Sometimes business ran into overtime. Sometimes the wives were a little upset about the length of these sessions and the fact that more than half the husbands came roaring home more than half-lit. Even though Charlie was not officially an NCO, he never passed up a chance to sit in and maybe get a free beer out of it.

One evening as the meeting was progressing, I was on the pinball machine with one of the sergeants from another first platoon when the door to the Gasthaus blew open and in stormed Charlie's wife. She strode up to the table where he sat, picked up the flip-top bottle he had just opened, turned the bottle up and chugged it all down. She then changed her grip on the bottle and used it like a billy-club smashing it down on Charlie's head. The bottle didn't break but I think parts of Charlie's head did. As he did a cartoon-like slide towards the floor, she grabbed him under the arms. She stood him up, bent down and let him fall across her shoulder, then stood up and turned without a glance or remark to the rest of us and carried him out the door. The whole room, which had become deathly still and quiet at her arrival, broke into hoots and laughter and I heard my platoon sergeant arguing with the other squad leader in our platoon about whether that was the fourth or fifth time it had happened, counting the previous incidents and laughing over each one.

I was speechless. I grew up around the Navy and had attended numerous ship's parties and other festive occasions, but I had never seen anything to match that. As I replayed the incident over in my mind I was struck by a few things. First was that some of the other sergeants who had seen this happen before apparently expected to see it again; some were nervous whenever Charlie showed up and few would sit with him. Second, from the time the Mrs walked in the door until she hit him with the bottle, Charlie had time to get up or move or something. But he didn't. He sat there with a strange look on his face...resignation? Maybe. Thirdly, and oddest of all to me, no one raised a hand to stop it or help Charlie in any way. Weeks later I tried to talk to him about it and he just gave me a cold look and said he didn't know what I was talking about. So l didn't mention it again. I guess each married couple learns to live together in whatever way they have to. We make adjustments and set limits and settle together and if one or the other steps beyond the mark...well...I guess we learn to work that out, too. I do know that I never accepted any more dinner invites from Charlie.