[The following story is Humor Enhanced for your protection.]
Rothenburg, Federal Republic of Germany, hosted an annual gathering of historical re-enactment groups, the SCA among them. Different time periods and cultures strutting their stuff in just about the perfect setting: The Walled Town and Castle Ruins of Rothenburg. A central tower and several long sections of wall were still easily accessible to the public. The views of the surrounding woods and countryside were stupendous. My only regret was that we couldn’t hold a fighting demo in the castle itself or the carefully manicured gardens and courtyard. (Leg armor digs divots.) We were asked to use the woods so the spectators could watch from the walls. We absolutely had to be out of the woods by a certain time though, as a Czechoslovakian group with trebuchets were going to be lobbing basketball- sized boulders (concrete actually) over the castle and into those very woods. Not my thing, but I appreciated good military engineering as much as the next grunt. I couldn’t fathom why the tourists would willingly allow this to happen literally over their heads, but again, not my thing.
Me and the other sword jocks got together to self-organize the fun. Sir Timoch Hakkonsson (a recent arrival from Atlantia) and I agreed to split up the marshal duties so we could also each get some quality stick time. Timoch had made a good first impression on me–and my helmet. I forgave him for being in Army Aviation (in his day job as a Blackhawk crew chief) and he forgave me for having traded stripes for bars. We both shared a fondness for wargames and our delight in having been posted to Beer Heaven. I got to play first, so me and another senior fighter divided up the group into teams and I marched my half into the woods around the far side of the castle. I decided to put all that taxpayer-funded tactical training to use and set up an ambush in the dense foliage around the base of the second tower. Mind you, I had maybe a dozen fighters plus a handful of archers and no meaningful weapons superiority. All of us where in shiny armor and/or bright heraldic colors (no two the same) and above us there was a tower full of tourists happily pointing to us, taking pictures, and otherwise giving away our exact location all the way back to the marshal’s point. In order to achieve tactical surprise, the other team leader would need to be deaf, blind, and a moron — or worse— another 2nd Lieutenant. My team collectively shrugged and humored me because why not? It wouldn’t really cost us anything but sweat and calories, we’d all served under “That Officer” at least once in our careers already, and finally, because humiliation was the only way I’d ever learn. Undaunted by mere reality, I went about placing my unit into position and settled in behind a sticker bush to spring my clever trap.
(thud)
After a little while one of my guys (Helmut) came over to my position. Helmut was a local national who did some sort of techie work down at V Corps HQ during his day job. He spoke his native German and very good English whereas I knew just enough German to get into serious trouble. Helmut informed me that one of the German archers had heard a “thud” noise.
“A thud noise?” I scoffed. I peered through the bushes. I didn’t see or hear anything except the tourists up above. “What goes thud? There’s nothing out here but us and we go ‘clank’ not ‘thud’. Get back to your position.” Helmut shrugged and went back.
Thud.
Helmut was back a few moments later. “I just heard something go ‘thud’ too.”
I sighed theatrically. Buncha Nervous Nellies. I cocked my helmet up and listened for a bit. Nothing. “Look, Helmut…” I began, “…we’ll be able to hear them coming….” I paused for emphasis “…IF we stay quiet enough to…”
THUD.
I looked at Helmut. Helmut looked at me quizzically, “What goes ‘thud’?”
My eyes went wide – wide as basketballs, in fact:
“EVERYBODY UP AGAINST THE WALL! MOVE IT! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!”
The U.S. Army at that point had invested a fair amount of time, effort, and money into ensuring that, in times of crisis, soldiers would instantly obey my voice commands. I am here to report that your tax dollars were not wasted. Plus, the tourists were treated to an impromptu, and no doubt hilarious, show of U.S. servicemen in full armor being hurled up on the sloped base of the tower by the largest and noisiest of their number, only to scrabble and grab at the stonework, and inevitably to slide back down again into the sticker bushes. Wash, rinse, repeat.
After what seemed like an eternity of playing Keystone Knights, I finally had everyone up on the narrow ledge (minus most of their gear) and inching their way around the tower base back toward the marshal’s point. I was preparing to hoist myself up when I felt a sharp pain.
“Well, that’s it,” I thought to myself, “I’m dead.”
“Wait a sec,” I thought back at myself, “I can’t be dead and still thinking.”
“Look,” I argued with me –patiently given the circumstances, “I expected to be hurt at any moment and now I’m in pain. Ergo,” I concluded triumphantly, “I must be dead.”
“Not so fast,” I countered. (I’m stubborn that way.) “I expected pain on my head. It’s our side that’s hurting.”
“Oh, good point,” I conceded and turned around to see a blunt arrow at my feet. An enemy archer stood about twenty meters out and was calmly knocking another arrow.
“YOU! UP AGAINST THE WALL!” I thundered, pointing.
This one must have been a civilian. “Y-Y-you can’t talk to me that way,” he stammered, “You’re dead.”
Hard to argue with logic like that. Fortunately, circumstance provided me with a succinct rebuttal:
THUD!!!
The archer whirled around. “What the hell was that?!”
“Think about it,” I shouted over my shoulder while breaking into a dead run toward the tower, “What goes thud?!”
Eventually, me and the archer (sans bow and arrows) made it around to safety and were met by Timoch. “Miles! Is that everyone?” he asked as he helped us off the ledge.
“Everyone accounted for from my team,” I reported, “plus Robin Hood here,” thumb indicating the archer. My eyes searched out the Czechoslovakian trebuchet guys across the courtyard, prepping another boulder. Their leader rather stood out: Tall, skinny, hairy, sporting a prominent Adam’s Apple and wearing purple and green colored tights with a bright yellow codpiece that made my eyes water. He was working the crowd. Busking for chrissakes! I popped my helmet and started looking for a stick, having left my sword and shield in the woods.
“I’m guessing you figured by now that it was the trebuchet guys starting early?” Timoch asked, eyeing me warily.
“Mm hum” I answered absently. I’d spotted a good one, deadfall but not rotting. It was about three feet long and had a sort of knot on one end. More like a cudgel, really.
“Yeah,” Timoch said, looking at my stick, the trebuchet guys, and back to me. Herr Adam’s Apple was cheerfully oblivious and that made me even madder. I smacked the knot end into my palm with approval. It was a really good stick.
“So, um,” Timoch continued, “whatcha planning on doing with that stick, Miles?”
“I’m gonna cancel a Czech.” I started across the courtyard.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, there hoss!” Tim ran around in front of me and put a retraining hand on my chest. “You can’t just club people like that!”
“Why not?” I demanded. “He tried to kill me first. Seems fair.” I locked eyes with the Czech leader. He finally realized something was amiss and could see him swallow hard from across the courtyard. (Told you it was a big Adam’s Apple.)
“Yeah, ok…” Tim conceded, “…but too many witnesses.”
“Outstanding! Then word’ll get around that it’s unhealthy to lob dangerous things at Americans.” (I didn’t know it at the time, but a few months later we’d be teaching that very lesson –with prejudice— to some Scud missile crews down in the sandbox. But I digress…) Tim had a point, though. I noticed that we’d begun to attract a crowd.
“Her Excellency wouldn’t like it,” he ventured, referring to my wife, Sarah. Tim’s wife Addie and Sarah had also hit it off.
“Have you met Sarah?! I countered. “She’d have happily baby seal’d the guy herself before they even got off a second shot.”
“Probably, yeah…” So would Addie. Tim thought fast. “But… it’ll be a real career-limiting move. Looks bad on an eval.”
Well, he had me there and I thought again of Sarah. She was a DoD civilian as well as being an Army wife and had sacrificed a lot to follow her soldier boy around the world. She knew the score and definitely wouldn’t like me pissing away my career over a minor case of Satisfactory Homicide.
I looked again at Herr Adam’s Apple. He’d gone back to working the growing crowd for coins and had no clue how close he’d come to taking part in a really good pun. I deflated a bit. “Ok, Tim,” I asked, “Do you have an alternate plan?”
“Yeah, I do.” Tim turned so I was in full view of the people in the courtyard. ”Is he still looking this way?” I stared hard at Herr Adam’s Apple over Tim’s shoulder, communicating my unhappiness with the situation.
“Yeah, so?” I asked, louder than necessary. The busking stopped abruptly and the space between us was suddenly devoid of innocent bystanders.
“Act angry.”
No problemo. Method acting at its finest. Not only did I communicate my unhappiness with the situation but also that I’d be expressing it with the cudgel. I employed my best infantry vocabulary. I gestured with gusto — and with all of my fingers. (Some gestures transcend cultural barriers and there were kids present.) The crowd grew as they gathered for what was apparently part of the show –- but they kept that lane clear.
“Helmut, restrain His Excellency,” Tim ordered. Helmut looked distinctly alarmed at this but did as Tim asked. We met eyes and came to a silent agreement: He pretended to restrain; I pretended to be restrained. By this time I was not only communicating that I’d be expressing my unhappiness with the situation via cudgel, but also the disturbing possibility that I’d giggle while I did so. An elderly Japanese gentleman took my picture.
Tim closed the gap with Herr Adam’s Apple, who tried to melt back into the crowd (In those tights? Fat chance.) but having no escape route, had stopped to listened to Tim’s passable German.
“What’s he saying?” I asked Helmut.
“Sir Timoch is asking him if he sees that large angry American over there, meaning you.” Herr Adam’s Apple looked at me, eyes widening.
“Oh! What’d he say just then?”
“He said something about…” Helmut furrowed his eyebrows in concentration, “…cancelling a Czech?”
“Hey! That’s my joke!”
“Yeah,” Helmut listened some more. “He didn’t get it either.”
Everyone’s a critic. The conversation got rather animated then, too fast for direct translation but Helmut looked surprised and pleased. “What?” I hissed, “What’s going on?”
Helmet didn’t answer but said something to some of his buddies and they headed across the courtyard, passing Timoch coming back. Free of “restraint” and unsure of what to do, I assumed a posture of what I hoped was nonchalant malevolence.
Tim came up to me grinning widely.
“Would someone kindly explain just what the hell’s going on?” I demanded.
“Diplomacy!” Tim replied with evident satisfaction.”Y’see, I…” He stopped in mid-sentence to look me up and down. “Why are you standing like that?”
“I was going for nonchalant malevolence.”
“Yeah. Don’t quit your day job.”
Everyone’s a critic. “So…?” I made the circular “out with it” gesture.
“Diplomacy” he repeated, “…and world-class at that.” He ticked off his fingers: “First, a sincere apology. Second, an even more sincere promise to stick strictly to the schedule backed by dire consequences — meaning you. And third, like a proper Dane…” he gestured at Helmut and friends carting back cases upon cases of Czech beer, “…Danegeld.” He grabbed a couple as they went by and handed me one.
Timoch had turned stupidity into free beer. I looked at him with newfound respect. “You, sir, are my new hero.” We clinked bottles.
Mike Reeseman, 1991