ARMY TIMES: TEN SOLDIERS WHO SAVED MY LIFE!

by Cliff Jacobson

Cliff: U.S. Army National Match Rifle Team, 1964

PROLOGUE

In 1964, I was a 24-year-old soldier stationed in Bayreuth, west Germany, near the Czech border.  I had two months left on my two-year active-duty commitment before I could return to the States.  I was what they called a “short timer”.  It was July 3 so two friends and I decided to celebrate our upcoming Independence Day and my “short timer” status, at a local Gasthouse (family-friendly tavern).

At the stroke of midnight (July 4), we bought three bottles of champagne and filled the glasses of everyone in the place.  All were smiling and cheering our Fourth of July celebration and my short time status.  Strangely, it somehow slipped out that I was Jewish. I can’t recall the details.

THE STORY

We exited the establishment shortly after midnight and headed down the narrow brick-lined alley towards our car.  There was barely a sliver of moon, so it was pretty dark.  We hadn’t gone more than a few dozen yards when we were stopped by six young Germans (late teens or early 20’s), who were armed with iron tire tools.  One very tall man faced me, knocked off my hat, and blurted into my face, “Americanisha Juden officer sheiscopf” (sp).  “American Jewish officer is a shithead”.

At this, my friend, Chuck Devaney*, who was about a foot shorter than this guy, and heavily inebriated, said, “Nobody talks to my little buddy like that” and popped him in the chops as hard as he could.  I remember Chuck had to swing high because the guy was so much taller than him. Chuck’s powerful punch slammed the German’s head into a brick wall (side of a building) which amazingly, resulted a complete knockout—like something you might see on TV.  At this, the remaining five Germans advanced, tire tools at the ready.  We were certain we were going to be beaten to a pulp or killed.

Then, out-of-the dark appeared a young black soldier.  He yelled, “Y’all need some help, lieutenant?" “Hell yes,” I replied!  The man whistled, and seconds later, nine of his friends appeared on the scene and took those Nazi’s apart.  The encounter lasted maybe a minute before the Jew-haters tucked their tails and ran. 

When the threat had dissipated, the young soldier came up to me and said (exact words):  “Lieutenant, you whiteys and us negroes have a lot of problems in our country, but here, we are all Americans and we gotta stick together!”

I couldn’t have been more proud.  Or, more grateful.

“Right on, soldier!” I answered.  “THANK YOU!  THANK YOU!  You saved our lives!”

Then, after a short pause, he said: “Say lieutenant, would you do us a favor?”

“Anything!” I responded.

“Well, sir, we’re just a little bit AWOL (absent without leave).  We’re supposed to be back in the barracks by 2400 hours (midnight) but it’s too late now. You think you can get us back into the compound?

“You bet, follow our car” I replied, knowing that this was possible only if one of our buddy lieutenants was on guard duty that night. I was hopeful because 2^nd lieutenants were usually the ones who were given this “gate guard” night assignment.

Twenty minutes later, we rolled up to the gate and stopped at the guard window.  Luckily, our friend,  Lt. Walt Richards was the duty officer that night!

I rolled down my window and quietly said: “Walt, there are two cars of soldiers behind us.  Please, let ‘em in, don’t question them; I’ll tell you everything later.”

“Gotcha,” said Walt, and in we went.

We figured this was a done deal and nothing would become of it—that is, until breakfast at the Officer’s club the following morning where we learned that the previous night’s happenings had grape-vined throughout the post. Everyone, including the Colonel, had heard the story.  This could be serious because fighting with locals was a court martial offense—no matter who started the fight.  That, plus asking the duty officer to “look the other way,” was a recipe for trouble.  Damn!  Nothing to do now but wait and see what happens.

We three musketeers were finishing breakfast when the colonel’s wife calmly approached our table.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. The colonel has heard rumors about what happened last night. He wants to know the details from the horse’s mouth.  May I join you for a minute?” She asked.

“Of course, mam”, we weakly replied. 

“Here’s the deal: Colonel Davidson can call you all in and hear your story, in which case, it could result in a court martial for all of you.  Or...you can tell me--and I’ll tell him. This way, he’ll get the skinny secondhand, in which case—this could be an interior problem that may not accelerate to further action. Get what I’m saying?”

At this, we bared our souls to her and hoped for the best.

When we had finished, she returned to her table and quietly shared our story with her husband.

We cautiously watched the expression on the colonel’s face as she talked.  When she had finished, our commander broke into a big smile.  Yes!  Despite the very strict rule about ”fighting”, he realized that those young men had done the right thing.  The matter was dropped; it was never revisited again. A few weeks later, I ran into that soldier at the motor pool (where he worked).  I saluted him.  He said, “Hey, lieutenant, you’re the officer; I’m supposed to salute you.”

“You’re my hero, soldier—the salute is mine.  I hope that’s okay.

 Big smile!  And “Thanks, lieutenant.”

A closing note: If any of our old “rescuers” are reading this, THANK YOU again for saving us.  I doubt if I would be writing this today if you hadn’t stepped in to help.

*Chuck Devaney was killed in Vietnam a few years later.

XXX

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