July 2020 - Page 2 of 2 - The Days Forward

I am sure you, like me, have been asked that question. Perhaps the first thing that comes to mind is where you were on the morning of 9/11. That was a date that marked us all, the memory of that day’s activities indelibly imprinted as news of the terror attacks flashed across TV screens. But for those of us fortunate enough to have lived at various places around the world and at key points of history (thanks to frequent Army moves) there are other intersections of place and events that stay crystal clear in the memory. Here is one of my “where were you when” moments.

Eric and I were living in Germany in 1972, an exciting time as Munich prepared to host the Summer Olympics. Thirty-six years after Hitler’s showcase summer games in Berlin, Germany was set to show off its vibrant and prosperous new post-war image.

Deutschemark Coins Commemorating the 1972 Olympics

Welcoming more than 7,000 athletes representing 121 countries, Munich opened the Games on 26 August.

American swimmer Mark Spitz’s seven gold medals and Soviet teen sensation Olga Korbut’s two Gymnastic gold medals became memorable highlights of the Games. Unfortunately, these accomplishments would be eclipsed by other news. Early on the morning of 5 September, the peaceful international atmosphere of the Olympic Village was horribly shattered. Palestinian terrorists known as Black September broke into the rooms of the Israeli Wrestling Team, killing 2 and taking 9 hostages. By early morning 6 September, all 9 hostages and 1 German police officer had been murdered.

American Newspaper Announcing the Tragedy in Munich

Eric was assigned at Herzo Base, a former Luftwaffe base outside the small Bavarian village of Herzogenaurach (115 miles north of Munich). Serving with him was a dear friend, fellow field artilleryman and classmate, Bill Rice, (https://thedaysforward.com/bill-rice/ and another look at the Olympics 1972 https://thedaysforward.com/life-in-germany-1972/) and also Joel Pigott, USMA ‘68 grad and friend from Cadet Company A-2.

Joel’s wife was German and had access to much coveted Olympic tickets as the Executive Secretary to Rudolph Dassler, owner of Puma, an international sporting goods company headquartered in this small village.

Film about Family Ties in Herzogenaurach

Also headquartered in the town was its highly competitive rival Adidas, owned by Rudolph’s estranged brother Adolf (Adi). Family animosity often created friction and division within the town; however, these two billion-dollar giants today maintain a much friendlier rivalry. In fact, a film of this famous rivalry, Adidas vs Puma, was released in 2016. Herzo Base has long since disappeared, its location now upscale housing for Herzogenaurach’s international industries.

Back to our “where were you when” story. Months before the Olympics opened, with tickets all but impossible to get, Joel offered us the ultimate jackpot prize, two tickets for the morning of 7 September, compliments of Puma. We were now among the fortunate few! However, I could never have imagined how marked by tragedy that date would be, following the terrorist attack and a memorial service for the 11 murdered Israelis.

Eric and I had looked forward to the upcoming track and field events, but now a dark shroud hung over Munich and the Olympics. Arriving that morning, we found the Olympic Village and venues somber, only light traffic, and sparse attendance in the stadium. We watched several qualifying races, and various field events but not the one runner we were hoping to see, Jim Ryun, the world record holder in the 1,500-meter (3 minutes, 33.1 seconds). We were to miss him by a day.

Jim Ryun During the Olympics and Afterwards

Jim Ryun’s now ill-fated run occurred on 8 September, when he tripped, fell, and was knocked unconscious for several seconds in the qualifying heat of the 1,500-meter race and failed to qualify. Although he was obviously fouled, Olympic officials verbally shrugged, “It’s unfortunate what happened to you. Why don’t you come back in four years and try again?” ** By his own admission, he was angry and bitter, but years later wrote, “I can say that Munich really was the beginning of our lives. We had become Christians that spring, and the challenge of Munich forced us to grow up very fast. We developed a whole new understanding of forgiveness.” ** I might add from a vantage point of hindsight; his best run was yet to be. In 1996 he ran successfully for the US Congress and served five terms as a Representative from Kansas. Jim Ryun was awarded the Medal of Freedom on July 24, 2020 by President Trump.

The events of that Olympics not only altered Jim Ryun but they altered in part how Munich and Israel would come to view terrorism and security. Fast forward 14 years to 1986. Eric and I, along with sons Paul and Jed, once again were living in Germany, in the beautiful Bavarian town of Augsburg. We arrived in 1985 during their 2,000^th year anniversary celebration! Talk about encountering history!

1985 Stamp Commemorating the 2000th Anniversary of the Founding of Augsburg

During that assignment we took a week-long trip to Israel in November 1986. Preparing to board the El Al flight from Munich to Tel Aviv, we experienced the most comprehensive and thorough security checks we have ever witnessed, long before the all-too-familiar protocols instituted following 9/11. We, along with all the other passengers in our tour group, were individually interrogated, luggage was randomly searched, then we were bussed out to our plane located on an isolated section of runway. As we at last began to taxi for take-off Eric looked out the windows on either side of the plane. Two German Polizei armored vehicles with mounted machine guns tracked close by the wingtips and accompanied us all the way down the runway. All access roads to the runway were simultaneously blocked by armored vehicles; the airport virtually shut down to see the flight become airborne! I felt a moment of panic at all the security precautions but my calm husband assured me that it was because of the security measures that I should sit back and relax. Fourteen years after the Munich massacre, it was very obvious Munich had not forgotten the summer of 1972, nor had we. I doubt that the exact same security measures for El Al flights are practiced today but “where we were when” in 1972 dictated our departure experience in 1986. We had slipped in and out of Munich’s tumultuous and tragic summer Olympic games of 1972 and “where we were when” in 1986 brought back a deja vu moment and a reminder how events change people and even nations.

** Quotations from an article in Vox as told to Eleanor Barkhorn

From the summer of 1970 through the summer of 1971, I served as the aide de camp for the Assistant Division Commander (Maneuver) of the 3^rd Infantry Division. My boss’ job put us in constant contact with various units of the German military, one of which was the 1^st German Airborne Brigade. My boss wore Belgian parachute wings so I paid attention to the jump wings of the other European countries. On one occasion I found myself in brief conversation with my boss’ counterpart, the commanding general of the German airborne unit. When I admired his jump wings, I was immediately invited to jump with his brigade during an upcoming training exercise in the Black Forest.

I was instructed to report at dawn to a checkpoint in the woods in the middle of nowhere in southern Germany. I didn’t speak German, but I found the first checkpoint and kept getting waived from one checkpoint to another. I finally got to a clearing with a runway and several French Nord Atlases all buttoned up and idling, ready to take off.

Even though I had on a class A uniform, it was clear through signals that they were waiting for me, and I was about to jump in a matter of minutes.

I parked my VW, stripped and put on fatigues and boots as fast as I’d ever done it in my life.

The door to one of the aircraft opened and I got on. When I looked around inside the dark aircraft, all I could see was a bunch of guys who looked like 6’5” Dolph Lundgren.

I figured out that particular look must have been a unit requirement! Only one guy spoke English, a red-headed Command Sergeant Major named Fritz Janke. He was barking orders in clipped German, but when he opened his mouth to speak to me, he spoke English like a backwoods chicken farmer from Alabama. I spent the next four days camping with the Germans and made five jumps with them. These guys were the hardest-drinking bunch I’d ever seen in my life. I had previously thought that distinction belonged to my cadet company, E-3. Each night we had a roast pig which we cut off pieces and ate with bread. Both during and after dinner, there were endless rounds of toasts, each one ending with German for “Luck going up.” I was more interested in “Luck coming down,” but that wasn’t the toast. Each toast included one shot of schnapps and a glass of pilsner. At the conclusion of the toasts, there were guys who were sufficiently unconscious that open heart surgery could have been performed on them and they wouldn’t have known it was happening! In spite of their condition, they were ready to jump at 5 AM!

It turned out that Fritz had been a 17-year-old private in the Waffen SS in WWII and had been captured at Bastogne. After he was captured, he told me that all members of the SS were separated and shipped back to Alabama as POWs. According to him, he escaped 25 times but there was no place for him to go. He said that he spent the remainder of the war picking cotton and collecting eggs in southern Alabama and that was how he acquired his accent. Being raised as a Florida Gator in SEC country, I immediately said, “Sergeant Major, that was your punishment. All those Alabama chicken farmers were stuck just like you and couldn’t get out, either. If they’d been able to, they’d all have been in Florida!” He didn’t get the joke, and I never had time to explain it.

Over the five days I was there, I became friends with a German 1st Lieutenant named Martin Roessler. On the last day, he needed one more jump to earn a bronze wreath around his wings, and I needed one more to qualify. Unfortunately, on the last day a 20-knot wind blew up and the jump was cancelled. An American general officer had showed up in his helicopter, and I pleaded with his aide to let us both jump from his aircraft. We only needed one jump, and if it went badly, we’d have time to recover in the hospital. Fortunately, we were appealing to a general who would have done the same thing himself, so Fritz took us up for our last jump out of a Huey. The last jump for both Martin and me was like jumping from the back of a deuce and a half – going 25 mph through an open field.