K-Town Christmas

By Phillip M. Gardner

Come, now, and enter the dark and largely hidden
world of military law enforcement. K-Town is GI shorthand for Kaiserslautern,
Germany, where the US Forces Police are based. Spend a Christmas week with the
K-Town cops as they struggle to keep up and keep sane, battling military law
breakers, terrorists and very often each other. Set in the midst of the
turbulent decade of the 1980s, this is a street level, un-sanitized view of the
military, one youve likely never seen explored.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 30, 2001
• ISBN: 9780759612884

Phillip M. Gardner

Phil Gardner is a veteran of twenty-four years service with the Air Force, and has spent time in a variety of worldwide postings. He now resides in Upstate New York with his wife of many years, Christine. He has also written KINGS RANSOM, K-TOWN CHRISTMAS and UFO: THE GRIFFISS CONNECTION.

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© Copyright 2000, 2001, Phillip M. Gardner

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 0-75961-289-7

ISBN: 978-0-7596-1288-4 (eBook)

1stBooks-rev. 12/25/00

Contents

-1 1985

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-7-

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

-1

1985

The speedometer of the patrol car crept up another five miles per hour until it read a steady 75. Wormack, behind the wheel, flickered his eyes down to read the numbers, then back up to the battered VW in front of them. Where the Plymouth patrol car raced up B-37 in an arrow-like line, the old VW wove from side to side, clipping the curb often. Wormack shook his head.

Fucker’s gonna kill himself, he said, yelling to be heard over the engine, the rush of air and the two-tone European police siren. Atop the blue and white Plymouth, a single blue light revolved frantically in its dome.

Lt. Nelson didn’t answer but rather occupied herself with bracing her body firmly in the passenger seat. As duty officer, she supposed she ought to say something to Wormack about his driving but she thought not to distract him just at that moment.

They rapidly approached the intersection of Donnersberger and the VW busted through the red light without a pause. Wormack eased back only slightly as he flashed through intersection. One thing about the Germans: they always made way for a police car running code.

The VW showed no signs of slowing. They had first spotted it when it took a corner wide, almost taking a piece of Wormack’s patrol car with it. He took off after it, intending only an ass-chewing for the driver. Lt. Nelson would have just as well preferred they never saw the VW. She had stopped at the station for an operational visit and had asked Sgt. Wormack for a look around the AO. Now there was a good chance she’d be finishing up the afternoon as a lump of flesh in a mangle of automotive steel.

Out front, the VW jumped the curb briefly before wandering back to the road. Wormack was shaking his head again.

Dead drunk at this time of day, he said, do you believe it?

Nelson, sweat standing out on her face, shrugged a little, trying to act salty.

‘Tis the season, she said weakly.

How’s that? Wormack shouted back.

Season! she screamed. Christmas!

Yeah, right, Wormack said although he didn’t know what the fuck that had to do with anything.

At the next intersection, the VW whipped a right hand turn onto a military road. Wormack followed but too narrow: the patrol car jumped the curb and skidded wickedly along the sleet-covered pavement. Nelson winced as Wormack very nearly lost control, guiding the car along next to a stone wall, never slowing. The brown stone passed within inches of Nelson’s side of the car before he got it straightened out.

Well, shit on this, she thought with sudden defiance. No drunk driver is worth all this. She drew in her breath to yell at Wormack to break off the chase. Before she got it out, the VW slowed abruptly then locked the brakes up in a skid. It banged into the right hand curb a final time before stopping. Wormack braked smoothly to a stop.

Gotcha now, asshole, he said.

The door of the VW flew open and the driver lurched out. He made an ungainly, stumbling run in a hopeless attempt at foot escape. Wormack had his seatbelt unbuckled and had dismounted in a flash. Nelson watched as he sprinted up the street, rapidly closing the distance on the drunk. Several feet away from the drunk, Wormack launched himself and hit his prey low in the back. The pair flew to the damp pavement. In a series of quick movements, Wormack drew back the suspect’s arms, handcuffed him, and drew him to his feet. Nelson looked at the apprehended man. He was without a doubt the biggest black man she had ever seen. He towered over Wormack. But as the pair moved back to the patrol car, there was no doubt who was in charge. She couldn’t hear but she could see Wormack flinging a litany of abuse at the cowed drunk.

All at once, the patrol car seemed suffocating. She couldn’t breathe. She fumbled out of the seatbelt and clawed her door open. Outside, oblivious to the drumming sleet, she fell to her knees in the yellow grass along the road edge and vomited. It seemed like she vomited for hours.

When she finished, she turned to see Wormack already had the drunk secured in the backseat and Wormack was talking on the radio, probably letting the desk sergeant know they were all right.

Wormack was in fact telling the desk to call off the back-up patrols. He didn’t want half a dozen cops standing around watching their duty officer puke all over the road. He didn’t know her real well but he thought she deserved better than that.

Nelson got to her feet slowly and found Wormack standing next to her, smoking. He passed the cigarette to her through the sleet and she took it, drawing heavily. Two or three puffs and she felt settled.

Thank you, Sergeant.

Sure thing. Wormack looked away then back at her. Look, Lieutenant, this is ain’t no big deal. Nothing to be ashamed of. Everybody tosses their cookies now and again.

What is it… She stopped, tried again. You think I’m ashamed?

Yeah, I do.

She laughed. You’re right.

He laughed with her and clapped a huge hand on her shoulder.

No need, he said. You did good.

Did good, thought Nelson. That’s probably the highest accolade in his vocabulary. He’s trying hard to make me feel less of an asshole than I already do. A strange, ill-defined sort of gratitude washed over her. She took one final drag off the cigarette and tossed it away.

Let’s go, Sarge.

Yes, ma’am.

They stopped just outside the patrol car.

Shouldn’t we read him his rights? she asked.

His rights? said Wormack. No, I don’t think so, Lieutenant. He’s too drunk to understand. It would never hold in court.

I see.

They got in and Wormack turned to growl through the steel mesh separating them from the backseat.

Now, you listen to me, he barked at the cuffed and seatbelted drunk, you just sit there and keep your mouth shut.

Okay, Sarge.

And don’t be pissin and pukin in my police car, understand?

I unnerstan, Sarge.

That’s good, ‘cause if you do, I’m gonna clean it up with your face, got it?

I got it, Sarge.

Wormack put the car in gear and they headed back across town.

Nelson decided not to mention anything about Wormack’s driving. During the chase, he’d broken every rule in the book, but she decided not to tell him about it.

She decided, in fact, there was absolutely nothing on the whole world she could tell this man about anything. Not him and not the others like him.

In the darkening shadows of the afternoon, Julie Serafino sat on a deserted hillside and stared out. Down below, the streets were bedecked with Christmas regalia of every description. The Germans were big on Christmas. Julie’s eyes, sunken in her pale face, watched sightlessly as streams of happy people moved along the streets. The cold December rain drummed on her Army issue fatigue coat, darkening the OD green where it got wet. The coat had faded areas here and there where insignia had been torn off. The rain pelted into her shoulder length brown hair, matted and filthy. Her painfully thin figure seemed lost in the Army coat. She must have been cold but she didn’t shiver or flinch. She sat perfectly still in the long-dead, yellow grass.

Some time passed before she reached into one of the big breast pockets of the Army coat. She brought out a brand new double-edged razor blade and stared at it for fully a minute. She then carefully unwrapped it, pulling delicately at the close-fitting paper. The blade gleamed dully in the overcast and the sleet beaded on its blued surface. Julie looked at it raptly.

She pulled both sleeves of the coat up and examined her thin arms. The right showed a score of small diagonal cuts, some old and faded, others freshly healed and scabbed. The left arm was the worst. On her left arm, from above the elbow to well past the wrist, was a deep furrow of mangled flesh, healed but horribly deformed. She had almost made it the night she sliced into her left arm. But they managed to save her again. Maybe tonight she would finally do it.

She turned her attention back to the right arm. Taking a firm grip on the razor blade, she drew it decisively across the bottom of her forearm, about six inches back from the wrist. Dark blood immediately welled up and followed the course of the razor. She cut herself for about two inches, very shallow, then pulled the blade away and stared at it. The dark surface blood hung in beads on the thin steel. But only for a moment before the continuous sleet cleansed the blade. She cut herself again, closer to the wrist. Again she watched the sleet wash over the blued steel razor blade, carrying her blood away. She cut herself a third time but only for an inch or so. Then she began to feel faint. She stopped and tossed the razor blade into the dead grass where the sleet could work its will on the honed edge.

She pulled her sleeves down and looked up into the sky. A strange smile tugged at her lips. There was no hurry. Plenty of time to cut herself later on. Later tonight or maybe even tomorrow. She had an ample supply of razor blades. One of these days, she thought, she would cut herself for real. Perhaps in the pain if torn flesh she could forget the pain in her mind.

While Sgt. Wormack and Lt. Nelson processed their drunk driver and while Julie Serafino played her solitary and dangerous game on the hillside, Peter Bedford was sound asleep in his bed. He was fully clothed, having intended to merely stretch out for a short nap but instead falling dead asleep.

He was awoken rudely as a pounding, overlapping sound suddenly filled the room. A helicopter was making a low pass over the house, probably on its way to Rhine Ordnance Barracks. The all too familiar sound of the chopper shaking Bedford from his sleep disoriented him and for a moment—just for a moment-he was back in the jungle. And he was afraid.

The fear slipped away as a sense of time and place enveloped him. He rose from the bed, pulled the curtains aside and looked out. The fuzzy outline of the helicopter was just then slipping behind the treeline. The trees were green, shifting in the wind. The sky was a low gray. Germany, not Asia. Evergreen trees in a clean winter wind, not the heavy oppressive growth edging some steamy, fetid rice paddy. Nothing to be afraid of here.

He smiled slightly to himself.

Well, not too much to be afraid of, anyway.

Bedford looked away from the window and noted the time on the bedside digital clock. Ninety minutes until Guardmount. Ninety minutes for him to report in for the swing shift, four to midnight. He pulled at his damp shirt in disgust. He had about him that heavy wetness you get after having fallen asleep with your clothes on. He stepped into the bathroom and stripped for a shower and shave. Ten minutes later, much refreshed, he emerged dripping wet, wrapped in a large towel. Damp footprints marked his progress along the bare wooden floor of the hallway.

In the living room, he found the TV on and both children sound asleep on the floor in front of it. Next to the TV, the Christmas tree stood with the miniature lights blinking amid the lush fir branches. They had decided on a real tree that year and the sharp odor of pine sap hung in the air.

The late afternoon sun broke briefly through the overcast. The sunlight, winter-weak and pale, poked through the curtain gaps and fashioned odd geometric shapes on the frayed government carpet. The sun shone strongly for a moment, dimmed and then was gone, erasing the shapes from the carpet. It was too warm in the room. It seemed it was always that way with military housing, either too hot or too cold. The median temperatures were apparently unattainable. Like everything else in the military, thought Bedford: no middle ground.

Across the room, his wife Anne was stretched out on the couch, also asleep. Bedford wandered over and looked down at the figure. She’s at her worst when she’s asleep, he reflected. She was one of those people who habitually slept with a deep frown and, with the light of her eyes hidden by closed lids, the frown gave her face a chiseled, unflattering look. She was still wearing the ratty while Terrycloth robe she’d put on when getting up that morning. The front of the robe had fallen open as she sprawled on the couch, exposing nearly all of her long legs which were still pretty good despite her thirty-odd years and two trips to the labor and delivery room.

Over by the TV, the two children slept on. On a warm impulse, Bedford gently lowered himself to the edge of the couch. Her frown deepened and she stirred sluggishly, not wanting to wake. He leaned over and brushed his lips against her forehead. Her eyes open and regarded him blurrily before she rolled away.

Go away, she muttered.

Undeterred, Bedford next pressed his lips against the back of her neck. She giggled and reached her arm behind her, pushing away at him ineffectually.

Go away.

You don’t mean it. Yes, I do, she said. Leave me alone. He nuzzled his face in her hair while his hands rubbed deeply at the back of her neck and shoulders. Mmmm, she said, that’s nice. Really? Really, really.

Good, he said, let’s talk about return favors. Go away.

He deepened the massage, pressing his fingertips into her back with little circular motions. She hummed contentedly. Are you sure you want me to go away? he asked. Well…

Let’s continue this down in the bedroom. You’re doing fine right here. C’mon.

You have to go to work. So, I’ll be late.

I don’t want you to get into trouble.

How can I get into trouble? he asked. I’m the boss.

What kind of example are you going to set for the troops?

A happily married example. Now, c’mon.

Can’t.

Why not?

Friend came this morning.

Bedford paused, then shrugged. So? Never stopped us before.

Well, it’s stopping us now, she said. Hurts. You’re just getting old, Bedford said, straightening up. Anne sat up, propping herself against the arm of the couch, and ran hands through her hair.

So what are you? she said. Getting younger? Always. Come on down the hall and I’ll make you young. Not now, she said, pointing behind him.

He looked across the room and saw four year old Pete Jr. sitting up, wide awake and watching the proceedings avidly. Anne hurriedly pulled the robe closed over her bare legs.

How you doin’, baby? Anne said brightly.

Pete Jr. ignored her, keeping his enormous brown eyes fixed on his father. Bedford got uncomfortable as he always did when the subject of the boy’s unabashed stare. Had they been too intimate in front of the boy? Bedford didn’t think so, not really. Just a kiss and a rub. Christ, he didn’t need the kid growing up to be an axe murderer or something because his parents were frolicking on the living room couch. He often thought that raising kids in this day and age was a lot like scaling a cliff: in each case, the idea seemed simple enough and in each case, the consequences of a thoughtless step could be disastrous.

Whaaya doon, dad? Pete Jr. wanted to know.

Loving mommy.

Oh. The boy withdrew and, to all appearances, took this answer under deep consideration. Then, How come you love mommy?

Bedford shrugged. I just do.

Anne watched the exchange with dancing eyes.

But why? the boy persisted.

Because I think she’s great.

Oh. Another pondering pause.

Don’t you think she’s great?

Pete Jr. nodded.

Then Anne spoke up.

Well, I think daddy’s great, she said, opening the way for Pete Jr. to toss his dad an accolade. Pete Jr. turned to the TV without another word.

Little shit.

Bedford pulled a sour face and stood up. Gotta go.

Having wasted time fooling around, Bedford found himself running a little late. He pulled on a freshly ironed set of fatigues, then got into his combat boots. Next came the heavy police jacket and from one of the big jacket pockets came the battered, blue-black beret with the USAFE crest. He fussed somewhat in front of the vanity mirror, getting the angle of the beret just so on his head.

Anne was heating water in the kitchen when Bedford came in.

How do I look? he asked.

Scrumptious.

You didn’t think so a few minutes ago.

I did too, she said.

You didn’t act it.

Ask me again when you get home tonight.

You gotta deal.

He kissed her and went out to the living room, pausing at the front door. Three year old Liz was still sleeping and Pete Jr. was still glued to the TV.

See ya later, chief, Bedford called to the boy, hoping against hope for…something.

Bye, Pete Jr. mumbled mechanically without turning around.

Bedford stood there another moment, indulging wildly dark thoughts, then sighed and went out the door. It was bitter cold outside. A fine windblown rain stung Bedford’s face. Still no snow. There hadn’t been any snow all winter and now Christmas was only two days away. Anne kept hoping for a white Christmas but Bedford didn’t think it was going to happen this year, not in this strange area where the salty warmth of the Mediterranean met the icy winds of the North Sea. Just as well, as far as he was concerned.

He zipped up the jacket fully, turned up his collar and headed on foot down the hill to the station.

The building which housed the U.S. Forces Police was set right on the edge of Highway B-40 in the western part of Kaiserslautern, or K-Town, as the GIs called it. The building itself was a low, squat affair of rough stone. It appeared small from the outside but the interior was an impossible maze, with corridors ending abruptly and surprisingly large offices appearing in unexpected places. The decor was as bad as only the military can make things. The walls and ceilings were lumpily covered with surplus paint, a uniform depressing brown. Baby shit brown was how Paula Kestler accurately described it. It was furnished with whatever castoffs could be culled from the military community. The result was dark and moody and sometimes the height of tastelessness, as in the case of the holding area which was furnished with old church pews. There was something fundamentally wrong in having a rapist cool his unrepentant heels on a church pew.

The biggest room by far was the Guardmount room, a high ceiling chamber which hesitated somewhere between a square and a rectangle. It was furnished with rows of long tables and disgustingly orange plastic chairs. A small podium faced the tables and a scarred blackboard was hung askew on the front wall.

In a military law enforcement unit, Guardmount is a function which closely parallels that of rollcall in a civilian police department. Theoretically, it was a function to pass on information and policy changes. In practice, it was more often a clearing house for the latest gossip and rumors. When Bedford strolled into the room, it was alive with the most recent dirt.

It seemed an Air Force captain had called the desk sergeant and requested a patrol at his quarters. They responded and the captain asked the senior patrolman if he