*****
Author's note:
To those of you who are familiar with the German language, I apologize for butchering it. I am simply too lazy to bother with learning how to produce umlauts (the little dots over some German vowels) with an American keyboard; if they wanted me to use them they should have won the war. Also, I never could get the hang of which words to capitalize, so I've just used English grammatical rules. Again, to the victors go the spoils. That being said, I learned enough German to get around the country without starving or pissing myself, and I know how to ask, "Do you have any bombs or explosives or a pretty daughter?" which came in handy when working the main gate. Spelling and grammar aside, everything else about Germany should be pretty spot on, for those looking to get a realistic glimpse into another time and place.
*****
Chapter Two
The van pulled through the front gate of Spangdahlem Airbase, Germany, shortly before 1500 local.
"You want to go to billeting, or what?" Tom's driver, Bill, asked him.
"Um, if you could actually drop me off at the Security Forces squadron, I'd appreciate it," Tom requested. "I should probably check in there, first."
"Sure thing." Bill hung a right and drove past the base hotel on their way to the police headquarters. He pulled into the parking lot and told Tom, "I'll wait for you here."
"You sure, sir? I can hoof it back to Billeting from here."
"Nah, you go on ahead. Us cops gotta take care of our own," the retired Security Policeman (as Security Forces were called back before 1997) replied. "Besides, I'm ahead of schedule, not having had to make but three stops on this run. I've got time to kill."
Tom thanked the old man and hopped out, heading inside. He saw a sign for the administration office upstairs and checked in with the clerks. A pretty Senior Airman checked his ID, had him sign in and then handed him some paperwork. "Here you go, Airman Baird. Take this form to the housing office and they'll assign you a dorm room."
"Actually," Tom corrected, "I just sewed on Staff Sergeant on my way over here and haven't had a chance to get my ID card updated yet. Do I still get a dorm room?"
"Oh! In that case, no, they'll be putting you off base. You've got eight days for house hunting. So..." she checked her calendar, "we'll see you back here at 0730 on the seventeenth." She smiled up at him, clearly finished.
Tom hesitated. "That's it?"
"Yes, sir. Have fun!"
"Ok, thanks." He turned and went back to the waiting van, feeling a overwhelmed.
I guess this is what it's like being an NCO,
he thought.
They just expect you to know what you're doing.
It was only his second time PCSing (or transferring, as civilians called it. The military, true to form, had opted to create an initialism out of Permanent Change of Station rather than use the common term; why use a single, common word when you can use three and then shorten it in a way that no one on the outside would understand?). His first PCS move had been to Korea, where all the new arrivals were met by representatives from their squadron as they got off the plane and were hand-held through the entirety of inprocessing. The contrast between that and his arrival in Germany was a bit disconcerting, and Tom felt rather like he was left flapping in the wind.
Climbing in the front passenger seat, he asked Bill to take him to billeting. "I'll just pop inside with you, to make sure you're squared away," Bill volunteered. "They have a few different buildings scattered around base and it'll be easier if I hear first-hand where you're going."
It turned out to be a good thing, because, to Tom's dismay, he was informed by the front desk that they had no rooms available on base. "You'll be staying at one of our contracted hotels nearby, sir," the clerk informed him, handing the address to Bill. She gave a paper in German to Tom. "Just give this to the hotel and they will send the bill to us. You are authorized eight days, so try to find a place to live before that or you'll be paying out of pocket."
Tom and Bill headed back to the van and Tom offered to get a cab if Bill wanted to cut loose; the old man had done his job by just getting him to Spangdahlem from the airport.
"It's not a problem," Bill assure him. "I'm friends with the proprietor anyway. Runs a nice little gasthaus with a good bar."
The gasthaus in Nattenheim was a picturesque inn nestled in the heart of the little town. Like most small hotels in Germany, it was a combination of restaurant, pub and sleeping quarters, serving not only as a stopping point for wayfarers but also a gathering place and watering hole for the locals. Bill led Tom inside and introduced him to the owner, who spoke very little English; fortunately, Bill was fluent in German. Tom presented his voucher and Bill did the talking, which eventually ended with Tom being handed a glass of beer and led up two flights of stairs to his room at the top floor. Bill showed him the list of numbers on a card by the phone and pointed out which two were for taxis to get him back to base. "Just call one of them tonight and arrange for pickup tomorrow morning," he said.
Tom took the old fashioned, metal key from the proprietor and said, "Danke," stretching his own command of the German language almost to the max. To Bill, he held out his hand. "Thanks again for everything, sir. I really do appreciate all your help. I'd have been SOL without you."
"Not a problem," his driver waved dismissively. "Just don't give me a ticket if you see me speeding on base."
"Fair enough," Tom said with a laugh.
As the door shut behind the old man, Tom looked around the small room. The walls were made of wood paneling, though Tom was happy to see that it was actual, polished boards rather than the cheap faux-wood sheets that adorned trailers and basement dens across America. The light of the setting sun poured through a skylight set in the low roof that slanted down over the bed, casting the room in a warm, golden glow. Tom sat on the bed, settling on the soft, white comforter and kicking off his shoes. The innkeeper had invited him down for dinner at 1900, but the long day and the jet lag were starting to catch up with him. It took the last of his remaining energy to arrange for a cab in the morning and grab a quick shower before sliding under the comforter, nestling into the down pillow.
As sleep approached, the nearby church bells tolled out the hour. He sighed contentedly and thought about his trip, images of Vanessa filling his mind. His cock rose slightly, remembering the feeling of her lips, but even it was too tired to do more than twitch once and then collapse. He drifted off to sleep, imagining that his head was pillowed not on feathers but on the soft mounds of his lovely captain.
***
Tom rose the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the world despite waking several times in the night. His first priority was to get a rental car, and Bill had told him that there were a couple of companies on base. After he had wheels, he could focus on finding a place to live. Having just been promoted to Staff Sergeant, the Air Force's first Noncommissioned Officer rank, it would be his first time living off base since joining up. His first duty location, down in Georgia, had provided single-occupant rooms with a shared bathroom, and Korea had consisted of dorms (the Air Force found the term "barracks" too militaristic) with two to a room, sharing a bathroom with another two, so he was looking forward to finally getting his own place. After four years in the dorms he knew that he wanted to avoid apartments, and the housing allowance he received from the military would more than cover a single-family dwelling in the local area. He just hoped he could find somewhere good in his allotted time.
Thanks to the jet lag and early bedtime the night before, he was up before his alarm and still had a couple hours before his cab was scheduled to arrive. After visiting the latrine to jettison all unnecessary cargo, he pulled on his running clothes and eased down the stairs, not wanting to bother any other guests. Dawn was just breaking over the sleeping town when he stepped out on the sidewalk. The morning was cool and crisp, and from somewhere nearby he heard a rooster crow. Across the street was a large garden where dew dripped from the leaves and the first song birds were just warming up their vocal chords. Up the street the white tower of the local church rose high, and the bells rang again, declaring the time to be 0600. Tom grimaced and determined to watch out for houses near churches. The bells, which had first struck him as quaint and pleasant, had lost their charm during the night. He was not sure if the practice of ringing every hour, on the hour, was universal in Germany, but he did not want to take any chances. At midnight Tom had decided that the locals must a unique breed, unwilling to invest in the own clocks but still possessing a burning desire to know the time. At 0300, he figured that the job of bell ringer must constantly be open due to the incumbents no doubt getting lynched with their own rope on a regular basis.
After a leisurely jog through the quiet (at least until 0700 rolled around) he returned to his gasthaus in time for a quick shower before breakfast. Entering the restaurant, a pretty, young woman greeted him and gave him a menu.
"Do I just sit anywhere?" he asked, unfamiliar with the local protocol.
"Yes, please sit where you like," she indicated the open dining area. Tom was the only guest present and had his pick, settling on a table with his back to the wall and a view of the doors.
"You are in room three zed one, ya?" the girl asked him, her accent strong but her command of the language good. Tom would find that most of the younger generation was fairly fluent in English, having been required to take several years of it during school. Still, it took him a minute to translate the British "zed" before he nodded, "Yes, ma'am."
"Mein father said that an American had arrived last night," she said with a smile. Tom liked her smile. Her teeth were white and straight, no doubt thanks to a little orthodontic work in recent years, and her cheeks dimpled prettily while her blue eyes sparkled. It became evident that she liked what she was seeing as well when she added, "He did not say that he was so handsome."
Tom blushed, a bit taken aback by the forwardness of the compliment, and stammered, "Ah, well, I don't suppose that would have been something he'd notice. Or want to report, if he had."
