Narrow Sidewalks - A flashback of Berlin

The cool, crisp Missouri morning air greets me as I step onto the deck of the military guest quarters. A clear sky is a pleasant surprise after two weeks of constant overcast skies in Washington D.C. The sun's warmth on my face elevates my already high spirits on this extraordinary day. Filled with excitement and anticipation, I choose to face the April chill and walk the mile to the ceremony.

            My steps are unusually brisk this morning. Initially, I think it's because of the biting cold, but then I realize it's likely the adrenaline surging through me. In the distance, I hear the synchronized shouts of hundreds of soldiers reciting marching cadences. The competing rhythms resonate from the red brick buildings, challenging this old soldier to stay in step. I regret not wearing a warmer jacket, but turning back isn't an option now.

Being back on a military post feels oddly like home. I never thought I would miss it, but the connection I feel says otherwise. I've walked many military installations in the past, and aside from some topographical differences, they all look quite similar. Fort Leonard Wood stands out with its open spaces of barren, rolling hills scattered with jagged rocks. Raised sidewalks have been installed to make walking across these vast areas easier. They're narrow, and I have to frequently look down to avoid stepping too close to the edge and risking a twisted ankle—something I definitely don't need on a morning as important as this. In just a few moments, I'll see my son for the first time since he enlisted in the army. Suddenly, I'm covered in goosebumps upon goosebumps. Maybe it's colder than I initially thought.

As I crest another hill, I notice the sidewalk veers slightly off course toward the Post Exchange, but I have no alternative. I pause momentarily to catch my breath. My pace, despite the cadence's rhythm, disappoints me. I used to traverse open spaces like this effortlessly. Back then, I was only nineteen. Good lord, my little boy will soon be twenty. How did that happen? How did that adorable little blonde in Pampers grow up so quickly? My, how far we've both traveled on life's journey. With the theater still quite a distance away, I attempt to quicken my pace. My thoughts wander back to when I was my son's age.

I served in the military at Tempelhof Central Airport in the isolated, divided city of Berlin, Germany. As one Cold War memory after another resurfaces, a growing anger fuels my pace. Turning the corner at the Post Exchange, the dreadful memories suddenly materialize. Looming before me are remnants of the symbol of death. I struggle to grasp the reality of this strange encounter. Once more, I find myself in the shadow of the Berlin Wall! Is this some kind of cruel joke? I've come a long way for a joyful reunion, not for this!

I don't want to be late for the ceremony, but I find it difficult to leave the three stone monoliths set up in an open "Z" formation. The gray concrete slabs are now covered with vibrant graffiti: "Freiheit...PEACE...Freedom...TEAR DOWN THE WALL," along with a bright yellow smiley face. This is nothing like what I remember from the last time I stood in its ominous shadow—only dull shades of gray, as bleak as the colorless skies over the city and the people it divided—a menacing wedge driven deep between two opposing ideologies.

I spent countless hours on observation decks in the West, gazing into the Garden of Death in the East, with its extensive minefields, tank traps, heavily armed guard towers, floodlights, barbed wire, and fierce dogs. Standing here now, I witness it all once more. I hear it. I smell it. Despite the new art, they continue to symbolize death—death to democratic ideals, and death to the desperate souls who bravely risked their lives for a chance at freedom.

These solid concrete slabs confronted the ideals I held in my youth. Much like the razor-sharp wire encircling them, they distorted the vision of the world where I hoped to live and raise children. I never comprehended the killing. Surely, those who watched over the Garden of Death had families. How could they be so determined to kill, even their own children, merely for seeking freedom, a distance of less than one hundred yards from where I stood?

For the first time, I encountered the enemy directly as I crossed through Checkpoint Charlie with three other soldiers into East Berlin, the heart of communism’s official showcase. The lack of color is noticeable. People are dressed in shades of gray, blue, brown, and black. The few cars present look identical. Road crews are everywhere, their jackhammers pounding—nothing unusual, except for the fact that many workers are women. There are no billboards, marquees, or neon lights to be seen. Wherever we walk, all eyes seem to be fixed on us. The stares are unsettling, making me wonder what thoughts lie behind them. By orders, we're prohibited from communicating with anyone during our visit, so we may never know.

The streets are broad, yet the sidewalks are narrow. This strikes me as particularly strange given the scarcity of cars and the abundance of pedestrians. We head down a side street leading to a rusty iron bridge. Repairs are also taking place on it, leaving only one side open for crossing. At the bridge's summit, we notice four Russian soldiers approaching us. They are young, much like us. I remind my friends that many people are observing the impending encounter with keen interest. As representatives of the United States of America, it's vital that we do not relinquish any sidewalk space to the adversary. Judging by their gestures, it seems the Russians have reached a similar conclusion.

Conversation halts as each military group assesses the other. As they approach, the nervous tension suddenly transforms into broad, anxious smiles. These smiles quickly turn into laughter as the three Americans and four Russians realize the game's rules and prepare for an up-close and personal encounter.

Contact! The thick wool uniforms of two rival Cold War superpowers are pressed closely together. The rough fabrics rustle and metal buttons clink as our bodies come into contact. The destiny of two world powers seems precariously balanced, or so it appears to us all at that moment. Each side valiantly grapples, pulling and tugging at the other to ensure no one steps onto the roadway, allowing everyone to leave the confrontation with dignity intact.

In an instant, the Cold War is transformed. I catch the scent of my adversary's potent, inexpensive cologne. His warm breath grazes my face. I notice his wide smile, flushed cheeks, and the twinkle in his eyes. Above everything, his laughter resonates. His laughter is unforgettable. He's just like me!

I'm jolted back to the present by the loud Jody calls from the nearby graduating platoons. The big event is about to commence. Families and friends gather on the narrow sidewalk, eagerly searching for a first glimpse of their special someone. Today, everyone looks special. Their gleaming brass is only outshone by the pride in their eyes. I feel my eyes begin to tear up as I see my special soldier marching by. If asked, I would try to blame it on the chilly morning. However, the growing lump in my throat would likely prevent me from speaking. The frantic aiming and clicking of cameras reminds me that I left mine behind. Photos would have been nice, but somehow I don't think I'll ever forget today's images and events. 

I pause from the celebration to approach the remains of the Wall. I realize that I've been holding onto bitterness and hatred for too long. I rest my hands on the cold, lifeless slabs. I no longer sense any evil in them. The touch of the stone is soothing and brings a sense of peace. I wonder what happened to those young Russian soldiers. I hope they are now old Russians with sons of their own. As I step away, I say goodbye to the ghosts of my past with a sharp salute, then quickly cover the last hundred yards to the theater.

Author, USAF Basic Training, 1969 Author, USA Warrant Officer, 1990