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In the mid-fifties, when I was working for them, our technology, although impressive for the time, looks primitive alongside the very computer on which this column is being written. We basically listened in on radio communications between various military groups and recorded what we heard for further analysis back in headquarters. To get close enough to intercept tactical communications...say, between tanks in a tank division, we had to get relatively close to the radio sources, so we had outposts scattered all over Europe, but mostly concentrated on the border between East and West Germany. Each day, units stationed at these outposts would communicate a summary of the radio activity they had intercepted back to headquarters, where I was stationed and my group, a small group of mostly married men like myself...single men got sent to the outposts, which were often based in tent "cities" in the countryside...our group would put together a report to be sent on to Fifth Army headquarters.

In 1956, the Soviets had about fifty divisions of troops stationed in East Germany (versus the Fifth Army's three divisions!), so there was a lot of traffic to listen in on. The U.S. doctrine at the time was to launch nuclear strikes at the opposing forces should these vastly superior conventional forces cross the border and attack our troops in West Germany. Needless to say, this doctrine was scant comfort either for us, standing right in the path, or to the German civilians that would have become "collateral damage," using a euphemism not yet coined in 1956.

In October of that year, while the so-called Suez crisis involving the forces of England and France against those of Egypt, the people of Hungary, mostly in beautiful Budapest, rose up in revolt against their Soviet masters. Somewhat to my perplexed amazement, the Russian radio traffic from the East fell of drastically about that time. I was soon to discover the reason for this.

One day, an Army buddy of mine in the same branch, on leave from one of our outposts, asked me to "take a walk" around our compound...an old Luftwaffe base up in the hills close to Kassel in West Germany, near the unofficial border of the designated British zone of occupation and about 100 miles north of Fifth Army Headquarters in Frankfurt am Main...with him and talk about something "important."

The conversation went something like this. Without fanfare or introduction, he announced, "All the field agents are on strike."

I said, "On strike? What does that mean?"

"It means that we are hearing no Russian radio traffic." he answered simply and a bit cryptically. Agents tended to talk to one another that way, a form of institutionalized paranoia.

"Yeah. I noticed there wasn't much information coming in, but there is some." I offered.

"Well, our supervisors are a little upset about this," he went on, surely a massive understatement. "When they come in to listen, sure enough, they quickly find a couple of live spots on the dial. But, when they leave, the broadcasts just seem to disappear."

"Whose idea was this?" I wondered.

"Well, it turns out that this has happened a couple of times before. Some of the older guys..." probably the oldest non-commissioned men in our unit was 25 or 26, hardly gray in the temples, or anything like that "...some of the older guys were here for the last one, which we won."

"Isn't this a rather bad time to be doing it?" I wondered, "What with the Russians cranking up their forces right over there?" I continued, pointing to the East where a Red Army artillery force was audibly practicing their artform less than four miles away.

"No, this is the BEST time to be doing it! Fifth Army won't want us out of action for very long at all." he responded vehemently.

"What does 'winning' mean? What do you want?" I asked. It wasn't that I couldn't think of anything that didn't need changing about our situation, but it struck me as very dangerous for a bunch of youngsters to be taking on the U.S. Army and I couldn't think of anything that warranted such a risk.

"What YOU should want." he came back quickly. "For example, did you know that we are unarmed? Oh, yes, we got all those M1 carbines over there, but where is the ammunition? Or, that this base is a suicide base, mined with high explosives which our officers are going to detonate if the Russians advance on us, taking you with it?" he was talking rapidly and excitedly now, obviously having been prepped well. "or, have you seen any evacuation plans for our wives and children?" as I said, most of the headquarters staff consisted of married men some with children. Mary was then pregnant with Jill, who was born in January 1957. Continuing rapid fire, he laid out a series of things he felt were bad news for all of us. The only other thing I can recall at this late date was the fact, well known by all, that most of our officers were fuckups assigned here from Infantry and Artillery on the belief that since they did not share our vocation...they weren't even cleared to enter our places of work!...we wouldn't get to cozy with them. The strikers wanted some of these men summarily removed from duty and sent somewhere else.

"So, what do you want from me?" I asked. "Why are you telling me all this? Do you want us to strike too?"

"Oh, no, no, no." he quickly replied. "That would be way too dangerous for you! But, you are in a unique position to notice that the radio traffic is light...way TOO light, given the circumstances. We simply want you to make sure that the brass 'notice' what is happening. we want you to tell them that you have 'heard on the grapevine," that there is a field-agent strike in progress."

He went on to explain, in more detail, exactly what I was to tell my superiors. And, more importantly, how I could protect my own ass and those of my comrades. He warned me that they were going to call the strike a mutiny. That they were going to threaten to shoot me...summarily...in front of a firing squad. "They always do that!" he said, "But, they won't do it. They got nothing on you. Besides, they will be more interested in any other details you can give them. So, I'm not going to tell you any more. Just wait until tomorrow, when I go back to the outpost before you do it. OK?"

I reluctantly agreed to do as he said. I was very nervous about it, but had to agree that what he was saying made sense and I personally knew most of the strikers and was impressed by their solidarity. The only other thing he said was that when 'management' conceded defeat, they would ask for the 'demands.'" Not "if" management conceded, but "when." I was to go to a designated spot in one of the barracks and there I would find them typed out. "Just give them to whoever asks for them."

The next day, I dutifully told the story to the next in command, a warrant officer, who was cleared to be on site with us. He quickly passed on the news, which probably wasn't news at all by now, to his superiors and sure enough, a group of them rudely confronted me within minutes. As predicted, they warned me in the most serious manner that this was a mutiny and that if I did not report the leaders (whom I did not then or ever since know by name), that I would be taken out back and shot...immediately. Strangely enough, since I had been so thoroughly briefed on what they would say and how they would say it, that I wasn't the slightest bit frightened! In fact, I had to keep myself from laughing at times, because these bozos were such bad actors.

Furthermore, my contact had thoroughly convinced me of the justice of our demands. The thought of being blown up with the base by our own officers was shocking to me. The thought of Mary being stranded without assistance on the German economy to fend for herself during a Soviet assault was even worse. The fact that we, an Army post, were unarmed, was the final straw. As a soldier, I knew I might be called upon to give my life, but not without a fucking fight!

So, I "held my mud," as the saying goes. I insisted, over and over, that I knew nothing helpful about the details of the strike, only what anyone could see. The Soviets had fifty divisions poised to strike and there was zilch coming in from the field. Only "rumors" told me what was happening. That was my story. That is what I stuck with.

Fifth army didn't capitulate for almost a week. That was one of the tensest weeks I ever spent anywhere. The Soviets had already begun to clean up on the Hungarian rebels in Budapest, almost laying that beautiful city to ruins. Unbeknownst to us, the U.S. authorities were not about to trigger a confrontation with the Soviets, but to us grunts, war seemed imminent. I told Mary what was going on, as did all my friends. We made our own evacuation plans, vowing to protect each other's families if some were caught in the crossfire and killed or stranded. Those who were off-base at the time of the attack would immediately put our escape plans into effect, trying to merge with the expected German refugees and moving to the West. We assumed that our base wouldn't last but a few minutes, no matter who blew it up first.

One fine day, a sergeant major from Fifth Army Headquarters walked into the little room where we worked, asked the warrant officer in charge who was the "negotiator," and when I was pointed out, walked over to me and without further ado, asked "What are the demands."

I started to voice my disclaimers and protective excuses, "Well, I'm not sure, but I think I can find out..."

The sergeant major interrupted me and said brusquely, "Cut the crap! Just do whatever you need to do and get them to me as fast as you can move!"

This was clearly an order, so I got up and ran from the building to the barracks, making sure only that I was not being followed, retrieved the demands, as promised neatly typed out on a single sheet of paper on a "mill," a typewriter that types English and Russian only in all-caps...and ran them back to the other "negotiator," double time. He left immediately and within hours, every man on the base was issued ammunition, an evacuation plan was announced, etc., etc., including several officers who were scooped up and put on transports out of the country. As quickly as it had started it was over. As planned. As carried out.

I did get to talk with several participants in the strike before they left the country for home and college. But, I didn't learn much more. A couple of demands that I hadn't known about, and which were also carried out to the letter, are comical in retrospect. One was that a loaded M1 carbine, with extra clips, set to fully automatic, would be placed over the entrance to our work areas so that we could defend ourselves from our own officers, should they try to blow us away! The second, demonstrating the youth and idealistic naiveté of the young rebels who had carried out the strike, was a demand that Hubert Horatio Humphrey, then a relatively youthful senator from Minnesota, come to the base and verify, on our behalf, that the "suicide" munitions had actually been disarmed. He visited, amidst much fanfare, did his inspection and solemnly announced that we were safe...after, of course, shmoozing with all the soldiers (read: voters) from his home state.

Do you think we really were "safe?"

See you tomorrow...

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