by Dale Thompson
I remember thinking "It's so huge--beautiful!" as the plane circled the infamous city where I would spend the next three years of my life. I was excited, naturally, to finally have the chance to live in a big city full of sky-scrapers and millions of people. A rush of that excitement flooded my stomach as I ogled my new home through the window, anxious to touch that line dividing it into halves--the wall.
The airport was different from any I had ever seen. The Polezie, or German police, patrolled the corridors with machine guns in their hands, their dark green uniforms segregating them unmistakably from the citizenry. I didn't think much about it at the time, but searched with a happy-go-lucky air for the officers of the U.S. Army. Everyone around me was speaking German, of course, but no other differences were apparent. With a few polite inquiries I was able to find my way.
Once in the Army offices, I had to wait for an hour and a half before I was finally bussed to my barracks, HHC Sixth Battalion, of the Five Hundred and Second Infantry. As I disembarked from the ugly green Army van and approached the building, I noticed the word "Strike" which hung over the entrance in bright red letters. The red paint had run down below the letters, reminding me of blood for some reason. Adrenaline surged through me like fire as I anticipated the surrounding city and what I might do there once released to my own devices. That exploration was a longer wait than I could have guessed--a much longer wait than I had hoped.
Meanwhile, I endured the tedious procedures of the Army, including a two week introduction to the city in a class called School of Standards, or S.O.S. It was there that I heard the word freedom, and the means to provide and protect the citizens of Berlin were instilled in me. The task was one taken lightly, I admit, but that would soon change. At the end of our two week orientation, we went on a tour of East Berlin. It was on that tour that the change within me began.
I don't know how long the tour lasted, for I was so taken aback by my surroundings that I spent most of my time in a daze. Everything in the city was enveloped in a cloud of dark oppression that emanated, seemingly, from the people themselves. No one smiled or laughed, and the terror in the people's eyes when an American spoke to them made me leery of such folly, so I withdrew into my own, sad little shell. Toward the end of the day, I met my first Russian. I hated him just then, or I thought I did, so I stared him down with hatred, and he knew I would kill him if given the chance. I left East Berlin with that hatred burning a new hell into my soul. * * *
I was in good spirits even though Berlin was nothing like I had expected. I had spent all of May on Spandau Prison guard, guarding a war criminal named Rudolf Hess. I never thought badly of the man, even though he had been responsible for many atrocities in Hitler's death camps. Rather, I pitied him and considered my task there just another job. Mr. Hess, like part of myself, would die before I left this legendary city.
It happened on August 21, 1987. My squad was on wall patrol. We began our systems check at 1700 hours, re-cleaning our weapons and inspecting them to insure maximum efficiency. We had quite an arsenal between us. Staff Sgt. Mead, the patrol leader, was armed with a .45 and a 12-Gauge pump. Sgt. Hipp, the Security NCO, was armed with an M-16 and a L.A.W. (light anti-tank weapon). SP/4 Marco Santiago was the M-60 gunner, with his machine gun mounted on the top of the Hum-V and a .45 on his hip. Pv2 Jay Elderidge, equipped with an M-16/M203 grenade launcher, was assigned security with Sgt. Hipp. There was I, the sniper, my M-14 assault rifle with its infrared scope mounted on top to allow accuracy at night. A .45 also rested on my hip. We were all expert marksmen fully equipped for combat in our LCE's, camo's, and flack jackets, definitely a force to be reckoned with.
The night turned colder and ominous, though the patrol had been as uneventful as usual. We hadn't heard an escape siren in over a week, so we weren't as alert as we probably should have been. As we turned onto Hans Boehm Zeile, the dogs could be heard on the far side of the canal, and shouts began cutting the air, gliding across the water toward us. Sgt. Hipp brought our vehicle to an abrupt halt. Everything was dark except where the search lights scanned the far bank, and the escape sirens began to bellow their warnings, alerting everyone within a ten mile radius that something was askew. We still managed, somehow, to hear the rustling of rushes as the quarry made his way to the canal. It wasn't long until I could see him, as well as the six East German soldiers who hunted him, through my sights.
As the man broke from the edge of the trees, sprinting for the canal in his flight to freedom, I took sight on the soldier closest to him and informed Sgt. Mead that I had a lock. "Don't shoot 'em, Dale!" he yelled, "Just keep 'em off our man's back so he can make it. I repeat, don't shoot the Russians!"
So I shot the tree he was hiding behind. Another couple of shots into other nearby trees were all it took to give the escapee enough time to reach the fence blocking him from the water. He cleared it in a matter of seconds and dove into the canal, ignoring the numerous cuts and gouges inflicted by the barbed wire. The canal itself was about seventy-five feet across, but that was the longest seventy-five feet I have ever seen anyone swim. The soldiers on the ground were firing at the refugee every time he came up for air, as were the four Russian soldiers in the two visible guard towers. Search lights swept the area, not only providing sight for the enemy, but blinding us in the process. The runaway had almost made it.
All of my squad could be heard yelling in favor of the fugitive, and I had been so bold in my excitement as to stand up and approach the canal. I could hear Sgt. Mead and Sgt. Hipp yelling in the background for me to get back, but I ignored them and came even closer to the canal's edge. A ricochet bullet whizzed past my head, convincing me that I was being quite foolish, so I assumed a prone position, then commenced dancing the East Germans with shots around their feet. They gave up the chase and headed back into the safety of the woods.
The guards in the tower also stopped shooting. I was tempted to stand up again, but Sgt. Hipp had anticipated my foolishness and was there to push me back down when I tried to rise. We both watched as the refugee swam those last strokes toward freedom. When his hands reached the canal wall, he yelled out in perfect English, "Free!" At that instant, Sgt. Hipp and I rose to go help the man, but another, single shot sounded from one of the guard towers, and Sgt. Hipp instinctively hit the ground again.
Blood splattered all over my face and uniform. I looked into the runaway's eyes as they registered shock, then rolled back into his head until only the whites showed. The man's grip on the stones of the canal released, and he slid back down into the icy water. "Free" I said quietly to myself. The word had never really meant anything to me until then. Now, it meant everything.