Conscription, Part 1

Prologue, part one: A Memory Fragment

Kreiswehrersatzamt Kiel, late 1998

‘Please cough once’, said the female Navy medic while holding my balls. I coughed.

Being a male German got you a friendly letter by the Kreiswehrersatzamt when you turned 18. I am struggling to translate that word – municipal defense replacement office or something like that – , but it is enough for you to know that they know where you live. They would find you and invite you to the Musterung (inspection), where they checked your mental and physical fitness for duty. Declining that invitation was not an option – sooner or later, the military police showed up on your doorstep if you did.

Here I was, getting thoroughly inspected. Despite the female medical officers’ snarking comment that she only got to see chicken-breasted boys that day, my body seemed healthy enough that only my less than perfect eyesight prevented me from reaching T1 level.

German conscripts were physically categorized by strange and arcane rituals. There’s T1 – you can do everything. Than there’s T2, my level, where you can do nearly everything, with some restrictions based on what your problem is. For reasons I do not fully understand, I was prevented from being a navigator, a medic, a paratrooper, a pioneer – and a tank crewman, which will be funny soon.

T3 is the ‘we haven’t enough conscripts this year, fill up the ranks with those guys’. T5 is ‘unfit for any service’, including civil service. And than there’s T7, where the professional sports players always seemed to end up in – ‘fit for service with severe restrictions’, meaning no marches, no sports, no field duty. Strangely enough, the ranks are usually filled up with those guys before they start recruiting the T3s.

Back then, you could state some wishes concerning your service – which service branch you’d prefer, what you’d like to do, where you’d like to be stationed. Guys from the former Eastern Germany prefered to be stationed in the Western part, because the pay was better. I stated ‘close to home’, ‘Army’, ‘fighting troops’ and ‘you got to wait until 2000, guys, I’m still in school’.

Prologue, part 2: Two Letters

Summer 2000

‘You are hereby drafted and will start your service on November 2, 2000, at Third Company, 183 Tank Batallion, Boostedt. Your post-basic service will be in the same area.’
- some Kreiswehrersatzamt guy

When I had checked ‘close to home’ two years earlier, I didn’t realize that could mean ‘six kilometers from home’. Neither did I realize that tank batallions needed people who were not allowed to become tank crewmen.

A word about the date. Germany’s rather complicated educational system led, basically, to two types of recruits. Those who had finished school at 15 or 16 and already learned a profession, and people like me who spend 13 years at school and wanted to go to college after their service. The former usually got drafted in November, January and March, the latter in May, July and September. The November draftees were nicknamed Metzger, Maurer, Mörder – butchers, bricklayers, murderers, for the, well, less than stellar reputation of their intelligence.

Autumn 2000

‘I am looking forward to welcome you at Third Company, 183 Tank Batallion. Third Company is a tank company equipped with 14 Leopard 1A5 tanks.’
- Company Commander, 3./PzBtl 183

I have my leftist and pacifist streaks, but I was always fascinated by military hardware, and try to keep up to date with the latest technology. My company didn’t. Later experience showed that the entire brigade didn’t.

Chapter 1: Smurfs

November 2, 2000

‘Don’t lean on the wall, it can stand by itself!’
- The first thing I learned from an NCO

Getting drafted is a strange feeling. You walk up to the base, show your recruitment letter and ID, and are sent to your company’s building – typically, in German Army bases, two-story brickwall buildings. There, you are assigned to a platoon. In our case, first platoon was for all those guys who wouldn’t stay at 3rd Company after basic, but would go on to posts in the Headquarters companies of the Batallion or Brigade. Second platoon – the tank crewmen – kinda looked down on us. (Literally, in fact. First platoon was on the ground floor.)

After being registered, you got send to your Stube – let’s just translate it as room, it’s an old-fashioned word – smoking or non-smoking available. I’ve seen quite a few movies and documentaries about US military basic training – big halls with bunk beds and footlockers. Well, we had bunk beds. Three per room for a total of six occupants. One main reasoning behind that system (it wasn’t that different on both sides of Germany during the cold war, by the way) is that a Stube forms a Fireteam during basic training, and that a certain degree of privacy in a small group enhances the bond between its members. Think of it what you will, it worked.

In our case, we were only five, because our sixth ranger decided that he didn’t want to get drafted the night he arrived. (You could, in theory, decide to become a conscientious objector until the moment you first fired a gun. After that, you had to stay.)

We did not complain. It meant that his locker was never inspected and could be used for a playstation, a small television, beer and other useful stuff.

Here we were, the inhabitants of Stube Six. Hero, our NCO candidate, Big Guy, who was stocky and funny, one guy I’ve nearly completely forgotten (Tagalong Kid) and Steve (well, not really, but close enough) who turned out to be living two streets away from my home. And myself. Call me Ishmael.

After everyone had arrived and spend the time until 1400h smoking and wondering what would happen, our squad (Gruppe) leader showed up and introduced himself to us and the rest of the squad from next door. (Stube Seven. Wusses. The Chick lived there.) I’ll talk about our squad leader later, let’s call him Team Pet for now.

The stuff you got issued on your first day: Linen, pyjamas, and the dreaded blue-and-white Bundeswehr tracksuit, commonly called Schlumpftarn – losely translatable as camosmurf.

Else, not much happened on the first day. We learned how to make a report when a superior entered the Stube, we got a sight-seeing tour of the base – our first formation drill included, to the various choirs of senior conscripts singing the smurfs theme, had a final medical check and got some chow at the mess hall. Lights out at 2300h.

November 3, 2000

The morning routine: Lights on at 0530h, clean yourself, clean the room, line up in front of the rooms for a attendance (‘Tank Soldier Ishmael?’ ‘Here…’) and health status check (‘…healthy’, ‘…got sick’ or ‘still sick’ available), get breakfast, return, line up in front of the building for the company commander to say good morning. Begin duty. 0700h-ish.

This day, both platoons of conscripts were put on a KOM (the fancy Bundeswehr three-letter-acronym for bus) and driven to the nearest base administration facility, where we got our stuff. (All of it, except for two things.) Most of it is used, except for the underwear and the shoes and boots, which you can keep after your service. One of my pair of combat boots finally disintegrated last year, the second one is still alive and running.

Having returned to the base, all 90 kilograms of clothing and equipment were put into our lockers (strictly following the locker order regulations), and we got to put on our combat fatigues for the first time. Remember how I said that we weren’t exactly a state-of-the-art unit? Well, we still had to wear the classic olive field suits. Flecktarn was only available for units on deployment at that time. (Or for those of us who got fed up with the olives and purchased our own sets. Which most of us did after a while.)

State-of-the-art tank battalion 183 wasn’t, proud as hell it was. Nightfall came, most of us wondering why we weren’t allowed to go to bed, when we were called outside to line up. A row of tables and quite a few torches was waiting for us, plus the entire company staff. And the captain held a little speech. Paraphrased:

‘Men, standard regulation for basic training says that you aren’t allowed to wear your berets until you took your pledges. It also says that you’ll only get your rifle after you had two weeks of classes. But this isn’t the mechanized infantry. We are tank troopers, and we believe that you are tank troopers the moment you walk in here. So, without further ado, each one of you will be called forward and issued his beret and his personal G3A3.’

Forward we were called, shaken our hands were, our berets we were issued, and our G3A3 we were given. For about half an hour, then we had to return it to the armory, but hey, enough time to hear the eleven rules of gun safety for the first time.

Never our heads by field caps should be covered from now on. (Except for that three weeks in SFOR training, but that’s another story.) What the captain said is still true, by the way, only black beret troops – tank and recon – have the special permission to wear their berets from the beginning, and during certain duties that normally call for field caps. Mine is the only piece of Bundeswehr memorabila that’s visibly displayed in my appartment. I guess something stuck.