I reported to the LSC barracks within Andrews Barracks on June 1, 1961. It was one of the old core brick buildings stemming from the Kaiser's time before World War I. Unfortunately I can not remember much about my first three weeks of "basic training" there. Be that because nothing stood out or because the people with whom I inter-acted, the Sergeants, Corporals and fellow Privates didn't leave a lasting impression on me, because they acted like a bunch of "low-life's" strutting around in uniforms pretending to be American G.I.'s... Of course, I'm not talking about the guys with whom I stood guard later, after the basic training was over. Those were, for the most part, good people. No, I'm talking about the core group, the office boys and desk "Colonel's", "Lieutenant's" and "Sergeant's".
 
 At that time the Labor Service Company had even it's own barber shop run by a dwarfish character who sold "rubbers" and porn pictures on the side. There was also a club which seemed always busy with after duty rounds of beer and coke with rum.... American rock and roll music blaring from a juke-box. Our laundry was taken care of by the same US-Army laundry facility where I had, not too long ago, worked as a "tumbler operator".
 And there was even an "infirmary" where one could see a doctor and receive "APC's"
for headaches...
 Thus, I don't think it is an over-statement to say that this "Labor Service" was almost an army within the US-Army. Actually, the whole thing, in retrospect, was a curious affair and I look back upon my limited involvement in it with some pride and fond memories.

Having also served in the US-Army, the "real" US-Army, and gone through it's real basic training at Ford Gordon, Georgia later in 1964, I can only laugh at the ease of the basic training we went through working for the Labor Service. There is actually no comparison. Nevertheless, at the time I thought that it was very much like the real thing and was even somewhat "proud" to have gone through my three or four weeks of Labor Service basic training and thought of it as a real accomplishment. Only a few things remain in my memory relating to our training there. I remember learning to "fall in" into formations, marching endlessly, training with bayonets drawn upon our M1 carbines for crowd control, such as riots, and shooting our M1 carbines in an underground type of bunker-shooting-gallery, which was once used to execute Hitler's former comrades and "enemies of the state" during the "Night of the long knives" in June 1934.... Yes, "Andrews Barracks" had a long and checkered history and, of course, I was quite excited to have become privy to some of it's secrets and historical facts. I loved the M1 carbines because they were light, easy to use and easy to carry over one's shoulder on guard duty...

  Our LSC compound was fenced in and thus separated from the compound of the US-Army's Andrews barracks. We could not access this part of Andrews barracks and were thus segregated from American G.I's. Only later, during guard duty there were we able to talk to and interact with them.

  After finishing our basic training, we were assigned to various companies (I think) and "zuege" or "units". I don't remember many names, but I know that my unit Sergeant, was Sgt. Behrmann (or Beerman) and that one of my most frequent "checkers" was Lieutenant Bartels and that our commander was Captain Spolert. I must interject here that a "checker" was usually a Lieutenant who, with a driver, came around to the many guard posts to "check" upon the alertness of the guards there. He would walk around and we as guards, upon spotting him, had to call out in English: "Halt, who goes there"! Upon which command the checker would stand still and than the guard would have to call out: "Advance to be recognized"! When the checker had advanced enough to really be recognized, the guard would salute and say something like: "Private Haffke on duty, Sir"! And the checker would say: "At ease"! And then come closer to make sure the guard looked presentable, wasn't intoxicated or unfit for duty. After thus checking the guard, he would continue his rounds to the next guard and so on.
 Some posts were quite large, like "Ammo", and he would have to go through this routine perhaps six to ten times. Other posts were singular and only had one guard on duty. Lieutenant Bartels was a tough character, but ultimately a nice guy off duty. Since we did carry live ammunition in our magazine pouches, I don't think that being a checker was all that good of a job, due to the sometimes weird and unstable characters standing guard for the US-Army. Most of us were regular "Deutsche Jungens" (german boys), but some of "us" struck me as quite shady characters who had come to Berlin to escape the emerging draft into the new German Army, the "Bundeswehr". Berlin was exempted from the draft due to it's special situation and location in the middle of East Germany, like an island.
  I personally knew a few men, who had been members of the Waffen SS, captured at the end of the war and "convinced" through torture to join the French Foreign Legion to serve there with distinction for many years in Algeria, Indochina (Vietnam) and other volatile places. Upon eventual discharge, they had been given honorary French citizenship but chosen to return to Germany instead. One comrade even showed me his discharge and French citizenship certificates, which looked quite impressive. In regards to checkers coming to check these old warriors, I can only imagine if they would push their buttons just a little bit too much and what would happen.... So, no, a checkers job wasn't all that easy.
 
  We stood guard for eight hours with fifteen minute breaks every two hours and a half an hour for "lunch" or whatever, depending which shift we were on at the time. Shifts rotated and thus we had, let's say, one week of day shift, the next week of afternoon shift and the next week of night shift. I can't remember the details, but believe that this is just about correct. And there was also an "unreine schicht", which means "unclean shift" which meant one would work a couple days on the afternoon shift, followed by a couple days on the night shift. The "shopping center" near Clayallee was one such place which I loved, despite the punishing "unreine" shift. I loved it, because I could walk around throughout the shopping center, freely amongst the G.I's and their dependants and glance admiringly at the various goods displayed in some shop windows. Somehow it gave me the illusion that I was already in America and being who I am, a romantic idealist, this gave me a deep sense of happiness. There seemed to be nobody else in our unit who liked the shopping center, because of it's "unreine" shift but me and I thus often volunteered for assignment there. This love for "my" shopping center would eventually get me into deep trouble.     What happened was that somebody during the night shift had climbed over a wooden balustrade which was placed around a kiosk selling news-papers, magazines and trinkets and stolen some magazines there. Of course, I would never even think of doing such a thing, nor would I have had the guts to do such a crazy stunt. But, because of my eagerness to work the shopping center, I came under serious suspicion. Nobody in the "higher" echelons of the company could possibly understand why anybody would be so "stupid" and volunteer for this place wanting to work this crazy shift. I had to have some ulterior motive, in their perception of things. And that motive would have to be that I was "cleaning the place out". Hell, I must have had a regular racket going to always want to be assigned there. Of course I had no idea of what was going on. I knew nothing about the stolen magazines nor any other thefts there until one day, on one of my day's off, Lieutenant Bartels pulled up in front of our apartment house in Mariendorf and rang the door-bell. It was around 11 am and I answered the door. He was very polite but grim looking and asked me if he could come in. "Of course", I said, and led him into our living room. We sat down and he explained that there had been thefts of magazines at the shopping center and that I, due to my volunteering for the post, had come under serious suspicion..... Shocked, first of all by his "visit", and then by this terrible accusation, I proclaimed my innocence and explained to him in detail why I liked the shopping center post so much. I told him of my plans to emigrate to the United States and about my feelings of happiness when patrolling the center. Yes, I made myself vulnerable by telling him my inner secrets, but I also convinced him on the spot that I couldn't possibly be the culprit who had stolen magazines there. I showed him around, voluntarily opening desk-drawers, closets and my book-case in my room. Yes, there were many books and magazines in English, but they were old, years old, but no recent magazines like "Look", "Time", "Life", or "Saturday Evening Post".... The more I showed him around and the more he saw the books that I had, relating to the United States, the more he must have realized that the story of my "emotional involvement" with the shopping center was true. In the meantime my mother, who had been speechless throughout the whole thing, put on a pot of good German coffee and so we all ended up sitting around our living-room table drinking coffee, smoking American Marlboro's and talking about how crazy the whole thing regarding those missing magazines was. And this was when I saw the "real" Lieutenant Bartels, not the "checker", but the real man, the World War II veteran and human being. He apologized more than once and told me that I had been completely cleared. I, to this day, can not understand how anybody could be so stupid to risk his job and reputation for a bunch of magazines.

 To stand guard, or walk a post with a rifle over one shoulder, is strenuous, to say the least. And doing this for eight hours with only three short breaks is even worse. We were allowed to shift the rifle (or carbine) from one shoulder to the other, but eventually even that temporary relief didn't help much either. Thus, one term, used by all of us, was "Gammeln". This meant to "goof off". We called each other "Gammlers" and often exchanged stories about how we had "cheated the system" by finding ways and means to "goof off" on duty.
 One instance, which I shall never forget, was at "Ammo" (Ammunition Depot), a huge installation with countless ammunition bunkers located in dune like hills. There were many posts all around the depot and in the middle of it was a large enclosed watch-tower which could be accessed by climbing up a long ladder. The watch-tower had a huge, movable flood-light which was indeed blindingly strong if focused on a person. Sergeant Polk was our leader at the compound and he usually stayed at the entrance building, only to make about three or four rounds during the night checking on his crew. Of course on top of that there was still the "checker" who would could come any night. One night, we all decided to "hang-out" in the watch tower's comfort. To get to it one had to work his way through the hilly bunker area in the dark and then climb up the ladder. The post assigned to the tower had the hatch door open and we gradually poured in. There were probably six or seven of us up on the tower. Sergeant Polk had just made his rounds, so we felt that we had only to worry about the "checker" whom we could easily spot by the headlights of his approaching jeep. So, for a while, we had a great time, feeling on top of the world, because we were not only all together, bullshitting and joking around, but we did the ultimate "Gammel". All of a sudden somebody spotted a figure approaching the tower about 200 feet away. We were in a state of panic... How would we all be able to get down the ladder and not be seen by whoever was approaching the tower? The guy who was assigned to the tower told us not to worry because he would shine the spot-light right at the person and blinded by the intense light, he would not be able to see us... Well, that sounded good, but wasn't all that certain and reassuring. What if he saw us anyways??? So, this guard quickly grabbed the handle of the spot-light, turned it on and shone it right at... Sergeant Polk. Sgt. Polk stopped and looked dazzled. The post challenged him as to "Halt who goes there", and Sgt. Polk, annoyed, hollered that he just wanted the tower post to sign a vacation request paper.... As all this took place we climbed down the ladder, one by one, immersed in the reflecting light and thought for sure that Sgt. Polk would see us. But, no, he was completely blinded and thus saw nothing. What a surrealistic experience! Running back to our posts, the tower guard eventually took the light off Sgt. Polk and he climbed up to the guard to have his paper signed.

 Of course, there were many of those "Gammling" experiences, but this one stands out in my memory because of the daring and surrealism of the whole experience. Most of the time I brought vocabulary cards with me and memorized lots and lots of English words as I marched up and down on my various posts. And that is really how I learned most of my English, by speaking the words out loud with their equivalent German meaning, over and over again. Since I didn't hear how these words were pronounced, I can't say that I learned how to speak correctly, but I definitely established a good foundation which would eventually, in the United States, help me immensely. I can honestly say that I memorized at least twenty new words every shift, besides going through previous words to make sure I had them down pat.
 I am entirely "self-taught", be it in English or any other subject, because I hated "institutional" learning since first grade. I despise any kind of "coercion" to learn something and have always relied on my unquenchable thirst for true knowledge to learn on my own terms.

Many solitary posts, like "Quartermaster Ordnance" which had a lot of junked American cars parked right next to the railroad track in back of the large building, excited my imagination. I just loved to look at the cars and day-dream about where they originated from, Detroit, Michigan, and who had driven them. Repeating the endless mantra of my vocabulary words, I would walk up to them and inspect their dilapidated interiors. Some of them were really old, from the forties. There were lots of Chevrolet's, Ford's and even Hudson's. Some were Plymouth's that looked in shape like the car Donald Duck was driving in Mickey Mouse cartoons. My favorite days to stand guard there were Saturday afternoon's and Sunday's. I was the only person there and I could explore and dream at my heart's content without being interrupted.

Meeting Mormon Missionaries

  Being transported to various guard-posts and installations, I saw a small older church building in Dahlem with a sign over it's door which said: "Kirche Jesus Kristus der Heiligen der letsten Tage. Being who I am, I was naturally intrigued. I had read about the Mormons and their trek to Utah, but had never thought that they had a church in Berlin. Looking through the phone book, located in a phone-booth across the street from our apartment, I found out that they had a mission in Berlin and wrote down their address. It was located in Dahlem, in an exclusive looking villa. There I spoke to an American woman in German and she sold me a German translation of the "Book of Mormon". She also told me to leave my address and that missionaries would contact me soon. The Book of Mormon I had bought was bound in beautiful leather with overlapping cover edges. With the book, she had also given me a few "Era" magazines in English. Thanking her, I left with my new "treasures" and began reading the book on the bus trip home. Actually, I was less than impressed, because the whole thing sounded phony and convoluted to me from the outset. Having read so many books dealing with spiritual matters and religion, I wasn't easy prey to the claims of this book and to Joseph Smith as a "prophet". Attempting to read it with more attention and an open mind at home later, I soon came to the conclusion that the church itself and it's people were honest and sincere, good people, but that the Book of Mormon and their belief system was nothing but the self-delusional babblings of a false prophet, if not a criminal sociopath. The library across the street from my home carried a few books on the Mormon religion, most of them critical and I had to agree with their conclusions whole-heartedly. Despite my wanting to, at least, find something truthful in this "Mormonism", because of the hope that I could somehow be "sponsored" by this church to immigrate to the United States, I just couldn't warm up to their teachings. And no, I didn't know much about them, besides of what I had read in the "Book of Mormon" and the mostly critical books from the library, but somehow I sensed that this stuff just wasn't for me.
 A few days later, our door-bell rang and two young men speaking fluent German with an American accent introduced themselves to me as "Brother's" Christiansen and Anderson. They looked very clean-cut and were dressed in suits and ties. I was impressed, to say the least and asked them to come in. We sat down in my room and began talking about various subjects which soon led to, of course, religion and Mormonism. They both struck me as very likable fellows, the type of personalities I liked and appreciated. Not wanting to hurt their feelings, I didn't tell them what I honestly thought about "Mormonism", but, instead, lead the conversation to their personal lives and what had lead them to become "missionaries". I was interested in America, be it Utah, Salt Lake City, or Kalamazoo, Michigan.... And they were willing to talk about their schooling, their wards and stakes, their families back home and anything else I asked them about. Of course, they always tried to lead the subject to church doctrine, Joseph Smith and what Mormonism was all about. They seemed very impressed by my knowledge of some of their doctrines and my questions about them. Knowing that they neither smoked nor drank coffee, I didn't know what to offer them. We had no "Postum" nor any kind of soda, so I offered them some apple-juice which they gladly accepted. After talking for a couple of hours, they asked me if I would like to continue our "instructions" and go to church with them on Sunday. I accepted their returning but explained that I worked most Sundays and therefore couldn't attend church at the moment. We agreed to meet again, next week, at the same time and they both left handing me their "business cards" with a picture of the Salt Lake Temple and both of their names and Berlin addresses on it.
  Needless to say, we, the missionaries and I, became very friendly...almost like old friends. I liked them very much because they resembled to me everything good and wholesome about America and it's people. My tacit explorations into a church-sponsored immigration into the USA seemed to fall on "deaf ears" though. I was told by them, in so many words, that the church wasn't interested in sponsoring people to come to America because they needed to expand into European countries which required for members to live there and form "stakes"....
  Despite the bad news, I liked those two missionaries so much that I eventually "converted" through complete water-immersion into a special tub-like contraption at their mission, by brother Andrews. We were both dressed in white pants and a white shirt which was given to me before the baptism took place. My reason for this conversion was not belief in Joseph Smith's prophecies and teachings, but my wanting to please both missionaries who had become like friends to me.... Having almost finished their two years (I think it was two years) of voluntary missionary work, they were scheduled to leave Germany and Berlin within a few weeks and I wanted to do something positive for them. I'm sure that this is a very poor reason to "convert" to any faith, but being the sentimental fool that I am, I felt that I "owed" both of them this much....

  Not being a "joiner" and "churchgoer" by nature, I went once to their services held at a school in Alt-Tempelhof. Finding the service about as exciting and enlightening as a class in school, I never went back and thus became what is called a "jack-knife Mormon".

Go to Page XXI
How I Managed to Find a Sponsor
To Emigrate to the United States.

Return to Page I and Index