An unforgettable incident showed me how much of a disadvantage it could be not to have a good enough grasp
of English.
One day I came across a large American camp above the 'Schlachtensee' lake. That lake is about an half
mile away from Keerans Range. Deep tire tracks in the soft sand had already unmistakably shown me the way.
About a dozen large troop tents had been pitched between the thick beech trees, between them parked several
heavy U.S. trucks and trailers. They were transforming the area of forest into a very unusual piece of
scenery. Everywhere, soldiers perched behind the trees in full combat gear. There was a monotonous noise
resounding from a few generators. An unmistakable smell floated in the air. It was a mixture between fuel,
tent canvas, and kitchen aromas. Unfortunately, nothing moved, nothing stirred. Seeing as my time allowed
out in the wood was up and I wasn't able, due to the language barrier, to ask what would happen next,
I disappointedly broke off my little expedition.
The following afternoon, of course, I immediately made my way back to the same spot. But as had often been
the case in the past, the troops had disappeared. All that could be seen on the ground where the tents had
stood the day before were rectangular shapes that had been carefully swept clean. However, there were still
the typical camp smells strongly floating in the air. Despite my best efforts, my search was unsuccessful,
for what was I supposed to do with a camouflage net that had been left behind and various empty cardboard
boxes for cartridges and bandoleers? Behind a tree stump I discovered, quite by chance, a heavy, silver can
that was still unopened. I had never seen such an enormous specimen. Its size reminded me of a five liter
can of paint, and whatever was inside as all wobbly. Motor oil? Fuel? Canned shit? I had no idea. I can
still clearly remember the black writing which said "70 sausages". This strange description meant absolutely
nothing to me, and I was convinced that anything beginning with the German swearword "Sau" (dirty pig)
couldn't be good. Annoyed, I picked up the can and flung it into the thick bushes. I went back home
empty-handed and full of disappointment.
Back at home, I happened to mention to Opa that I had found a bucket of "Sausagen" or some kind of "shit"
like that. He said that the word didn't exist in English and that it must have been "Sausages", the English
word for the German "Wuerstchen". He laughed and said: "No doubt they came from a field kitchen, someone
else is going to be very pleased to find them"! What? Sausages, my favorite food...? Damn! Of course - I
suddenly remembered the large tents and the kitchen aromas. I immediately started a long and exhausting
run of at least two miles right through the woods. I must have truly flown back to the spot, and luckily
the heavy can was still lying there in the bushes for me to carry back home, beaming with delight. For the
next few days, my whole family enjoyed the numerous tasty little sausages. Its size was similar to "Hot
Dogs" but its color was light gray. Oma said that these look like small 'Bratwuerste'. The exhaustion of
dragging the heavy can back home had without a doubt been worth it. I proudly reveled in the many words of
praise from my family. Never before had we been able to have three or four sausages each for one meal. For
the moment I was the hero of my family!
Like a feast