Once, after quite a long expedition through the Grunewald, I was on my way back home. In my waistband I had
a whole practice rifle-launched grenade that I'd found in the bushes. It was light gray and the bottom was
painted red. This was a sure sign that it was a red smoke device, as the yellow inscription "smoke streamer",
also indicated. I had often watched soldiers fixing these things onto the barrel of their rifles and firing
them into the woods with a blank cartridge.
Leaving a stream of colored smoke behind them, they flew about seventy yards and then fell to the ground
where they remained, smoldering but undamaged. Seeing as I knew that they didn't explode, my only fear was
that one day one of these devices might hit me on the head. Out of sheer mischief, the Americans shot them
at each other, but at least they would usually be wearing their steel helmets. Whenever the soldiers had to
sit around for hours getting bored in their positions, playing about with fire and matches was a popular
way of passing the time. Holding a match to the holes where the smoke came was usually enough to trigger
the detonation of the smoke device. Colored smoke then streamed out for a short while, but without a bang,
only a quiet hissing noise. Much to my regret, I didn't have any matches left and so I took my "toy" with me.
I had almost arrived back home when I saw a blue police patrol car (VW beetle) parked in front of an
emergency telephone pole. I generally avoided such police "Funkwagen", but this time I went straight over to
it. I suppose I was hoping for words of appreciation when I suddenly decided to hand over what I had found.
Looking rather bored, the passenger cop in age about of fifty, rolled down his window and asked me in quite
a brusque tone what I wanted. Not really thinking about the situation at all, I pulled the grenade by its
handle out of my waistband and passed it through the open window, placing it in the baffled cop's lap.
"I've found it", I cried proudly. Instead of the appreciation that I had been expecting, both policemen
started to yell and almost at the same time tore open the car doors. One of them, panic-stricken, grabbed
for the radio receiver, the other carried my find in his outstretched arms with two fingers over to a pine
tree and cautiously laid it down onto the ground. I had run away in fear, and now watched with interest
and from a safe distance what happened next. I would never have thought it possible that a simple smoke
streamer grenade, which the soldiers occasionally used to hammer in their tent-pegs could provoke such
a reaction. They took absolutely no notice of me, and in about half an hour an open-top U.S. jeep carrying
just one soldier arrived. The soldier was wearing a white peaked cap, and was obviously a military
policeman. Both German cops took him over to my find. Clearly unimpressed, the American MP picked up the
smoke device, threw it into his jeep and drove wordlessly away. Immediately after this, the policemen
sternly called me over to them. As I suddenly got the feeling that what I had done had not been quite such
a good deed after all, I jumped over the low fence behind me and ran home. What was an everyday sight for
me, the two German cops had not been familiar with. Today, I can well imagine what it must feel like to
have what you believe to be a live grenade dropped in your lap, right on your "nuts".
The title of this chapter is very appropriate to the next story as well, for one day the following thing
happened - this was one occasion when I did actually knowingly steal from the Americans' property. For
months afterwards I was plagued by my bad conscience. The object of my desires, and the thing that tempted
me to commit my misdeed, was an abandoned jeep trailer that had been parked in the Grunewald and left there,
seemingly forgotten about, for two days. After having carefully checked several times to ensure there were
no U.S. soldiers as far as the eye could see, my shaking hands untied the tightly fastened trailer tarpaulin,
out of sheer nosiness. I was disappointed to find only a few sleeping bags packed full of clothes. My hope
of finding rations or perhaps ammo boxes was not realized. Rummaging through one sleeping bag, I happened
to come across a small, silver wet razor wrapped up in a towel. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with
the army gear, but I simply couldn't resist the small, shiny razor. I pilfered it, and took this thing that
I'd "found" to my Opa as a gift. I knew that he used this kind of razor to shave, and simply wanted to do
something to make him happy. Opa, who of course knew nothing of how I'd obtained it, immediately swapped
his worn-out old razor for the new one and thanked me with many words of appreciation.
I'm sure this little faux-pas was forgivable, for many a time did I do the sometimes very careless GIs a
favor by carrying even their loaded weapons and steel helmets for them. Once I even carried a whole machine
gun tripod. Every time, the soldiers appeared to be most astonished and surprised whenever I drew their
attention to the things standing propped up against trees that they had forgotten. I could never understand
how a soldier could just absent-mindedly leave his position without his gun or his "steel pot", and without
his comrades noticing.
Because senior officers were not generally present for small exercises, the forgetful ones usually only
suffered laughter from their comrades. One can imagine what might have happened if this equipment,
especially the weapons, had fallen into the wrong hands; not to mention the trouble the soldiers would
have been in.
All gone wrong