Tracing One's Past (To The Extreme)

During the summer of 1987 I was stationed at a remote installation in North Africa while serving with the U.S. Air Force. This small compound, which had previously served as a Russian Mig base, was now host to a small contingent of U.S. personnel on a mission which, to this day, I still cannot divulge.

The assignment was viewed by many as a punishment. I, on the other hand, considered it a great learning experience and actually sought the assignment from the onset. In order to make this assignment more tolerable, the U.S. military sponsored various trips to nearby tourist destinations in order to boost morale. I participated in these trips at every given opportunity, and soon began to develop a working knowledge of Arabic. To my own discredit, I can only count to ten and say "no problem" in Arabic these many years later.

During my tour, It was always in the back of my mind that I was in the same region as my father was in the mid-1940's at the same approximate age. My father, a veteran of the German Luftwaffe FLAK (anti-aircraft) was stationed on the isle of Crete and later spent a better part of 3 years as a prisoner in a British POW camp.

I began to formulate a plan to retrace his footsteps while serving out my tour. A condition of this assignment required that we surrender our U.S. diplomatic passports, and instead only rely on a homemade laminated I.D. card that identified us as a member of the host-nation military security. The condition being that we never display this I.D. card unless we found ourselves in a dire emergency.

The opportunity for a three-day visit to the host Capitol City presented itself and I, along with one other airman, signed up. The departure from the site was, in and of itself, an adventure of its own. We found ourselves aboard a World War 2 vintage cargo plane nicknamed the "Caribou". Seating consisted of fold-down webbing with little room for any comfort or extra passengers. As an added precaution we were assigned host-nation bodyguards that were to accompany us throughout our visit. These troops were comprised of host-nation personnel who were originally from the capitol. Needless to say, their mind was on visiting home, family and friends, and not playing nursemaid to two visiting Americans. Upon our arrival we were quickly informed to "call them if anything happened". Call them? I didn't even know their names or how to use the host-nation telephone system! I didn't mind, as this relieved me of "ditching them" during my planned excursion.

The first day was spent in typical tourist fashion, visiting the mosques and bazaars. On the second day I departed the hotel early, while my fellow American was still fast asleep. I stood in front of the hotel and perused the selection of available taxi drivers. I was beckoned by many, with shouts of rudimentary English. Instead, I chose an overweight curly-haired fellow who was asleep behind the wheel. He had the appearance of a used car salesman, which is what I was looking for. I began to haggle and we decided upon a set price for the entire day. Minutes later we were en route. Approximately one and a half-hour later we were in the general vicinity of where my father was a POW.

With the help of my fellow host nation military security troops, I had memorized a rudimentary explanation in Arabic of what I was seeking. The taxi driver indicated he understood, and suddenly, without warning, we approached the main gate of a host nation army camp. He assured me that this was the correct location and beckoned for the I.D. card I had shown him. Hesitatingly, I handed it over and he casually walked to the group of gate guards, AK-47's at the ready. After what seemed like an eternity, he summoned me to the gate and pointed to an officer who had arrived on the scene. I followed this man to a drab office near the main gate and was introduced to a host-nation Major. I was directed into his office and invited to take a seat. At this point, I began to realize I was at the point of no return. I repeated my story of my quest in rudimentary Arabic, which was greeted by very skeptical glances between the major and his adjutant. The major looked me square in the face and said in indelible English, "C. I. A.?"

At this point, the hair on the back of my neck began to stand upright and I developed an uncomfortable warm sensation. I laughed nervously, stood up, and began to babble in 3 different languages. I cautiously leaned over, removed the I.D. from the major's hand and made my apologies - for I had obviously made a terrible mistake! I backed out of the office and double-timed it back to the taxi. "Curly" was asleep behind the wheel. I jumped in, and in a fit of non-politically correct retro-Colonist angst I blurted "Imshee, Imshee!" Which, for lack of a better term, translates into "Get the F**K out of here!"

I spent the remainder of the trip back to the Capitol City pondering what I had done and the risks involved. "Curly" spent the return trip asking, "You give me gift, yes?" As I entered my hotel room, my fellow airman was reviewing his day's purchase of gold ingots and jewelry, spread out on his bed. "What did you do today?" he asked. "Just a little sight-seeing" I answered, and fell unto my bed.

Years later I tried to describe my observations to my father. He smiled, shook his head, and assured me I was nowhere near his former POW camp. He has since passed away, and I'm sure he is now laughing at what I went through to "follow his footsteps".

  Roland Fogt's website has more on his family genealogy