The following story is my recollection of events from the fall of 1990 to the summer of 1993 , the chance meeting that changed my life and allowed to me to find strength in myself.  I don’t know how many posts this will be or how long it will take me to get through it all.   I would like to think that I could get through them one after another, but I might drop out for a while as some of the memories come back to me.

PART ONE was written and published last night.  Don’t look for PART THREE tomorrow…it gets a bit more involved after this one.

There was a fifteen minute drive up the mountain in the rain ahead of me, so I left after two more rounds, leaving the four Germans to continue with their usual evening of alcohol induced merriment.

My exchange, or lack of one,  with the Indonesian man at the bar wasn’t even on my mind as I made my way up the narrow winding road in the storm and to the side gate of the compound.   We weren’t supposed to park outside of the compound, but manuevering the large gate by myself in the rain was not a fun task and if someone really wanted to blow up my 1987 Toyota Corolla, this stormy night was going to be their best opportunity.

This isolated facility was three hours away from any other military installation and it was designed to house four single soldiers and have our radio equipment connected in an attached building.    Our shift rotations were in 12-hour increments which had us working for three days and allowed us to have three days off duty. 

Coaching this team in my free time, allowed me to both get off of the mountain and have interaction with new people.    My first six months were spent exclusively on the mountain since there were only two of us.   I actually lived up there alone the first winter since the other guy was married and lived down in an adjacent town. 

My trips to town were spent buying groceries and general sightseeing.   On one of the trips, I ran into somene my age who recognized me as an American immediately.  Our conversation led to a football team they were trying to put together and an invite to attend a practice.

Four months later, we were in a league and the talk of having an U.S. player/coach in an area devoid of Americans for a sport invented by Americans had created a lot of buzz throughout the region.   This attention led to the recruitment of additional players and a contract from the local sport club

These coaching duties, along with my military obligations, kept me pretty close to the mountain. 

The nearest commissary was hours away, but before football, I had managed to make a trip every two weeks to get food and assorted personal items (Mt. Dew could not be bought in town in 1990).

My added responsibilities has made me dependent on the local economy to survive and I had slowly become immersed in this small town German society, other for the monthly trip to get my allotted rations of cigarettes used for trading goods and services with the Germans.

About a month after my initial encounter with the Indonesian man, I had parlayed a relationship with a local business into a large sponsorship that provided me with a small apartment in the middle of this historic little town.    Fearing visitors, I didn’t broadcast having an apartment in the middle of the city.

This first weekend in town, I had intended on going shopping for the things I needed to survive only to discover that the local grocery stores were not open to non-business owners, or my ”class” of people.

After scrounging something from the Esso station for lunch,  I needed to find something without paprika for dinner.  My favorite Italian restaurant was closed for their bi-annual trip back to Italy and things weren’t looking good for me.

After spending an hour walking around the town and looking at various places, things weren’t much better.  Despite being in the country for nearly a year, I still had some confidence issues and usually had someone from the team running interference for me when it came to meeting strangers.

This time, being on my own, I needed something more “comfortable” and familiar.

Our usual weeknight dive was the only place that came to mind.   I had eaten something there before and hadn’t gotten sick.

Members of the football team weren’t going to be there because it was the weekend and no respectable lady would be seen in a place like that…but I guess they weren’t looking for respectable ladies. 

So off I went.

I walked back through the Marktplatz and past my apartment, which is pictured below one building past the hairdresser, yellow canopy and the small bakery on the right.  It is the three sets of windows after the first wall mounted light fixture.

After five minutes, I made it to the dimly lit stairs that led to this windowless basement bar frequented by people looking to drink privately while the rest of this tourist town was bustling with excitement.

Surprisingly enough, I found myself there too.

As I made it to the stone staircase, I looked at my watch. 

It was 8pm…or “Zwanzig Uhr.”

Before I could make my way to the first step, a small Indonesian man made his way in front of me and down to the heavy wooden door.

As I went down behind him, he immediately stopped and turned to face me and I froze. 

He continued down the stairs and through the door.   After it closed, I made my way to the bottom ignorant to the fact that had just been taught my first lesson.

Nor was I cognizant to the fact that my life was about to change.