Much-delayed 2009 North Cali trip report
I went to California in November of last year. It was glorious. My hijinks, let me show you them:
I would have taken a lot more pictures, but my batteries went dead halfway through the battle and I couldn't find any new ones since it was 1944. You can deal with it.
Now, I'm fully aware that every dollar I spend here is .73 Euro less I'll have to wave in rap videos across the pond in spring...but there is some domestic awesomeness that I am not prepared to forgo, even at the cost of a few more days waving a claymore at the moon, howling black metal freestyles on the misty moors of Scotland. Cali was one of those things. First time I had been was to LA in 2006, just before I left for Japan. I played a show at Das Bunker and was photographed with a stormtrooper on Hollywood Blvd and had my wallet picked on Melrose. It was a really good visit, but I had to say, something about Southern California was a little offputting to a unsophisticated hayseed like me. The sheer scale of everything, the flat vastness of a car-centric culture where everything is two stories and spread all across the landscape and people think nothing of a two hour drive one way just to hang out with friends...that was a little bizarre. All the Bunker people were a joy and the club kickass but in general the public persona was a little surly, a touch vapid. A fun place to visit, but I don't think I could be happy living there.
North Cali, on the other hand...that's more like it. Public transit in the sense a Canadian would understand it, friendly, sincere people, comparatively cheap, great food, lovely weather...it was just superb. I dunno, there's just this energy in the air in California, I can see why so many people want to live there. The state by itself would form something like the 8th largest economy in the world if they were independent, with vast agricultural wealth, Silicon Valley, Hollywood...there is just a pulse of energy, this intangible spark of hope and limitless optimism that you can sense as soon as you step off the plane. Creative, interesting people are drawn to this place. I can see myself living there, easily.
Why did I go, you ask? Well, here's a hint:
Yeah, trumpets blared and drums boomed, calling Jamor to war once more. I thought my silly weekend warrior escapism would be confined to Japan, but oh no...back in the land of guns and Jaysus there is a whole constellation of fellow nerds just as warped as I. I'm a solitary person, partly by inclination and partly by necessity, but actually being in the company of people I feel real kinship with in this crazy world is the greatest blessing of all. It's the only time I ever feel *normal*.
Funny how the world turns. Back in Japan I was the first honky ever to enter the secretive, miniscule WW2 reenacting community there. I asked folks who've been in since the beginning, "have foreigners ever joined your events before?", and no, apparently it was just me, baby. It seemed like such a shame to let the bizarre spectacles I witnessed there go undocumented, so I posted them up, thinking my circle of friends back home would get a chuckle out of the 36.SS-Panzer Division "Yamato" ridin' dirty in cardboard halftracks. Because I have no aspirations of ever holding elected office, I left them all public, like the rest of my journal. Little did I know, links to the event reports got upped to a bunch of military-interest websites all over the place to an equal mix of disbelief, mirth, and derision. That, and standing up to the Red Hordes on the LJ ww2photographs community, brought me in contact with my man Anders. He is a reenactor and modern-day gentleman adventurer in Campbell, CA, near San Jose. Perfect strangers brought together by shared interests and the magic of the interwebs. He said he got a kick out of my Japanese event reports, and invited me to come down and experience reenacting American-style once I got back. Why not, I figured. Real guns make a more satisfying cacaphony than airsoft ever will, and I've got the travel bug now. So off I went.
I tell you, flying over the deserts of Nevada is like taking a sightseeing flight over the surface of Tatooine. Just craggy dried-up wasteland as far as the eye can see. The lady at the ticket gate waved a gaffi stick at me. I truly hope that when Imperial Americana invades and annexes Canada in 2030 as part of the Water Wars, our new overlords will remember our many years of fair and forthright dealings, as well as brave comradeship in four wars, and look mercifully upon their newest subjects. Anyway, Las Vegas is about the tackiest place on Earth, even just viewed from the airport terminal. The amount of track-pants and she-mullet types thinking they are getting exposed to so much "culture" at Caesar's Palace and the Luxor must beggar belief. Seeing those crass ziggurats pointing like giant concrete middle fingers in the face of aniquity wounded my brain. Oh, and this:
Slot machines IN THE TERMINAL. For those looking to warm up their lever-pulling arms early, or the last gasp of the desperate.
There was this, though:
America, fuck yeah. Nevermind that only one of those is a proper machinegun, their heart's in the right place. Really, who doesn't want to contemplate the possibility of heaving bosoms caught in a closing breech?
Realistically, almost everyone except me and weirdos like me. Know thyself, it is said.
I get in to Anders house in Campbell, filled with old Warhammer 40K minis and Ms. Vienna's feather-and-jewel-encrusted 40's hats and most of this just laying unsecured on the living room floor:
Once again, America, fuck yeah. His entire life, virtually, would be impossible anywhere else. I pity the fool who tries to rob Anders Scott Hudson, except perhaps for the remote possibility that his overwhelming response be slightly delayed on account of being spoiled for choice: "Hmmm, which death-dealing instrument best expresses me as a person today?".
Not likely, though. He keeps a full Garand stripper clip beside his mouse pad at the computer desk. Gonna stack you five high like we did in Korea. Use you for sandbags.
So, the night before, Anders is cleaning weapons and packing kit, and he hands me a stack of yellowed paper covered in official-looking German script. They look like award documents or promotion records or something important to me. He asks me to cut them out with a ruler and an X-acto. I get to work, fretting over numerous mistakes, thinking I'm never going to pass muster in this super-hardcore group of serious historical reenactors I have somehow bluffed my way in to. I mention this, and he laughs benevolently. Turns out they're delousing certificates. The ragged edges? "Duuuuude, it's 1944, everything's gone to hell. They're fine just like that" in that relaxed California accent. Yes, I am thinking things are going to be OK after all.
And here we are at last. Anders praises the goat, while I delight in the company of the enchanting Ms. Vienna La Rouge, Burlesque Ingénue, seamstress, DRK nurse, muse. Truly they are the most adorable couple I've seen. Flawlessly gracious hosts, and living proof that you can do what you truly love and find a way for reality to reward you for it, and people of like mind to share the bounty of fulfilled dreams with. For years I despaired of ever finding any of that, but they embody it. We got along effortlessly virtually immediately, it was uncanny. We happy few, we band of mutants.
Every time I'm in Cali, there is a ritual to be observed.
And not just because of the Big Lebowski angle. It truly is a fantastic burger. We needed to cram ourselves full of patriotic American fatty gristle before going out in to the desert to play war. It is the proper form.
We drive to Camp Roberts, an active California Army National Guard base that sprawls for probably hundreds of square miles through scrubby hills and meandering plains. It dates back to WW2 and has but a mere shadow of its former garrison, which once numbered tens of thousands of men. Sort of defying the general image you have of the US military as this monolithic, cash-glutted, hyper-modern exporter of asskicking, the place was surprisingly run down, with cracked concrete, peeling paint...almost a ghost town sort of ambiance. I kept waiting for tumbleweeds to roll forlornly by to an Ennio Morricone soundtrack. I gather the states are individually responsible for the upkeep of their Guard units, and in hyper-liberal California shooting people in the face at public behest is not a high priority, apparently. But the uniforms and weapons were clean, and the troops there looked fit and professional, which is really the only important thing. The California Historical Group, under the aegis of which these reenactments are conducted, has built such a good reputation with the Guard by good works such as volunteering to patch up old barracks, etc, that our entire nazi army and hundreds of other deviants are more than welcome to show up and throw a battle on their property. Complete with hummers occasionally driving by through a 65 year time warp, and the crackle of M16s and SAWs echoing in the distance over the bluffs. Only in America.
The National Guard wasn't the only people sharing their real estate that weekend:
These characters were sauntering about like they owned the place, which in a sense, they did. All unconcerned with the two-legs and their petty geopolitical struggles. They prefer to simply pick off the odd gazelle and mind their own affairs.
So, I have my own para kit, and Anders offered to set me up with his friends in 5 or 6 FJR. But wanting to avoid a strip-search and internal sandblasting by the always-friendly US Customs, I left most of it at home. Besides, Anders runs the 352. Infanterie-Division, an absolutely first-class reenacting outfit representing a German formation that was at a place called Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944. They have been extras in Hollywood films, Anders has been a historical consultant for same, so the standards of realism and professionalism are really high. There was no way I was going to not go in to battle with those guys, so folks were kind enough to cobble together a loaner outfit for me. This is the first tunic I got, which is comically large and was thankfully soon replaced. But hey, there's only two sizes in the army, too large and too small, right?
Honestly, before this I was a little apprehensive about how I would be received at a Western style reenactment with actual guns and vehicles and such. I had only ever done the Japanese stuff, which is joyously overdone and cartoonish by Occidental standards. I was afraid of being labelled a "farb", reenactor lingo for someone who looks fake, damages the unit's impression, etc. Despite the fact that I am a no-shit historian with letters after my name and everything, my attitude towards reenacting is comparatively casual, the fun, the spirit of it being more important to me than stitch-for-stitch accuracy. I was fully expecting some self-righteous 45 year old, 300-pound "parachute infantry private" to come up and hector me about the inadequacies of my canteen carrier or whatever. But the attitude that prevailed throughout the whole weekend, both on and off the field, was one of friendly comradeship in an eccentric shared hobby. Although I'm told they exist, KDB [Known Douche Bag] units, the dickheads who are waaaay too hardcore for this world, have watched Band of Brothers too much and think they don't have to take hits, did not make an appearance. Very little of the posturing for superiority that usually accompanies male-dominated pursuits, at least that I could detect. I was never treated with anything less than perfect courtesy and a spirit of welcome despite being green as the grass. Allies would drive by and wave, ask if our jolly band of fascists needed any water, etc. I remember laying back on top of a hill, staring off at the endless sky and discussing the likely outcome of the battle with my fellow casualties, a Brit and a Native American guy, both of them American 101st Airborne. No rancor or silly divisive factionalism or anything, at least on the private soldier level. It was great.
Anders/Herr Leutnant von Falconheim, with the Viking Crunk Mug. Yes, that is the official name, and yes, he made it himself from the head of the last fool to cross him. This guy is the nicest you'll ever meet, with this childlike joie de vivre that just shines through in everything he does. Everyone stops and listens when he speaks, but he's the type of leader that rules through the respect he has earned, his force of personality, rather than just falling back on insignia of rank. He takes the responsibilities of his position seriously. Little things like, when someone offered him a plate of food at dinner, he just said, "no, I don't eat until all the men are fed". And not in a loud, demonstrative way, so everyone could hear it. He's not 20 years old anymore, but when we jump off for an attack he is always right in the lead, and often the first to be hit. Loping effortlessly up hills lighting up everyone in sight with his SMG, rocking a peaked cap in complete contempt of snipers, just owning everything. He has built a great unit that looks, marches, and fights hard but also seems to have more fun than anyone else. German drill commands one moment, let's all have a round of schnapps and carouse the next. Good balance, if you ask me.
It's not just a vicarious shooting and bloodshed thing, we try to recreate the barracks atmosphere, to really immerse in the whole experience. To that end we had old 40's music playing on an antique radio, prints on the walls, everyone all sewing and cleaning kit, napping, eating, drinking...you read about the family spirit that exists in a happy barracks room...it was neat to experience something like that.
I think that guy has been in the east too long. High time for a nice soft posting in France...good food, good wine, co-operative civilians, friendly women...
Getting ready to ship out. The grenades, holster, and canteen are mine, everything else Anders and company [5. Kompanie/916.Grenadier Regiment, to be precise] lent me. Note highly optimistic rubber knife under my canteen cup. Never got a chance to use it, but its presence was reassuring.
My Wehrmacht drag name is "Heidt". You know, because it's my Jeckyll and Hyde personality, ja. I only become an inhuman murderous monster when I return to the land of Monday-Friday productive toil.
There was quite a menagerie of equipment laying about. Unlike Japan, this is the real steel, not just cardboard mockups. Somehow someone got ahold of a Swedish Bofors 37mm antitank gun, with Finnish markings. The Finns bought any and all of these they could get during the Winter War, and wiped out hundreds of T-26s with them. From the frozen muskeg of the Karelian Isthmus, to the deserts of California...a strange, roundabout journey, indeed. My journey only slightly less so. Anyway, I liked the fact that if you look at the tire tread, apparently it is always Christmas for antitank gunners in Finland. HOHOHO.
Gott Mit Uns. It says so right here on our belt buckles. Our neighbours, the 21st Panzer Division, undertake divine services before going in to action. Despite the secular/pagan mysticism of the Nazi regime, the traditionalism of the army meant they did not give up their chaplains, a catholic and protestant padre being attached to the staff of each division. Typically in action they would take turns, one going forward to provide last rites to the mortally wounded right up at the firing line, while their counterpart stayed behind in the divisional hospital giving comfort to the wounded, helping them write letters, etc. Truly a remarkable breed. It was nice to see them represented at an event.
So before we hit the road to the battle area, there was a little safety/mission briefing from one of the organizers which, due to an anemic bullhorn, was virtually inaudible. Not inaudible in any way was the huge round of applause from the assembled [from memory] US 2nd Armoured, 36th Infantry, 101st Airborne, British 1st Airborne, 12th SS, 352nd, 21st Panzer guys, etc...probably upwards of 300 altogether...for a couple of WW2 vets who showed up to look us over and reminisce. Hope they didn't think we were too ridiculous. Also robust and unambiguous was the reply when it was noted that Nov. 10th, 2009, marked the 235th birthday of the United States Marine Corps: OO-RAH!, from a huge chorus of voices. Haha, awesome.
VEE-DUB REPRESENTIN' DEUTSCHLAND.
Opel Blitz 3-ton truck of the fifth company. Markings on the fender are box [infantry] with thick bar on left [heavy weapons] on wheels [motorized]. I can't read music or braille or Egyptian hieroglyphics or most kanji, but I *can* read German tactical signs from the forties. You never know, it might be useful someday. IT COULD HAPPEN. Anyway, we carried this in there, so it was appropriate:
8cm GrW 34, mortar, just sitting there like it's the most natural thing in the world. USA, USA. Some other maniacs brought a British 6 Pounder antitank gun. Also Raketenwerfer 43 "Puppchen" antitank rocket launcher, panzershrek, etc. Oh yeah, and there were US Stuart light tanks. Tanks, as in, more than one of them. Running, shooting. Running over everything. Ruling. It was great. I tell you, reenacting leads to some frankly bizarre situations. At one point I recall laying face down in a ditch, trying to merge with the earth, as a Stuart about fifty yards away bore down on me, the earth rumbling next to my face. The thought process running through my mind at that point was illustrative: "Do I A: stand up and wave so the buttoned up tank crew see me and avoid running me over, or B: hold tight, wait for it to get close, and try to put a grenade in the hatch, risking being crushed to death but looking really cool in front of a hundred fellow nerds?". Such are the dilemmas that confront me. I was in genuine terror for my life, it was AWESOME.
Perhaps somewhere in there lies the explanation for battlefield heroism: "Rationally I accept that this is quite foolish, but the guys are watching". Sadly, some other worthy knocked it out with a panzerfaust before I was really pressed to make a decision. Tank destruction badge for him, lifetime of bitter regret for me.
Chap behind the mortar, I don't recall his name, but he was my gruppe leader for much of the weekend, and he was really good. Short, sharp commands, simple, unambiguous, easy to follow despite explosions and general chaos. Young guy too, which is good, as people generally come in to an interest in history later in life guys of a fighting age are a bit thin on the ground at most events. At parade after the first day he was promoted to Unteroffizier-Anwärter [NCO candidate] in a ceremony conducted fully in German. And rightly so, I thought. Also it was really nice being able to actually communicate meaningful tactical information in your own language, at last. My Japanese is ok, but in the bedlam of a shootout generally devolved to "lets go get killed over there!". Plus, there was an actual chain of command so what to do in situations of fluidity and crisis was not in doubt. The Japanese airsofters are individually skillful, patient, etc, but they are far too polite to presume to command anyone so a battle quickly becomes a mass of one on one and three on two contests without guiding purpose strewn about the field. Not materially different from a classical Samurai battle, actually.
352nd is really great that way, the organization is strong and people stay together and fight doggedly as a unit to the maximum degree the chaos of battle allows. Plus officers and NCOs are always receptive to reports and tactical options suggested by the rankers. At a few points even lowly noob Jamor's ideas were given a try...again, actually dodging fire gives you an appreciation for the best use of ground, etc. For some obscure reason I got made an assistant squad leader on the second day, mainly just concerned with staying at the end of the file to make sure we don't leave stragglers when we move...but it was a real vote of confidence for a rank amateur at his first battle. Honestly I didn't really feel worthy of ordering guys who have been at this way longer than me. All my book-learnin' can't match that, I'm the first to admit. But it felt nice to be taken note of like that by people who's opinions on such things have authority.
Germans love them some motorcycle combinations. Although the motorcycle battalions had disappeared from the panzer and motorized divisions by 43, folded in to the reconnaissance units, they still had a huge cloud of these things roaring around them in the field, carrying messages, couriers, Panzer Meyer, etc. This valuable C4I asset was not just for aesthetic purposes either, as the sprawling 40's base was so vast that we genuinely became lost on the way to the battle:
What if they threw a war, and nobody came? Eventually we solved the problem in pragmatic fashion by driving towards the biggest source of gunfire. March to the sound of the guns!
Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to war I go.
Although, after the preceding nights' festivities, I was in a bit of a groggy state. I soon found out that the fire of 7.5cm StuK is the greatest alarm clock in the whole western hemisphere. Seriously...you notice the difference between airsoft and blank reenacting immediately. The rolling crackles of fire, the flash, the smoke, the smell of powder, the wave of heat that scorches you as you pull the trigger on a round of 7.92mm Mauser and the whole world blows up a few feet in front of your face...it lends a certain urgency, a sense of intensity that airsoft will never have, even with the absence of any projectiles beyond rubber-headed hand grenades. Cali law prohibits full-auto weapons [but apparently not tanks!]...it's a shame, but even on semi an MG34 can fire convincingly quickly. There are the briefest moments where you almost feel you are in a real war. Almost. Which is about as close as any sane person wants to feel.
Blood was shed before we even reached the field. Here, the company's senior NCO, Cristoph, has nearly blown off his thumb with a panzerfaust antitank rocket launcher. I gather they misjudged the amount of black powder used to fire the dummy warhead and a bit of metal tore free on the way out of the barrel. He was quite lucky to not lose the finger, and ended up out of action for the weekend, which was too bad because he came a good long way and seemed really in to it. He took it stoically. Live by the sword, I guess.
So, after roughly 5 minutes of weapon training in which I fire my borrowed Kar98 a total of about thrice, I am pronounced fit for action and off we go towards the assembly area. Yeah, it's the fall of 1944, training standards are starting to slip. The beauty of battle reenacting with blanks is you don't have to actually be a marksman to be dangerous...just move tactically, surprise the enemy, get the drop on him and then shoot a lot in his general direction, and etiquette dictates he take his hit and die. In that respect my airsoft experience paid off a lot. Was able to flank and blindside groups of enemy all day long, it was great.
One has to admit, the 12th SS guys have some nice toys. Sdkfz 251/9, called the "stummel", "stump". Basically the obsolete short 75mm gun from early marks of the panzer IV mounted on a halftrack for infantry close support. This was likely because the StuGs, which had originally performed this role, found themselves increasingly operating as self-propelled antitank artillery, and so the panzergrenadiers needed some other source of mobile direct fire support. The number of tanks in German divisions was dropping all the time and pretty much anything that could conceivably carry a gun and some armour was pressed in to service as a substitute. Anyway, this guy was awesome. At one point one of the American Stuarts was brazenly rolling down the road, without infantry support or an apparent care in the world. We passed this on to the stummel and they hastily backed up in to a siding, waited for the Yanks to obliviously roll by, and then took them out with a perfect flank shot [likely a big dollop of black powder] from less than a hundred yards. Like something out of a movie. The Stuart crew was so surprised they had to stick their heads out and look around to see who had just killed their asses, then they stuck out the "I'm dead" red flag and sheepishly headed back. Up until that point I never thought a tank, even a light recce track like that, could ever evoke sheepishness, but there it was. It was excellent.
Sdkfz 251/17, halftrack with turreted 20mm AA gun. I don't know what they had to simulate the fire of that thing, but it made a pretty convincing report. Found .50 BMG blanks all over the place, maybe it was that?
These cats also had a regular Sdkfz 251/1 infantry carrier, and they just piled in and out of those things shooting up the town all day long.
Stoewer light car
Sdkfz 222 armoured car
For all their phwoar-factor, vehicles didn't actually seem to be too effective in game. Mainly because, whenever anyone sees or hears one, they just go to ground and hide until it goes away. It fires a lot but without making eye contact with your killer like in infantry fighting, it's hard to know who is being targeted and take your hits appropriately. They make awesome "props" though, set pieces around which interesting dismounted situations like my death/glory calculation earlier can take place. And they shoot each other a lot to the joy of all. 352 is a leg infantry unit and we marched pretty much everywhere, literally eating the dust of the mounted glam units, but it felt wicked just the same. Just walking in the warm air with the sun on your face, equipment rattling reassuringly on your belt, a rifle over your shoulder, humming Death In June songs and feeling well pleased with life. We don't need tracks and wheels to run your ass over, we'll do it with our jackboots.
Getting ready to jump off. Right on the other side of the hill is the enemy, whose lively firefight with other German troops we can easily hear at this point. We were fresh and as-yet unspotted, so our intervention was timely. The tactics were flawless, too. We spread out in skirmish line for reverse-slope defense, sent a pair of scouts up to the crest, ascertained that they were completely innocent to our presence, then doubled up to the line of trees on the summit. Fifty yards away in the middle of an open field, presenting their hindquarters to us like cats in heat, are a bunch of Yanks blasting away from behind a jeep. The sheer insanity of their position, in the open on top of a bare-ass hill with no cover and with their rear facing the main enemy axis of advance, was staggering. I can only presume they were so caught up in their desultory firefight with our guys on the other side of them that they completely forgot just where they were. We all lined up, picked our shots, and unloaded on them in a huge volley that just obliterated them completely. They turned around and had this "awww, bloody hell" expression. It is a strange sensation to point an actual firearm at a living human being, make eye contact, and then pull the trigger. Later on in a quieter moment as we were rubbing accumulated sweat and dirt and gunpowder residue from our faces, I remarked to Anders that we have a "peculiar sense of fun". Yeah, I guess you could call it that.
After this, we were kinda obliged to bound over that same bald crest to continue the advance, and thereby to virtually trade places with our victims, quitting the cover of the treeline. At this point fire started to pick up as confused fighting developed on all sides. I figured it was probably the opportune time to take my first hit...and important judgement in blanks reenacting because you have no unambiguous sign you are a casualty, just your own instinct and sense of fair play. I resolved to make it a good one, instead of just throwing up an arm, taking off the helmet, and walking back. So, I rushed forward in bounds, firing from prone, and drawing return fire from a guy with a carbine in some bushes at the base of the hill. On my third bound, I jerked mid-pace as though stricken, face-planted and rolled as convincingly as I could, and lay still. There are very few clouds in a Californian November sky. "Hey man, good hit!" called out my "comrade from the other field post number", and I was pleased. First death ever rates a compliment from my killer.
Here the DRK [Deutsches Rotes Kreuz] girls put a prisoner to work on the company ice cream churn. Apparently we have one of those. They had a full field hospital set up with a doctor, a casualty clearing station where you could get tagged with name, rank, particulars of your maiming, the works. It was excellent. Slightly less excellent for me was the point where some overzealous types decided to march an American prisoner out of the hospital and threaten him with summary execution. Eventually Sani came over and put a stop to this, but in character, as a doctor performing his duty to protect the wounded of all sides, not because that was a little bit too much edgeplay for what otherwise felt like a fairly lighthearted recreational event. I dunno, maybe I'm just green, but holding pistols on people threatening to shoot them is just a little too much for me. Frankly we have enough problems combating stereotypes of Wehrmacht personnel as murderous savages to a man, we don't need to perpetuate them ourselves. I didn't say anything but it made me a little uncomfortable. Everyone was smiling afterward so maybe I'm just overreacting.
Wasn't an isolated thing, either. The next day the 12th SS guys captured a couple of GI's in a truck and it was getting pretty tense for a few moments. They had them lined up, on their knees, all going through their possessions, taking cigarettes, prodding them, menacing body language...they looked a hair's breadth short of lighting them up. I know these guys have been at it a lot longer than me, but I was seriously weirded out by that. This one older guy is interrogating/haranguing them in this affected German accent, telling us not to stand behind them, the whole deal.
In hindsight, I realize that if the Yanks didn't want to go along with the scene all they had to do was walk away or say "real world". In that sense, reenacting is precisely the same as BDSM. Just a little bit of shock when you see it the first time.
Ms. V with the ladies of Aachen Stadt 1. They were truly fantastic, far from just a "coat hanger unit" for the boys to store their girlfriends in while they go off and get muddy. Out in the field they ran the hospital and made sure everyone was well watered, stood ready to deal with any real-world medical problems that arose, etc. Back in barracks they changed in to dirndls and evening dresses, and graced each of the axis messes in turn to sing songs and brighten the spirits of the lads. It raised my morale, I can tell you. Care packages of letters from home, hand-knit sweaters and socks, 1940's candies, etc, were delivered wrapped in brown paper with string. It was really nice, what a sweet bunch of ladies. They had a lovely 2010 calendar with glamour shots of them all, fundraising for a new ambulance or something similar. You better believe I have one, because I got shot by them and need to be evacuated. Shot in the HEART. Additionally, and crucially, the DRK girls were also a lot hotter than the American nurses, who had a distressing population of rotund rockabilly refugee types. When in doubt, choose the ideological option that is more aesthetically pleasing, I always say. Worked for Vader.
Anders and Sani in a quieter moment. It was hard work just moving around in that environment, humping up and down hills to get the drop on people, jumping up and hauling ass under fire, dropping flat on your face and scrabbling around in dirt and rocks and gravel trying to find cover. Again, curious notion of fun. You begin to understand in the most superficial way the incredible, numbing fatigue that characterizes the front line soldier. Herr Leutnant is so stricken that he apparently doesn't even have the strength to beat the standing figure's ass for hands in pockets...at least not immediately:P
Around this time the 352nd guys assembled for a Twenty-One Gun Salute...three shots each from seven rifles in memory of a fallen comrade. It turns out a member of the unit was killed in a motorcycle accident after the previous event. I didn't know the man but he was clearly a dear friend to those who did. It was a sad moment. We sang this:
and that was the first day.
ABGEKAMPFT. Despite feeling about 80 years old after the first day's action, we had an important evening of drinking and carousing to attend to. Sweaty, dusty helmet goes under the bunk, rifle goes on the rack, but the hard struggle continues.
First day was just a blur...running, jumping, climbing, shooting...which I should have done more of, in hindsight. I think I only fired about 30 rounds total the whole weekend, despite having a full 60 in stripper clips and probably 40 more loose in my tunic pockets. I guess I wanted to make shots count, and hold fire in situations where you are so far apart that no one will likely take hits. Wasn't my ammo to throw away, in any case. If I had Anders' MP40 things would have been different, but it was nice using a solid, indestructible old bolt action for a change. You become a bit more cautious, not having a huge reserve of automatic firepower instantly to hand. Plus it is this appealing, sturdy piece of finely-machined steel and wood that just feels satisfying, patiently waiting to deal death at your whim. The German rifle section was an entity built around the LMG, the individual rifleman existing to feed and protect this weapon and fight in close combat during the final stages of an assault. We had no MG, it being back home on Anders' living room floor with a broken extractor, so we made do with what we had, which in our case was a seemingly unlimited willingness to crawl, run, climb, and even flap our arms and fly if that's what it took to maneuver to a relative position of advantage in the firefight. It's interesting, the way the demographics of the WW2 reenacting community work out. For instance, for whatever reason, people who play as Americans tend to have a loooooot of vehicles, and also to be a bit more robust around the waist than others. This combination of factors makes them very reluctant to leave the roads, so in that hilly terrain if you are willing to do a bit of climbing you can basically flank them at will. More on the demographics of this curious little community later. At one point we did this huge 45 minute climbing end-run around them, surprised another jeep driving around blithely in what it assumed to be friendly territory miles behind the lines, and wiped it out. Seriously, we were +5 Zweihander, Vorpal, [Jeepslaying] that weekend, must have killed a half dozen of the pesky little things. Then we bounded down the hill like the Uruk-Hai at the end of Fellowship of the Ring, slaying everything in our path until some paratroopers bushwhacked us. Then we lay out on the grass, drank our canteens dry, and wondered when the next time life would be this grand.
Ha, that reminds me. Easily one of the best moments of the weekend happened up on that hilltop. A guy with a Tommy gun bailed out of the jeep and was spraying at us from behind a tree. My guys kept up a steady stream of fire on him frontally, and this looked like it could drag on all day. In one of those eerie moments of clarity that periodically spring unbidden from the dark recesses of my psyche, I saw that his attention was firmly rooted on the guys off to my left, and I was out of his field of vision. Tommy gun has a circular peep sight in rear that effectively cuts off peripheral vision when you're squinting through it. Anyway, trusting to fate I jumped up, doubled forward rifle in hand, bayonet and e-tool slapping against my leg, bread bag and canteen bouncing wildly, helmet threatening to fall off the whole time, blood all up, expecting to be genuinely blown up at any moment. Got to his 9 o'clock, about twenty yards out, and shouted "hande hoch!" in the fiercest voice I could muster, which after all those exertions cannot have sounded terribly formidable. He looked over, slowly lowered his weapon...and as I subconsciously relax a little, whips out a Colt .45 he had on the ground beside him and shoots my ass! I was so flabbergasted all I could do was laugh. There I go on some damn-fool idealistic crusade trying to spare a life, take a prisoner, and that's what I get. My sentimentality always gets the better of me. Har har. It was like something from the cinema. Hell, the whole weekend was. After that everyone was best of friends, we marched down and through the Allied field hospital, pausing only to smirk at the astounded Yank nurses and put in a "terribly sorry to be a bother, madam, but could we trouble you for a spot of water?. Say, could you direct us to the front line, we got lost in your rear." The looks on their faces were priceless.
Man, so many good moments. I remember this one spot where we were working our way up a ditch beside the road, trying to cover the halftracks against bazooka teams as they ground forward grinding enemy MGs to paste. 'In war everything is simple, but the simplest thing is difficult'. Combined arms is easy in theory but hard in real life, our units became intermingled and command and control difficult. 352, 12th SS, and 21st panzer guys were all seeking shelter in the same ditch, making uncoordinated little bounds forward, slowly and fitfully grenading our way up the traverses. At one point a previously-unseen Yank leaps out of a pocket dimension and hoses the ditch with Tommy gun on full auto, wiping out ten guys in a line...I see this and disappear around the bend again, wondering what the hell we're going to do to crack this position, which by trick of angles is rendered virtually proof against direct attack. Then out of nowhere appears this guy in a Heer camo smock, full panzergrenadier getup, and a HUGE GAY COP HANDLEBAR MOUSTACHE. Yes. He squints grimly over the parapet, assessing the situation, and then in this amazing southern accent, drawls out "Well, whaddaya say fellers...we gon' rush 'em?". I tell you I was ready to pile in with a rebel yell after that, no doubt. Good 'ol boy panzergrenadiers. Stupefying:)
Sometimes you end up in just the right place, with the perfect vantage point to witness something really excellent. At one point as we were heading back to the fascist respawn point, we saw the 12th SS guys launch a coordinated set-piece attack up a hill. They piled out of their halftracks under a storm of covering fire, hussling forward to get their MGs in position, howling and revving their chain-axes like the World Eaters before the Ultimate Gate. Just seeing that many guys in full kit, moving with precision in a full platoon attack, hammering away with everything they had...breathtaking. Like witnessing another world.
They have a really great impression, those SS guys, but some of them came across as pretty full of themselves. I hate to say it, but they can be like a hot chick who knows it and expects proper deference. I guess the demographics of reenacting are really peculiar; according to Anders while most guys who do regular army/luftwaffe impressions are schoolteachers, middle managers, professional types in their day-to-day lives who just like to let of a little steam, the guys who do SS have a noticeable tendency to be the overcompensating mall security guard wannabe-alpha type. Angry and frustrated with their mundane, inglorious lives and so eager to play the biggest, meanest badasses they can on the weekend. I have played in many RPG groups where a similar dynamic holds sway. I understand that if you've already committed to reenacting as axis, in the minds of most you have nothing to lose and might as well go for the impression with the hippest, scariest gangsta cachet. I think my grandfathers would be ok with this whole reenacting thing if given a proper explanation of what it was about, but I would feel very awkward running around under their immortal gaze decked out in the uniform of an outfit responsible for the killing in cold blood of Canadian prisoners in Normandy. To each their own I guess, I'm content with my for the most part clean-fighting LW/heer guys [as in, chivalrous to the maximum degree possible in a total war, all sides commit atrocities from time to time]. Everyone else can do their own thing.
OK, got sidetracked there. Draaaaaaankin'. That night the 352nd barracks were clearly the party spot for all sides, Allies included. The hospitality was exemplary. Everyone dressed in their finest:
Or, as in most of our cases, just picked the grass and thistles out of our combat uniforms as best we could and got bizzay like that. It was great, this totally convivial atmosphere of merry oddballs joyously reveling in their shared obsession. A virtual bounty awaited us, and we were starving.
Sadly, no kosher option was available. Our chef was a really nice mustachioed gentleman who lent me his better-fitting tunic, and in addition to this mighty ham there was a huge mound of German potatoes with bacon, cheeses, wurst, kommisbrot, plus enough beer and wine and hot cider and punch to float a sturmboot. I hesitate to say that at this point the ridiculousness *started*, only that it got a lot more pronounced.
A word of advice: do not attempt to do the rivethead stompy dance on a tile floor while wearing hob-nailed boots. Even if "Strap Me Down" by Leaether Strip is playing really loud in your head. Just trust me on this.
And then the lovely Miss Vienna and her DRK colleagues graced our mess. It was divine, otherworldly, a snapshot from a half-forgotten bygone era that lives on only in the hearts of those who can dream, dream bigger and grander than this paltry modern facsimile world generally allows for...lovely ladies in evening gowns, saying "ma'am" and "sir" without sarcastic intent, just revelling in the poignancy and beauty of a simpler, purer age. It felt good. It felt like *home*.
Oh man, here's the best part. Not only were we allowed to have our little hootenany on active DOD property, but the actual soldiers, far from being hostile or dismissive of us, were actually really friendly and cool! The officers and senior NCOs of a chemical defense/artillery unit, I forgot which, came over in the middle of the festivities and got their draaank on with our big fascist gang without a trace of self-consciousness. It was a surreal sight, dozens of Aryan supermen with 40's hair drinking it up and having a merry old time with bunch of crew-cutted dudes and ladies in digicam. The best moment of the weekend from a comedy/stranger in a strange land standpoint was this:
A captain comes up to me, and with that central valley redneck drawl, says "hey son, I don't have a beer here, can you hook me up?"
Jamor: "Sure thing sir, just give me a moment."
[gets a Warsteiner from cooler, realizes he has no opener to hand, puts the cap on the edge of a bedpost and starts hammering it with the heel of his hand]
Captain: "Yeah, man! Get some, private, get some!"
Jamor: [collapses in a fit of laughter at the sheer absurdity of it]
Haha, he knew my rank. IN THE WEHRMACHT. Maybe it was just my deferential body language and lack of conspicuous tunic-bling that gave me away. I love that macho, hoo-ah US military esprit. Anyway, some. I got it. ALL WEEKEND LONG.
Seriously, the Guard were great. The whole event they were curiously approaching, asking about weapons and equipment, getting driven around in our vehicles, being photographed in ACUs with a German helmet, having a grand old time. Radiating professional interest and hospitality, it was wonderful.
And it didn't stop there. The next morning, apparently pleased with our showing the night before, we were treated to breakfast courtesy of the California National Guard. Yes, that's right. I finally got GOLDEN GRAHAMS, those precious sweet squares that I have been craving all my long years of exile in the mysterious east. Really, the situation was so bizarre I could barely grasp it. The Omaha Beach garrison being fed by the US Army. I can just see the shrill 60 Minutes exposé now: "Band of armed nazis on government property, being fed at taxpayer expense!"
Just another development you are unlikely to see in Canada any time soon. It would excite such a scandal. Remind me why I still live in this oversensitive, pussified frozen shithole? Seriously, if not for my friends here I would have never came back.
One really nice touch: that morning, the British 1st [6th? I don't recall] Airborne held a Remembrance Day ceremony. Crewed by Americans in the main, I thought it was a very poignant, touching gesture of comradely solidarity for them to make with their Commonwealth allies. God Save The King was sung, and a moving rendition of In Flanders Fields. You know I ran out to be there, the only German reenactor in the formation but wearing my poppy proudly. In death all men are brothers, and we can hope that mortal hatreds fade at the gate to eternity. All this reenacting hoo-ha must seem quite farcical to the outsider's casual gaze, but in addition to having fun we are serious, respectful students of history to a man. We hold the veterans on all sides in the highest possible esteem and would never besmirch their memory.
So, the battle continued for a half-day on Sunday, and then, as quickly as it began, the guns fell silent at last and peace and sanity resumed. It was terrible.
One of the younger guys in the unit went from a Heer Grenadier to a baggy G-Unit shirt, Spongebob underpants-wearing homey in about 20 minutes. A pretty drastic reintroduction to the joys of "real life" in this modern world.
On the way home, we stopped off to eat at "Big Bubba's Bad To The Bone BBQ". It was pretty American. Also went to pick up Anders' dog Lucy from his mom's care. Met her in the parking lot of a Denny's with a kettenkrad halftrack motorcycle from the event just parked there casual as you please. I thanked that gracious lady for raising her son to be who he is today. This world needs more like him.
I love you, 5./916/352nd. You are a kick-ass hard-fighting, hard-drinking outfit, a great bunch of guys, and I would be flattered to count myself an honourary member of your ranks. At least once a year, anyway. You better believe I will do everything in my power to return. The level these guys, and the CHG as a whole has achieved is truly inspiring and it just warms my heart to feel the passion and energy of so many devoted people. We will keep the memory of this crucial period in history alive, and have a blast doing it.
Next couple days were spent winding things down at Anders' place. We had this wildly overoptimistic idea to go to a spooky dance in San Jose on Sunday night after the war, but yeah...everyone was waaaaay too wrecked for that and so just went home and collapsed in to a 12-hour coma. Oh yeah, Anders is an old-skool rivethead too, on top of everything else. Seriously, it is uncanny, the man is like a grown up version of me. Me as I hope I will be at his age. Monday my hosts had to work, and I resolved to at least attempt to see something touristy in the short window available to me. Armed with a vague Google map and my usual naive overoptimism, I set off alone in the general direction of San Fran with vague hopes of seeing the Golden Gate bridge and laughing at hippies on Haight-Ashbury. It wasn't a very strong plan, but an ok plan violently executed NOW is better than a perfect plan next week. Get on a long series of buses and trains and at one point a pterodactyl with a howdah I think, each step dragging me towards my destination in a slow-motion inexorable zig-zag, each step making it less and less practical to give up and go back after the time and money already invested. Finally arrive hours and hours later and then spend several more hours wandering lost in downtown SF because I'm too cheap to break down and spend $2 on a tourist map...but it honestly wasn't too bad. I don't like being tourguided and itineraried when I travel, I want to experience a place in an organic, natural way, the way the citizens do, so just walking around soaking up the atmosphere was mostly enough for me. Did eventually end up walking Haight street virtually end to end, and was terminally unimpressed. Just seemed like one big long Whyte ave with a lot of lame stores. Whatever, did find a Big Lebowski shirt with Walter Sobchak channeling the spirit of John Milius, holding a gun on you and subtitled in the gangster belly tat font "A World Of Pain". Also, SF branch of the just ludicrously huge Amoeba Records, where I got me an old school kvlt Cold Meat Industry record by In Slaughter Natives that I've been looking for for a decade. We had agreed to go to Death Guild, SF's main spooky thing, and by this point it was well dark out and really quite hopeless to try and get back. So, I wandered around trying to find an internet cafe, a real struggle in a world where iPhones or whatever are taking over everything, eventually ending up in a place whose decor consisted of a menacing assortment of bondage gear to go with your facebook and coffee. Hooray, San Fran. Finally managed to arrange to meet at the club after being on the go for about 8 hours on my decrepit destroyed feet. Whatever, it was alright, better than spending the day sitting around indoors wishing I'd done something.
Death Guild is a good club. Big multilevel venue with lots of hidey places and two rooms so if the one is sucking you can hopefully get your groove on in the other, and the usual assortment of creatures of the night swooping about. Goths dance the same everywhere. I apparently get stared at because my super-flaily stompy attack is something of a novelty out on the coast. Europeans with their disco shuffle are going to think I'm INSANE this spring. Seriously, I love going to spooky clubs in new cities and just reveling in the freshness of it all, even if there are certain archetypes that exist everywhere: the fat Robert Smith hair guy, the chick in too much makeup squeezed in to a latex outfit that really shouldn't contain her, girl whose synth-dreads exceed in volume her entire torso, etc. Perhaps they are avatars, fragments of divine essence of some Greater Spook pantheon residing in the bell tower of Asgard or something. Also, boyish aquiline cyber chicks with big boots and A-line haircuts and ooh how my little heart fluttered with joy. Anders and Ms. V arrive exquisitely turned out, and we cut a rug and drink and have a merry old time like a bunch of teenagers. The whole spooky thing is nothing I take too seriously anymore, but it is still a part of my life. It's reassuring to know that, like reenactors, scattered in a small island archipelago throughout every city in the Western world there is a little community of like-minded malcontents that I share a culture, lingo, and frame of reference with.
Then Anders meets up with a photographer friend and his people, and we stagger zombie-like to an all night diner with bemused punk rock waitress for foodins and five dollar milkshakes with like, peanut butter and snapping turtle and the stuff at the heart of stars in them. It was amazing, although I was about 80% deceased at that point. So much...cardio...cccan't...move...but, a pair of nice Australian girls, including this statuesque, Amazonian Valkyrie-lady are with us and they are pleasing:
Yes, observe that all of my wounds are to the fore, and the soles of the feet, O Chooser of the Slain. Take me hence to Valhalla.
Man, I love my life so much. I am so fortunate in friends, so rich in brilliant, perfect memories. And it feels like life, the life I always wanted to lead and finally seem to have, is just starting. A universe of possibility lies before me.
I struggle to avoid fawning, but I have to say, Anders Scot Hudson is my hero. Genuinely. There are not enough superlatives to describe this guy. He is a true modern-day renaissance man. I mean, how many people do you know that can claim all this:
-huge nerd
-rivethead
-graphics designer [his studio did the effects for Iron Man, etc]
-modeler [hmm, let's make a BSG helmet and an Aliens pulse rifle just for fun!]
-used to reenact as a Scottish highland cattle rustler in SCA
-latex clothing maker
-Major im Generalstab des Heeres
-hot burlesque model girlfriend a decade or so younger than him
-martial artist ['yeah, I sparred with Chuck Liddell one time...he destroyed me"]
-Hollywood historical consultant [Valkyrie, others]
-painted minis for White Dwarf back in the day
And that's just a representative sampler. I can't even begin to enunciate all the other brag-worthy things he's got, which makes the fact that he's humble and laid back about it all even more uncanny. Anyway, this is rapidly becoming undignified gushing so I'll just leave it at this...here's you you, sir. I am so glad to know you and count you as a friend and role model. Now I truly know there is some hope for people like us in this world. I'll do everything I possibly can to have the most kickass life I can from now onward, thanks to your inspiring example. Cannot wait to see you and Miss N. again.
I've always known I would never feel at home in the normal world of work and taxes and spawning and death. Only now, I know that I don't have to. There is another world, another home for me and those like me, my extended family spread in hidden enclaves across the world. Man, before the internet how did we even find each other? But now distance, borders, or languages cannot divide us. I am not a citizen of a country, or a city, or a neighbourhood. I am a citizen of a hidden, inner world, one that only a select few possess the keys to.
Home is a state of mind, a feeling of belonging, and identity, a place without self-doubt or angst.
Home is wherever I feel like this.
I would have taken a lot more pictures, but my batteries went dead halfway through the battle and I couldn't find any new ones since it was 1944. You can deal with it.
Now, I'm fully aware that every dollar I spend here is .73 Euro less I'll have to wave in rap videos across the pond in spring...but there is some domestic awesomeness that I am not prepared to forgo, even at the cost of a few more days waving a claymore at the moon, howling black metal freestyles on the misty moors of Scotland. Cali was one of those things. First time I had been was to LA in 2006, just before I left for Japan. I played a show at Das Bunker and was photographed with a stormtrooper on Hollywood Blvd and had my wallet picked on Melrose. It was a really good visit, but I had to say, something about Southern California was a little offputting to a unsophisticated hayseed like me. The sheer scale of everything, the flat vastness of a car-centric culture where everything is two stories and spread all across the landscape and people think nothing of a two hour drive one way just to hang out with friends...that was a little bizarre. All the Bunker people were a joy and the club kickass but in general the public persona was a little surly, a touch vapid. A fun place to visit, but I don't think I could be happy living there.
North Cali, on the other hand...that's more like it. Public transit in the sense a Canadian would understand it, friendly, sincere people, comparatively cheap, great food, lovely weather...it was just superb. I dunno, there's just this energy in the air in California, I can see why so many people want to live there. The state by itself would form something like the 8th largest economy in the world if they were independent, with vast agricultural wealth, Silicon Valley, Hollywood...there is just a pulse of energy, this intangible spark of hope and limitless optimism that you can sense as soon as you step off the plane. Creative, interesting people are drawn to this place. I can see myself living there, easily.
Why did I go, you ask? Well, here's a hint:
Yeah, trumpets blared and drums boomed, calling Jamor to war once more. I thought my silly weekend warrior escapism would be confined to Japan, but oh no...back in the land of guns and Jaysus there is a whole constellation of fellow nerds just as warped as I. I'm a solitary person, partly by inclination and partly by necessity, but actually being in the company of people I feel real kinship with in this crazy world is the greatest blessing of all. It's the only time I ever feel *normal*.
Funny how the world turns. Back in Japan I was the first honky ever to enter the secretive, miniscule WW2 reenacting community there. I asked folks who've been in since the beginning, "have foreigners ever joined your events before?", and no, apparently it was just me, baby. It seemed like such a shame to let the bizarre spectacles I witnessed there go undocumented, so I posted them up, thinking my circle of friends back home would get a chuckle out of the 36.SS-Panzer Division "Yamato" ridin' dirty in cardboard halftracks. Because I have no aspirations of ever holding elected office, I left them all public, like the rest of my journal. Little did I know, links to the event reports got upped to a bunch of military-interest websites all over the place to an equal mix of disbelief, mirth, and derision. That, and standing up to the Red Hordes on the LJ ww2photographs community, brought me in contact with my man Anders. He is a reenactor and modern-day gentleman adventurer in Campbell, CA, near San Jose. Perfect strangers brought together by shared interests and the magic of the interwebs. He said he got a kick out of my Japanese event reports, and invited me to come down and experience reenacting American-style once I got back. Why not, I figured. Real guns make a more satisfying cacaphony than airsoft ever will, and I've got the travel bug now. So off I went.
I tell you, flying over the deserts of Nevada is like taking a sightseeing flight over the surface of Tatooine. Just craggy dried-up wasteland as far as the eye can see. The lady at the ticket gate waved a gaffi stick at me. I truly hope that when Imperial Americana invades and annexes Canada in 2030 as part of the Water Wars, our new overlords will remember our many years of fair and forthright dealings, as well as brave comradeship in four wars, and look mercifully upon their newest subjects. Anyway, Las Vegas is about the tackiest place on Earth, even just viewed from the airport terminal. The amount of track-pants and she-mullet types thinking they are getting exposed to so much "culture" at Caesar's Palace and the Luxor must beggar belief. Seeing those crass ziggurats pointing like giant concrete middle fingers in the face of aniquity wounded my brain. Oh, and this:
Slot machines IN THE TERMINAL. For those looking to warm up their lever-pulling arms early, or the last gasp of the desperate.
There was this, though:
America, fuck yeah. Nevermind that only one of those is a proper machinegun, their heart's in the right place. Really, who doesn't want to contemplate the possibility of heaving bosoms caught in a closing breech?
Realistically, almost everyone except me and weirdos like me. Know thyself, it is said.
I get in to Anders house in Campbell, filled with old Warhammer 40K minis and Ms. Vienna's feather-and-jewel-encrusted 40's hats and most of this just laying unsecured on the living room floor:
Once again, America, fuck yeah. His entire life, virtually, would be impossible anywhere else. I pity the fool who tries to rob Anders Scott Hudson, except perhaps for the remote possibility that his overwhelming response be slightly delayed on account of being spoiled for choice: "Hmmm, which death-dealing instrument best expresses me as a person today?".
Not likely, though. He keeps a full Garand stripper clip beside his mouse pad at the computer desk. Gonna stack you five high like we did in Korea. Use you for sandbags.
So, the night before, Anders is cleaning weapons and packing kit, and he hands me a stack of yellowed paper covered in official-looking German script. They look like award documents or promotion records or something important to me. He asks me to cut them out with a ruler and an X-acto. I get to work, fretting over numerous mistakes, thinking I'm never going to pass muster in this super-hardcore group of serious historical reenactors I have somehow bluffed my way in to. I mention this, and he laughs benevolently. Turns out they're delousing certificates. The ragged edges? "Duuuuude, it's 1944, everything's gone to hell. They're fine just like that" in that relaxed California accent. Yes, I am thinking things are going to be OK after all.
And here we are at last. Anders praises the goat, while I delight in the company of the enchanting Ms. Vienna La Rouge, Burlesque Ingénue, seamstress, DRK nurse, muse. Truly they are the most adorable couple I've seen. Flawlessly gracious hosts, and living proof that you can do what you truly love and find a way for reality to reward you for it, and people of like mind to share the bounty of fulfilled dreams with. For years I despaired of ever finding any of that, but they embody it. We got along effortlessly virtually immediately, it was uncanny. We happy few, we band of mutants.
Every time I'm in Cali, there is a ritual to be observed.
And not just because of the Big Lebowski angle. It truly is a fantastic burger. We needed to cram ourselves full of patriotic American fatty gristle before going out in to the desert to play war. It is the proper form.
We drive to Camp Roberts, an active California Army National Guard base that sprawls for probably hundreds of square miles through scrubby hills and meandering plains. It dates back to WW2 and has but a mere shadow of its former garrison, which once numbered tens of thousands of men. Sort of defying the general image you have of the US military as this monolithic, cash-glutted, hyper-modern exporter of asskicking, the place was surprisingly run down, with cracked concrete, peeling paint...almost a ghost town sort of ambiance. I kept waiting for tumbleweeds to roll forlornly by to an Ennio Morricone soundtrack. I gather the states are individually responsible for the upkeep of their Guard units, and in hyper-liberal California shooting people in the face at public behest is not a high priority, apparently. But the uniforms and weapons were clean, and the troops there looked fit and professional, which is really the only important thing. The California Historical Group, under the aegis of which these reenactments are conducted, has built such a good reputation with the Guard by good works such as volunteering to patch up old barracks, etc, that our entire nazi army and hundreds of other deviants are more than welcome to show up and throw a battle on their property. Complete with hummers occasionally driving by through a 65 year time warp, and the crackle of M16s and SAWs echoing in the distance over the bluffs. Only in America.
The National Guard wasn't the only people sharing their real estate that weekend:
These characters were sauntering about like they owned the place, which in a sense, they did. All unconcerned with the two-legs and their petty geopolitical struggles. They prefer to simply pick off the odd gazelle and mind their own affairs.
Click to view So, I have my own para kit, and Anders offered to set me up with his friends in 5 or 6 FJR. But wanting to avoid a strip-search and internal sandblasting by the always-friendly US Customs, I left most of it at home. Besides, Anders runs the 352. Infanterie-Division, an absolutely first-class reenacting outfit representing a German formation that was at a place called Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944. They have been extras in Hollywood films, Anders has been a historical consultant for same, so the standards of realism and professionalism are really high. There was no way I was going to not go in to battle with those guys, so folks were kind enough to cobble together a loaner outfit for me. This is the first tunic I got, which is comically large and was thankfully soon replaced. But hey, there's only two sizes in the army, too large and too small, right?
Honestly, before this I was a little apprehensive about how I would be received at a Western style reenactment with actual guns and vehicles and such. I had only ever done the Japanese stuff, which is joyously overdone and cartoonish by Occidental standards. I was afraid of being labelled a "farb", reenactor lingo for someone who looks fake, damages the unit's impression, etc. Despite the fact that I am a no-shit historian with letters after my name and everything, my attitude towards reenacting is comparatively casual, the fun, the spirit of it being more important to me than stitch-for-stitch accuracy. I was fully expecting some self-righteous 45 year old, 300-pound "parachute infantry private" to come up and hector me about the inadequacies of my canteen carrier or whatever. But the attitude that prevailed throughout the whole weekend, both on and off the field, was one of friendly comradeship in an eccentric shared hobby. Although I'm told they exist, KDB [Known Douche Bag] units, the dickheads who are waaaay too hardcore for this world, have watched Band of Brothers too much and think they don't have to take hits, did not make an appearance. Very little of the posturing for superiority that usually accompanies male-dominated pursuits, at least that I could detect. I was never treated with anything less than perfect courtesy and a spirit of welcome despite being green as the grass. Allies would drive by and wave, ask if our jolly band of fascists needed any water, etc. I remember laying back on top of a hill, staring off at the endless sky and discussing the likely outcome of the battle with my fellow casualties, a Brit and a Native American guy, both of them American 101st Airborne. No rancor or silly divisive factionalism or anything, at least on the private soldier level. It was great.
Anders/Herr Leutnant von Falconheim, with the Viking Crunk Mug. Yes, that is the official name, and yes, he made it himself from the head of the last fool to cross him. This guy is the nicest you'll ever meet, with this childlike joie de vivre that just shines through in everything he does. Everyone stops and listens when he speaks, but he's the type of leader that rules through the respect he has earned, his force of personality, rather than just falling back on insignia of rank. He takes the responsibilities of his position seriously. Little things like, when someone offered him a plate of food at dinner, he just said, "no, I don't eat until all the men are fed". And not in a loud, demonstrative way, so everyone could hear it. He's not 20 years old anymore, but when we jump off for an attack he is always right in the lead, and often the first to be hit. Loping effortlessly up hills lighting up everyone in sight with his SMG, rocking a peaked cap in complete contempt of snipers, just owning everything. He has built a great unit that looks, marches, and fights hard but also seems to have more fun than anyone else. German drill commands one moment, let's all have a round of schnapps and carouse the next. Good balance, if you ask me.
It's not just a vicarious shooting and bloodshed thing, we try to recreate the barracks atmosphere, to really immerse in the whole experience. To that end we had old 40's music playing on an antique radio, prints on the walls, everyone all sewing and cleaning kit, napping, eating, drinking...you read about the family spirit that exists in a happy barracks room...it was neat to experience something like that.
I think that guy has been in the east too long. High time for a nice soft posting in France...good food, good wine, co-operative civilians, friendly women...
Getting ready to ship out. The grenades, holster, and canteen are mine, everything else Anders and company [5. Kompanie/916.Grenadier Regiment, to be precise] lent me. Note highly optimistic rubber knife under my canteen cup. Never got a chance to use it, but its presence was reassuring.
My Wehrmacht drag name is "Heidt". You know, because it's my Jeckyll and Hyde personality, ja. I only become an inhuman murderous monster when I return to the land of Monday-Friday productive toil.
There was quite a menagerie of equipment laying about. Unlike Japan, this is the real steel, not just cardboard mockups. Somehow someone got ahold of a Swedish Bofors 37mm antitank gun, with Finnish markings. The Finns bought any and all of these they could get during the Winter War, and wiped out hundreds of T-26s with them. From the frozen muskeg of the Karelian Isthmus, to the deserts of California...a strange, roundabout journey, indeed. My journey only slightly less so. Anyway, I liked the fact that if you look at the tire tread, apparently it is always Christmas for antitank gunners in Finland. HOHOHO.
Gott Mit Uns. It says so right here on our belt buckles. Our neighbours, the 21st Panzer Division, undertake divine services before going in to action. Despite the secular/pagan mysticism of the Nazi regime, the traditionalism of the army meant they did not give up their chaplains, a catholic and protestant padre being attached to the staff of each division. Typically in action they would take turns, one going forward to provide last rites to the mortally wounded right up at the firing line, while their counterpart stayed behind in the divisional hospital giving comfort to the wounded, helping them write letters, etc. Truly a remarkable breed. It was nice to see them represented at an event.
So before we hit the road to the battle area, there was a little safety/mission briefing from one of the organizers which, due to an anemic bullhorn, was virtually inaudible. Not inaudible in any way was the huge round of applause from the assembled [from memory] US 2nd Armoured, 36th Infantry, 101st Airborne, British 1st Airborne, 12th SS, 352nd, 21st Panzer guys, etc...probably upwards of 300 altogether...for a couple of WW2 vets who showed up to look us over and reminisce. Hope they didn't think we were too ridiculous. Also robust and unambiguous was the reply when it was noted that Nov. 10th, 2009, marked the 235th birthday of the United States Marine Corps: OO-RAH!, from a huge chorus of voices. Haha, awesome.
VEE-DUB REPRESENTIN' DEUTSCHLAND.
Opel Blitz 3-ton truck of the fifth company. Markings on the fender are box [infantry] with thick bar on left [heavy weapons] on wheels [motorized]. I can't read music or braille or Egyptian hieroglyphics or most kanji, but I *can* read German tactical signs from the forties. You never know, it might be useful someday. IT COULD HAPPEN. Anyway, we carried this in there, so it was appropriate:
8cm GrW 34, mortar, just sitting there like it's the most natural thing in the world. USA, USA. Some other maniacs brought a British 6 Pounder antitank gun. Also Raketenwerfer 43 "Puppchen" antitank rocket launcher, panzershrek, etc. Oh yeah, and there were US Stuart light tanks. Tanks, as in, more than one of them. Running, shooting. Running over everything. Ruling. It was great. I tell you, reenacting leads to some frankly bizarre situations. At one point I recall laying face down in a ditch, trying to merge with the earth, as a Stuart about fifty yards away bore down on me, the earth rumbling next to my face. The thought process running through my mind at that point was illustrative: "Do I A: stand up and wave so the buttoned up tank crew see me and avoid running me over, or B: hold tight, wait for it to get close, and try to put a grenade in the hatch, risking being crushed to death but looking really cool in front of a hundred fellow nerds?". Such are the dilemmas that confront me. I was in genuine terror for my life, it was AWESOME.
Perhaps somewhere in there lies the explanation for battlefield heroism: "Rationally I accept that this is quite foolish, but the guys are watching". Sadly, some other worthy knocked it out with a panzerfaust before I was really pressed to make a decision. Tank destruction badge for him, lifetime of bitter regret for me.
Chap behind the mortar, I don't recall his name, but he was my gruppe leader for much of the weekend, and he was really good. Short, sharp commands, simple, unambiguous, easy to follow despite explosions and general chaos. Young guy too, which is good, as people generally come in to an interest in history later in life guys of a fighting age are a bit thin on the ground at most events. At parade after the first day he was promoted to Unteroffizier-Anwärter [NCO candidate] in a ceremony conducted fully in German. And rightly so, I thought. Also it was really nice being able to actually communicate meaningful tactical information in your own language, at last. My Japanese is ok, but in the bedlam of a shootout generally devolved to "lets go get killed over there!". Plus, there was an actual chain of command so what to do in situations of fluidity and crisis was not in doubt. The Japanese airsofters are individually skillful, patient, etc, but they are far too polite to presume to command anyone so a battle quickly becomes a mass of one on one and three on two contests without guiding purpose strewn about the field. Not materially different from a classical Samurai battle, actually.
352nd is really great that way, the organization is strong and people stay together and fight doggedly as a unit to the maximum degree the chaos of battle allows. Plus officers and NCOs are always receptive to reports and tactical options suggested by the rankers. At a few points even lowly noob Jamor's ideas were given a try...again, actually dodging fire gives you an appreciation for the best use of ground, etc. For some obscure reason I got made an assistant squad leader on the second day, mainly just concerned with staying at the end of the file to make sure we don't leave stragglers when we move...but it was a real vote of confidence for a rank amateur at his first battle. Honestly I didn't really feel worthy of ordering guys who have been at this way longer than me. All my book-learnin' can't match that, I'm the first to admit. But it felt nice to be taken note of like that by people who's opinions on such things have authority.
Germans love them some motorcycle combinations. Although the motorcycle battalions had disappeared from the panzer and motorized divisions by 43, folded in to the reconnaissance units, they still had a huge cloud of these things roaring around them in the field, carrying messages, couriers, Panzer Meyer, etc. This valuable C4I asset was not just for aesthetic purposes either, as the sprawling 40's base was so vast that we genuinely became lost on the way to the battle:
What if they threw a war, and nobody came? Eventually we solved the problem in pragmatic fashion by driving towards the biggest source of gunfire. March to the sound of the guns!
Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to war I go.
Although, after the preceding nights' festivities, I was in a bit of a groggy state. I soon found out that the fire of 7.5cm StuK is the greatest alarm clock in the whole western hemisphere. Seriously...you notice the difference between airsoft and blank reenacting immediately. The rolling crackles of fire, the flash, the smoke, the smell of powder, the wave of heat that scorches you as you pull the trigger on a round of 7.92mm Mauser and the whole world blows up a few feet in front of your face...it lends a certain urgency, a sense of intensity that airsoft will never have, even with the absence of any projectiles beyond rubber-headed hand grenades. Cali law prohibits full-auto weapons [but apparently not tanks!]...it's a shame, but even on semi an MG34 can fire convincingly quickly. There are the briefest moments where you almost feel you are in a real war. Almost. Which is about as close as any sane person wants to feel.
Blood was shed before we even reached the field. Here, the company's senior NCO, Cristoph, has nearly blown off his thumb with a panzerfaust antitank rocket launcher. I gather they misjudged the amount of black powder used to fire the dummy warhead and a bit of metal tore free on the way out of the barrel. He was quite lucky to not lose the finger, and ended up out of action for the weekend, which was too bad because he came a good long way and seemed really in to it. He took it stoically. Live by the sword, I guess.
So, after roughly 5 minutes of weapon training in which I fire my borrowed Kar98 a total of about thrice, I am pronounced fit for action and off we go towards the assembly area. Yeah, it's the fall of 1944, training standards are starting to slip. The beauty of battle reenacting with blanks is you don't have to actually be a marksman to be dangerous...just move tactically, surprise the enemy, get the drop on him and then shoot a lot in his general direction, and etiquette dictates he take his hit and die. In that respect my airsoft experience paid off a lot. Was able to flank and blindside groups of enemy all day long, it was great.
One has to admit, the 12th SS guys have some nice toys. Sdkfz 251/9, called the "stummel", "stump". Basically the obsolete short 75mm gun from early marks of the panzer IV mounted on a halftrack for infantry close support. This was likely because the StuGs, which had originally performed this role, found themselves increasingly operating as self-propelled antitank artillery, and so the panzergrenadiers needed some other source of mobile direct fire support. The number of tanks in German divisions was dropping all the time and pretty much anything that could conceivably carry a gun and some armour was pressed in to service as a substitute. Anyway, this guy was awesome. At one point one of the American Stuarts was brazenly rolling down the road, without infantry support or an apparent care in the world. We passed this on to the stummel and they hastily backed up in to a siding, waited for the Yanks to obliviously roll by, and then took them out with a perfect flank shot [likely a big dollop of black powder] from less than a hundred yards. Like something out of a movie. The Stuart crew was so surprised they had to stick their heads out and look around to see who had just killed their asses, then they stuck out the "I'm dead" red flag and sheepishly headed back. Up until that point I never thought a tank, even a light recce track like that, could ever evoke sheepishness, but there it was. It was excellent.
Sdkfz 251/17, halftrack with turreted 20mm AA gun. I don't know what they had to simulate the fire of that thing, but it made a pretty convincing report. Found .50 BMG blanks all over the place, maybe it was that?
These cats also had a regular Sdkfz 251/1 infantry carrier, and they just piled in and out of those things shooting up the town all day long.
Stoewer light car
Sdkfz 222 armoured car
For all their phwoar-factor, vehicles didn't actually seem to be too effective in game. Mainly because, whenever anyone sees or hears one, they just go to ground and hide until it goes away. It fires a lot but without making eye contact with your killer like in infantry fighting, it's hard to know who is being targeted and take your hits appropriately. They make awesome "props" though, set pieces around which interesting dismounted situations like my death/glory calculation earlier can take place. And they shoot each other a lot to the joy of all. 352 is a leg infantry unit and we marched pretty much everywhere, literally eating the dust of the mounted glam units, but it felt wicked just the same. Just walking in the warm air with the sun on your face, equipment rattling reassuringly on your belt, a rifle over your shoulder, humming Death In June songs and feeling well pleased with life. We don't need tracks and wheels to run your ass over, we'll do it with our jackboots.
Getting ready to jump off. Right on the other side of the hill is the enemy, whose lively firefight with other German troops we can easily hear at this point. We were fresh and as-yet unspotted, so our intervention was timely. The tactics were flawless, too. We spread out in skirmish line for reverse-slope defense, sent a pair of scouts up to the crest, ascertained that they were completely innocent to our presence, then doubled up to the line of trees on the summit. Fifty yards away in the middle of an open field, presenting their hindquarters to us like cats in heat, are a bunch of Yanks blasting away from behind a jeep. The sheer insanity of their position, in the open on top of a bare-ass hill with no cover and with their rear facing the main enemy axis of advance, was staggering. I can only presume they were so caught up in their desultory firefight with our guys on the other side of them that they completely forgot just where they were. We all lined up, picked our shots, and unloaded on them in a huge volley that just obliterated them completely. They turned around and had this "awww, bloody hell" expression. It is a strange sensation to point an actual firearm at a living human being, make eye contact, and then pull the trigger. Later on in a quieter moment as we were rubbing accumulated sweat and dirt and gunpowder residue from our faces, I remarked to Anders that we have a "peculiar sense of fun". Yeah, I guess you could call it that.
After this, we were kinda obliged to bound over that same bald crest to continue the advance, and thereby to virtually trade places with our victims, quitting the cover of the treeline. At this point fire started to pick up as confused fighting developed on all sides. I figured it was probably the opportune time to take my first hit...and important judgement in blanks reenacting because you have no unambiguous sign you are a casualty, just your own instinct and sense of fair play. I resolved to make it a good one, instead of just throwing up an arm, taking off the helmet, and walking back. So, I rushed forward in bounds, firing from prone, and drawing return fire from a guy with a carbine in some bushes at the base of the hill. On my third bound, I jerked mid-pace as though stricken, face-planted and rolled as convincingly as I could, and lay still. There are very few clouds in a Californian November sky. "Hey man, good hit!" called out my "comrade from the other field post number", and I was pleased. First death ever rates a compliment from my killer.
Here the DRK [Deutsches Rotes Kreuz] girls put a prisoner to work on the company ice cream churn. Apparently we have one of those. They had a full field hospital set up with a doctor, a casualty clearing station where you could get tagged with name, rank, particulars of your maiming, the works. It was excellent. Slightly less excellent for me was the point where some overzealous types decided to march an American prisoner out of the hospital and threaten him with summary execution. Eventually Sani came over and put a stop to this, but in character, as a doctor performing his duty to protect the wounded of all sides, not because that was a little bit too much edgeplay for what otherwise felt like a fairly lighthearted recreational event. I dunno, maybe I'm just green, but holding pistols on people threatening to shoot them is just a little too much for me. Frankly we have enough problems combating stereotypes of Wehrmacht personnel as murderous savages to a man, we don't need to perpetuate them ourselves. I didn't say anything but it made me a little uncomfortable. Everyone was smiling afterward so maybe I'm just overreacting.
Wasn't an isolated thing, either. The next day the 12th SS guys captured a couple of GI's in a truck and it was getting pretty tense for a few moments. They had them lined up, on their knees, all going through their possessions, taking cigarettes, prodding them, menacing body language...they looked a hair's breadth short of lighting them up. I know these guys have been at it a lot longer than me, but I was seriously weirded out by that. This one older guy is interrogating/haranguing them in this affected German accent, telling us not to stand behind them, the whole deal.
In hindsight, I realize that if the Yanks didn't want to go along with the scene all they had to do was walk away or say "real world". In that sense, reenacting is precisely the same as BDSM. Just a little bit of shock when you see it the first time.
Ms. V with the ladies of Aachen Stadt 1. They were truly fantastic, far from just a "coat hanger unit" for the boys to store their girlfriends in while they go off and get muddy. Out in the field they ran the hospital and made sure everyone was well watered, stood ready to deal with any real-world medical problems that arose, etc. Back in barracks they changed in to dirndls and evening dresses, and graced each of the axis messes in turn to sing songs and brighten the spirits of the lads. It raised my morale, I can tell you. Care packages of letters from home, hand-knit sweaters and socks, 1940's candies, etc, were delivered wrapped in brown paper with string. It was really nice, what a sweet bunch of ladies. They had a lovely 2010 calendar with glamour shots of them all, fundraising for a new ambulance or something similar. You better believe I have one, because I got shot by them and need to be evacuated. Shot in the HEART. Additionally, and crucially, the DRK girls were also a lot hotter than the American nurses, who had a distressing population of rotund rockabilly refugee types. When in doubt, choose the ideological option that is more aesthetically pleasing, I always say. Worked for Vader.
Anders and Sani in a quieter moment. It was hard work just moving around in that environment, humping up and down hills to get the drop on people, jumping up and hauling ass under fire, dropping flat on your face and scrabbling around in dirt and rocks and gravel trying to find cover. Again, curious notion of fun. You begin to understand in the most superficial way the incredible, numbing fatigue that characterizes the front line soldier. Herr Leutnant is so stricken that he apparently doesn't even have the strength to beat the standing figure's ass for hands in pockets...at least not immediately:P
Around this time the 352nd guys assembled for a Twenty-One Gun Salute...three shots each from seven rifles in memory of a fallen comrade. It turns out a member of the unit was killed in a motorcycle accident after the previous event. I didn't know the man but he was clearly a dear friend to those who did. It was a sad moment. We sang this:
and that was the first day.
ABGEKAMPFT. Despite feeling about 80 years old after the first day's action, we had an important evening of drinking and carousing to attend to. Sweaty, dusty helmet goes under the bunk, rifle goes on the rack, but the hard struggle continues.
First day was just a blur...running, jumping, climbing, shooting...which I should have done more of, in hindsight. I think I only fired about 30 rounds total the whole weekend, despite having a full 60 in stripper clips and probably 40 more loose in my tunic pockets. I guess I wanted to make shots count, and hold fire in situations where you are so far apart that no one will likely take hits. Wasn't my ammo to throw away, in any case. If I had Anders' MP40 things would have been different, but it was nice using a solid, indestructible old bolt action for a change. You become a bit more cautious, not having a huge reserve of automatic firepower instantly to hand. Plus it is this appealing, sturdy piece of finely-machined steel and wood that just feels satisfying, patiently waiting to deal death at your whim. The German rifle section was an entity built around the LMG, the individual rifleman existing to feed and protect this weapon and fight in close combat during the final stages of an assault. We had no MG, it being back home on Anders' living room floor with a broken extractor, so we made do with what we had, which in our case was a seemingly unlimited willingness to crawl, run, climb, and even flap our arms and fly if that's what it took to maneuver to a relative position of advantage in the firefight. It's interesting, the way the demographics of the WW2 reenacting community work out. For instance, for whatever reason, people who play as Americans tend to have a loooooot of vehicles, and also to be a bit more robust around the waist than others. This combination of factors makes them very reluctant to leave the roads, so in that hilly terrain if you are willing to do a bit of climbing you can basically flank them at will. More on the demographics of this curious little community later. At one point we did this huge 45 minute climbing end-run around them, surprised another jeep driving around blithely in what it assumed to be friendly territory miles behind the lines, and wiped it out. Seriously, we were +5 Zweihander, Vorpal, [Jeepslaying] that weekend, must have killed a half dozen of the pesky little things. Then we bounded down the hill like the Uruk-Hai at the end of Fellowship of the Ring, slaying everything in our path until some paratroopers bushwhacked us. Then we lay out on the grass, drank our canteens dry, and wondered when the next time life would be this grand.
Ha, that reminds me. Easily one of the best moments of the weekend happened up on that hilltop. A guy with a Tommy gun bailed out of the jeep and was spraying at us from behind a tree. My guys kept up a steady stream of fire on him frontally, and this looked like it could drag on all day. In one of those eerie moments of clarity that periodically spring unbidden from the dark recesses of my psyche, I saw that his attention was firmly rooted on the guys off to my left, and I was out of his field of vision. Tommy gun has a circular peep sight in rear that effectively cuts off peripheral vision when you're squinting through it. Anyway, trusting to fate I jumped up, doubled forward rifle in hand, bayonet and e-tool slapping against my leg, bread bag and canteen bouncing wildly, helmet threatening to fall off the whole time, blood all up, expecting to be genuinely blown up at any moment. Got to his 9 o'clock, about twenty yards out, and shouted "hande hoch!" in the fiercest voice I could muster, which after all those exertions cannot have sounded terribly formidable. He looked over, slowly lowered his weapon...and as I subconsciously relax a little, whips out a Colt .45 he had on the ground beside him and shoots my ass! I was so flabbergasted all I could do was laugh. There I go on some damn-fool idealistic crusade trying to spare a life, take a prisoner, and that's what I get. My sentimentality always gets the better of me. Har har. It was like something from the cinema. Hell, the whole weekend was. After that everyone was best of friends, we marched down and through the Allied field hospital, pausing only to smirk at the astounded Yank nurses and put in a "terribly sorry to be a bother, madam, but could we trouble you for a spot of water?. Say, could you direct us to the front line, we got lost in your rear." The looks on their faces were priceless.
Man, so many good moments. I remember this one spot where we were working our way up a ditch beside the road, trying to cover the halftracks against bazooka teams as they ground forward grinding enemy MGs to paste. 'In war everything is simple, but the simplest thing is difficult'. Combined arms is easy in theory but hard in real life, our units became intermingled and command and control difficult. 352, 12th SS, and 21st panzer guys were all seeking shelter in the same ditch, making uncoordinated little bounds forward, slowly and fitfully grenading our way up the traverses. At one point a previously-unseen Yank leaps out of a pocket dimension and hoses the ditch with Tommy gun on full auto, wiping out ten guys in a line...I see this and disappear around the bend again, wondering what the hell we're going to do to crack this position, which by trick of angles is rendered virtually proof against direct attack. Then out of nowhere appears this guy in a Heer camo smock, full panzergrenadier getup, and a HUGE GAY COP HANDLEBAR MOUSTACHE. Yes. He squints grimly over the parapet, assessing the situation, and then in this amazing southern accent, drawls out "Well, whaddaya say fellers...we gon' rush 'em?". I tell you I was ready to pile in with a rebel yell after that, no doubt. Good 'ol boy panzergrenadiers. Stupefying:)
Sometimes you end up in just the right place, with the perfect vantage point to witness something really excellent. At one point as we were heading back to the fascist respawn point, we saw the 12th SS guys launch a coordinated set-piece attack up a hill. They piled out of their halftracks under a storm of covering fire, hussling forward to get their MGs in position, howling and revving their chain-axes like the World Eaters before the Ultimate Gate. Just seeing that many guys in full kit, moving with precision in a full platoon attack, hammering away with everything they had...breathtaking. Like witnessing another world.
They have a really great impression, those SS guys, but some of them came across as pretty full of themselves. I hate to say it, but they can be like a hot chick who knows it and expects proper deference. I guess the demographics of reenacting are really peculiar; according to Anders while most guys who do regular army/luftwaffe impressions are schoolteachers, middle managers, professional types in their day-to-day lives who just like to let of a little steam, the guys who do SS have a noticeable tendency to be the overcompensating mall security guard wannabe-alpha type. Angry and frustrated with their mundane, inglorious lives and so eager to play the biggest, meanest badasses they can on the weekend. I have played in many RPG groups where a similar dynamic holds sway. I understand that if you've already committed to reenacting as axis, in the minds of most you have nothing to lose and might as well go for the impression with the hippest, scariest gangsta cachet. I think my grandfathers would be ok with this whole reenacting thing if given a proper explanation of what it was about, but I would feel very awkward running around under their immortal gaze decked out in the uniform of an outfit responsible for the killing in cold blood of Canadian prisoners in Normandy. To each their own I guess, I'm content with my for the most part clean-fighting LW/heer guys [as in, chivalrous to the maximum degree possible in a total war, all sides commit atrocities from time to time]. Everyone else can do their own thing.
OK, got sidetracked there. Draaaaaaankin'. That night the 352nd barracks were clearly the party spot for all sides, Allies included. The hospitality was exemplary. Everyone dressed in their finest:
Or, as in most of our cases, just picked the grass and thistles out of our combat uniforms as best we could and got bizzay like that. It was great, this totally convivial atmosphere of merry oddballs joyously reveling in their shared obsession. A virtual bounty awaited us, and we were starving.
Sadly, no kosher option was available. Our chef was a really nice mustachioed gentleman who lent me his better-fitting tunic, and in addition to this mighty ham there was a huge mound of German potatoes with bacon, cheeses, wurst, kommisbrot, plus enough beer and wine and hot cider and punch to float a sturmboot. I hesitate to say that at this point the ridiculousness *started*, only that it got a lot more pronounced.
A word of advice: do not attempt to do the rivethead stompy dance on a tile floor while wearing hob-nailed boots. Even if "Strap Me Down" by Leaether Strip is playing really loud in your head. Just trust me on this.
And then the lovely Miss Vienna and her DRK colleagues graced our mess. It was divine, otherworldly, a snapshot from a half-forgotten bygone era that lives on only in the hearts of those who can dream, dream bigger and grander than this paltry modern facsimile world generally allows for...lovely ladies in evening gowns, saying "ma'am" and "sir" without sarcastic intent, just revelling in the poignancy and beauty of a simpler, purer age. It felt good. It felt like *home*.
Oh man, here's the best part. Not only were we allowed to have our little hootenany on active DOD property, but the actual soldiers, far from being hostile or dismissive of us, were actually really friendly and cool! The officers and senior NCOs of a chemical defense/artillery unit, I forgot which, came over in the middle of the festivities and got their draaank on with our big fascist gang without a trace of self-consciousness. It was a surreal sight, dozens of Aryan supermen with 40's hair drinking it up and having a merry old time with bunch of crew-cutted dudes and ladies in digicam. The best moment of the weekend from a comedy/stranger in a strange land standpoint was this:
A captain comes up to me, and with that central valley redneck drawl, says "hey son, I don't have a beer here, can you hook me up?"
Jamor: "Sure thing sir, just give me a moment."
[gets a Warsteiner from cooler, realizes he has no opener to hand, puts the cap on the edge of a bedpost and starts hammering it with the heel of his hand]
Captain: "Yeah, man! Get some, private, get some!"
Jamor: [collapses in a fit of laughter at the sheer absurdity of it]
Haha, he knew my rank. IN THE WEHRMACHT. Maybe it was just my deferential body language and lack of conspicuous tunic-bling that gave me away. I love that macho, hoo-ah US military esprit. Anyway, some. I got it. ALL WEEKEND LONG.
Seriously, the Guard were great. The whole event they were curiously approaching, asking about weapons and equipment, getting driven around in our vehicles, being photographed in ACUs with a German helmet, having a grand old time. Radiating professional interest and hospitality, it was wonderful.
And it didn't stop there. The next morning, apparently pleased with our showing the night before, we were treated to breakfast courtesy of the California National Guard. Yes, that's right. I finally got GOLDEN GRAHAMS, those precious sweet squares that I have been craving all my long years of exile in the mysterious east. Really, the situation was so bizarre I could barely grasp it. The Omaha Beach garrison being fed by the US Army. I can just see the shrill 60 Minutes exposé now: "Band of armed nazis on government property, being fed at taxpayer expense!"
Just another development you are unlikely to see in Canada any time soon. It would excite such a scandal. Remind me why I still live in this oversensitive, pussified frozen shithole? Seriously, if not for my friends here I would have never came back.
One really nice touch: that morning, the British 1st [6th? I don't recall] Airborne held a Remembrance Day ceremony. Crewed by Americans in the main, I thought it was a very poignant, touching gesture of comradely solidarity for them to make with their Commonwealth allies. God Save The King was sung, and a moving rendition of In Flanders Fields. You know I ran out to be there, the only German reenactor in the formation but wearing my poppy proudly. In death all men are brothers, and we can hope that mortal hatreds fade at the gate to eternity. All this reenacting hoo-ha must seem quite farcical to the outsider's casual gaze, but in addition to having fun we are serious, respectful students of history to a man. We hold the veterans on all sides in the highest possible esteem and would never besmirch their memory.
So, the battle continued for a half-day on Sunday, and then, as quickly as it began, the guns fell silent at last and peace and sanity resumed. It was terrible.
One of the younger guys in the unit went from a Heer Grenadier to a baggy G-Unit shirt, Spongebob underpants-wearing homey in about 20 minutes. A pretty drastic reintroduction to the joys of "real life" in this modern world.
On the way home, we stopped off to eat at "Big Bubba's Bad To The Bone BBQ". It was pretty American. Also went to pick up Anders' dog Lucy from his mom's care. Met her in the parking lot of a Denny's with a kettenkrad halftrack motorcycle from the event just parked there casual as you please. I thanked that gracious lady for raising her son to be who he is today. This world needs more like him.
I love you, 5./916/352nd. You are a kick-ass hard-fighting, hard-drinking outfit, a great bunch of guys, and I would be flattered to count myself an honourary member of your ranks. At least once a year, anyway. You better believe I will do everything in my power to return. The level these guys, and the CHG as a whole has achieved is truly inspiring and it just warms my heart to feel the passion and energy of so many devoted people. We will keep the memory of this crucial period in history alive, and have a blast doing it.
Next couple days were spent winding things down at Anders' place. We had this wildly overoptimistic idea to go to a spooky dance in San Jose on Sunday night after the war, but yeah...everyone was waaaaay too wrecked for that and so just went home and collapsed in to a 12-hour coma. Oh yeah, Anders is an old-skool rivethead too, on top of everything else. Seriously, it is uncanny, the man is like a grown up version of me. Me as I hope I will be at his age. Monday my hosts had to work, and I resolved to at least attempt to see something touristy in the short window available to me. Armed with a vague Google map and my usual naive overoptimism, I set off alone in the general direction of San Fran with vague hopes of seeing the Golden Gate bridge and laughing at hippies on Haight-Ashbury. It wasn't a very strong plan, but an ok plan violently executed NOW is better than a perfect plan next week. Get on a long series of buses and trains and at one point a pterodactyl with a howdah I think, each step dragging me towards my destination in a slow-motion inexorable zig-zag, each step making it less and less practical to give up and go back after the time and money already invested. Finally arrive hours and hours later and then spend several more hours wandering lost in downtown SF because I'm too cheap to break down and spend $2 on a tourist map...but it honestly wasn't too bad. I don't like being tourguided and itineraried when I travel, I want to experience a place in an organic, natural way, the way the citizens do, so just walking around soaking up the atmosphere was mostly enough for me. Did eventually end up walking Haight street virtually end to end, and was terminally unimpressed. Just seemed like one big long Whyte ave with a lot of lame stores. Whatever, did find a Big Lebowski shirt with Walter Sobchak channeling the spirit of John Milius, holding a gun on you and subtitled in the gangster belly tat font "A World Of Pain". Also, SF branch of the just ludicrously huge Amoeba Records, where I got me an old school kvlt Cold Meat Industry record by In Slaughter Natives that I've been looking for for a decade. We had agreed to go to Death Guild, SF's main spooky thing, and by this point it was well dark out and really quite hopeless to try and get back. So, I wandered around trying to find an internet cafe, a real struggle in a world where iPhones or whatever are taking over everything, eventually ending up in a place whose decor consisted of a menacing assortment of bondage gear to go with your facebook and coffee. Hooray, San Fran. Finally managed to arrange to meet at the club after being on the go for about 8 hours on my decrepit destroyed feet. Whatever, it was alright, better than spending the day sitting around indoors wishing I'd done something.
Death Guild is a good club. Big multilevel venue with lots of hidey places and two rooms so if the one is sucking you can hopefully get your groove on in the other, and the usual assortment of creatures of the night swooping about. Goths dance the same everywhere. I apparently get stared at because my super-flaily stompy attack is something of a novelty out on the coast. Europeans with their disco shuffle are going to think I'm INSANE this spring. Seriously, I love going to spooky clubs in new cities and just reveling in the freshness of it all, even if there are certain archetypes that exist everywhere: the fat Robert Smith hair guy, the chick in too much makeup squeezed in to a latex outfit that really shouldn't contain her, girl whose synth-dreads exceed in volume her entire torso, etc. Perhaps they are avatars, fragments of divine essence of some Greater Spook pantheon residing in the bell tower of Asgard or something. Also, boyish aquiline cyber chicks with big boots and A-line haircuts and ooh how my little heart fluttered with joy. Anders and Ms. V arrive exquisitely turned out, and we cut a rug and drink and have a merry old time like a bunch of teenagers. The whole spooky thing is nothing I take too seriously anymore, but it is still a part of my life. It's reassuring to know that, like reenactors, scattered in a small island archipelago throughout every city in the Western world there is a little community of like-minded malcontents that I share a culture, lingo, and frame of reference with.
Then Anders meets up with a photographer friend and his people, and we stagger zombie-like to an all night diner with bemused punk rock waitress for foodins and five dollar milkshakes with like, peanut butter and snapping turtle and the stuff at the heart of stars in them. It was amazing, although I was about 80% deceased at that point. So much...cardio...cccan't...move...but, a pair of nice Australian girls, including this statuesque, Amazonian Valkyrie-lady are with us and they are pleasing:
Yes, observe that all of my wounds are to the fore, and the soles of the feet, O Chooser of the Slain. Take me hence to Valhalla.
Man, I love my life so much. I am so fortunate in friends, so rich in brilliant, perfect memories. And it feels like life, the life I always wanted to lead and finally seem to have, is just starting. A universe of possibility lies before me.
I struggle to avoid fawning, but I have to say, Anders Scot Hudson is my hero. Genuinely. There are not enough superlatives to describe this guy. He is a true modern-day renaissance man. I mean, how many people do you know that can claim all this:
-huge nerd
-rivethead
-graphics designer [his studio did the effects for Iron Man, etc]
-modeler [hmm, let's make a BSG helmet and an Aliens pulse rifle just for fun!]
-used to reenact as a Scottish highland cattle rustler in SCA
-latex clothing maker
-Major im Generalstab des Heeres
-hot burlesque model girlfriend a decade or so younger than him
-martial artist ['yeah, I sparred with Chuck Liddell one time...he destroyed me"]
-Hollywood historical consultant [Valkyrie, others]
-painted minis for White Dwarf back in the day
And that's just a representative sampler. I can't even begin to enunciate all the other brag-worthy things he's got, which makes the fact that he's humble and laid back about it all even more uncanny. Anyway, this is rapidly becoming undignified gushing so I'll just leave it at this...here's you you, sir. I am so glad to know you and count you as a friend and role model. Now I truly know there is some hope for people like us in this world. I'll do everything I possibly can to have the most kickass life I can from now onward, thanks to your inspiring example. Cannot wait to see you and Miss N. again.
I've always known I would never feel at home in the normal world of work and taxes and spawning and death. Only now, I know that I don't have to. There is another world, another home for me and those like me, my extended family spread in hidden enclaves across the world. Man, before the internet how did we even find each other? But now distance, borders, or languages cannot divide us. I am not a citizen of a country, or a city, or a neighbourhood. I am a citizen of a hidden, inner world, one that only a select few possess the keys to.
Home is a state of mind, a feeling of belonging, and identity, a place without self-doubt or angst.
Home is wherever I feel like this.