Believe Nothing You Hear, and Only Half of What You See—A Memoir of Service, Shame, and the Search for Truth

Dad Gets Orders for Germany Again And Command of a Tank Battalion

In the summer of 1973, my father received orders to return to West Germany and take command of a tank battalion in Mannheim — the 5th Battalion, 68th Armor, part of the 8th Infantry Division. This would be our family’s third and final tour in Germany and, for me, it would mark the beginning of my high school years. For my father, now a Lieutenant Colonel, this was one of the most important and prestigious assignments of his career.

Mom and I Prepare for Another Overseas Transfer

We went through the same routine we had already mastered over the years. My father left as soon as possible to get our family on the post housing list. That left my mother behind to sell our house in Woodbridge and for me to go through everything we owned, once again sorting our lives into categories: Hold Baggage, Household Goods, Storage, and Throw or Give Away. By now, this process felt almost second nature.

All of us were elated about returning to Germany. My sister Lynne may have had a few reservations about spending three years at Woodbridge Senior High School and then finishing her senior year in Germany, but in retrospect, she would later say it was the best thing that could have happened to her.

My father was busy in Germany preparing for his new command and studying for his German driver’s license, which included understanding over 1,000 different international road signs. Back home, my mother and I had to get our family station wagon to the Port of Baltimore, where it would be shipped across the Atlantic. Weeks later, my father and I picked it up at the port in Bremerhaven, Germany — known as the “Gateway to Europe.”

The professional government packers and movers arrived to take care of our belongings. After everything was boxed and shipped, my mother, my four sisters, and I boarded a commercial charter flight to Germany. We landed at Rhein-Main Air Force Base near Frankfurt.

Family Arrives at Rhein-Main Air Base Enroute to Mannheim

Our official sponsor was my father’s boss, Colonel Curry, the Commander of the 3rd Brigade of the 8th Infantry Division. Often, it’s the sponsor who picks you up at the airport — but this time, it was my father and his battalion adjutant, Lieutenant Scalise, who met us on arrival.

5th Battalion 68th Armor

My father had taken command of the 5th Battalion, 68th Armor at Sullivan Barracks in Mannheim. He had taken over a massive mechanized combat unit: over 700 tankers and support soldiers, 52 M60 main battle tanks, more than a hundred M113 armored personnel carriers (APCs), dozens of M114 armored reconnaissance vehicles used by the cavalry scouts, several M577 Command Post Carriers, and a variety of heavy tactical vehicles, including M35 2.5-ton trucks — affectionately known as “deuce-and-a-halfs” — M939 5-ton trucks, M561 Gamma-Goats, M932 fuel trucks, and M60 AVLB (Armored Vehicle Launched Bridge) vehicles.

The unit insignia for the 68th Armored Regiment was a silver lion on a blue crest, with the Latin phrase “Ventre a Terra” scrolled beneath the shield. Translated, it means “Belly to the Ground,” describing what a lion does just before it attacks. That image — silent, watchful, coiled for action — embodied exactly the posture of a Cold War tank battalion stationed in Europe, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. My father took great pride in that insignia and everything it stood for.

Hand-Picked Key Battalion Personnel

He hand-picked his key officers: Major Jim Mills was selected as the battalion S3 (Plans and Operations); Lieutenant Scalise served as the S1 (Personnel Officer & Adjutant); and Major Anthony Swain was his Executive Officer (XO). I don’t recall the name of his S2 (Intelligence Officer), but I’ll never forget who he said was the most important recruit he made at the start of his command — the battalion head chef, someone he had known and served with during his tour in Korea.

My father always believed I would follow in his footsteps and become an Army officer, and from a young age he took every opportunity to prepare me for that role. He told me often, “Feeding your men well is one of the most important things you can do for morale.” He meant it. The chef was the very first person he had reassigned to his new battalion.

Battalion Motor Pool

On many weekends, my father’s jeep driver would come to our quarters to pick us up and bring us to Sullivan Barracks. I accompanied him on his rounds. He didn’t bring me along to impress me — he brought me to teach. We always began in the motor pool, where he’d check in with the Motor Sergeant and ask about the status of every single vehicle. “A tank battalion is useless,” he told me, “if the tanks and support vehicles can’t move at a moment’s notice.” He stressed how critical the Motor Sergeant was to the entire operation.

Next, we would stop at the Mail Room, where he introduced me to the Mail Clerk. “If you bring your men hot food and their mail out in the field,” he said, “they’ll follow you anywhere.”

Then he took me to meet the Supply Sergeant, explaining that the supply room controls all the gear and equipment that keeps a unit functioning. “Make friends with your supply sergeant on Day One,” he advised. “He’s your lifeline.”

The Mess Hall

And finally, we always ended our rounds at the mess hall, where we checked in with the chef. My father would taste test the food, sipping soup straight from the ladle, dipping bread into sauces, even pulling out his combat knife from his tanker’s boot to slice off a piece of roast beef for us to sample. The chef was remarkable. He created themed menus throughout the week — Italian Day in honor of my father, Soul Food Day, Hispanic Day, Asian Day, and classic American Day. On holidays like Thanksgiving and New Year’s, officers and NCOs wore their dress uniforms and served the troops. The chef even created ice sculptures and elaborate displays. Our family always joined the battalion for those special meals.

Major Jim Mills, Battalion S3

Major Jim Mills, my father’s S3, became a great friend of our family. When my father was promoted to become the G3 of the 8th Infantry Division, Major Mills and his family followed us to Bad Kreuznach. His son, Jim Jr., became one of my best friends during high school there.

Hohenfels & Grafenwöhr

But back to Mannheim. This was the height of the Cold War, and the 5–68 Armor was constantly on alert. Many weeks were spent in the field, training at places like Hohenfels and Grafenwöhr. The tempo was relentless, but my father thrived on it.

It’s All About Tank Gunnery

When he took command, the battalion was struggling. He had inherited the unit from a commander who had been quietly relieved. At the time, 5–68 Armor ranked dead last in Tank Gunnery in the entire 8th Infantry Division — the lowest position a tank battalion could fall to. One officer even approached my father and said he was sorry that he had to take command of such a poor-performing unit. My father just smiled and said, “I’m delighted. We can only go up.”

And they did. Before he relinquished command, the 5th Battalion, 68th Armor had gone from worst to first in tank gunnery. That achievement meant everything. In the world of armor, gunnery is life. Every soldier is trained to “Move, Shoot, and Communicate,” but if a tank can’t shoot accurately, it’s nothing more than a 52-ton steel coffin. My father turned that battalion around through leadership, standards, and trust in his men — and by never forgetting the basics: maintenance, mail, supply, and a hot meal.

Benjamin Franklin Village (BFV)

While my father’s battalion was housed within Sullivan Barracks, all of the families — including ours — lived in Benjamin Franklin Village, commonly known as BFV. We moved into beautiful, newly renovated officers’ quarters at 11 Grant Circle, a spacious two-story duplex with four bedrooms and one-and-a-half bathrooms. It was pristine — gleaming, freshly varnished wood floors, crisp whitewashed walls, and all the signs of recent renovation. My small bedroom was the only one located downstairs; the rest of the family — my parents and four sisters — had bedrooms upstairs.

Map of Benjamin Franklin Village (BFV) and Barracks, Mannheim, Germany

Grant Circle

Grant Circle was the place to live on post. It was where the base commander, General Timmerburg, and all the full colonels and lieutenant colonels resided. It felt both prestigious and incredibly lucky to be there. Most of our closest friends lived in Grant Circle too, which meant that life there — especially in the evenings — was incredibly social. Army brats like us hung around outside most nights, talking for hours under the stars. Our house, right near the entrance to Grant Circle and the corner where Taylor Street split the circle in two, became one of the unofficial gathering spots. It always seemed to be the hub of activity.

Maps of BFV, the Kasernes and Grant Circle

Every commanding officer had a colorful replica of their Distinctive Unit Crest mounted outside their quarters. My father proudly displayed the crest of the 68th Armored Regiment — a blue shield with a silver lion, beneath which read the Latin motto: “Ventre a Terra”, meaning “Belly to the Ground.” The image of a crouched lion, low and poised to strike, captured the essence of a tank battalion ready for action at any moment. That crest nailed to the front of our home was a symbol of pride and command — and it let everyone know exactly who lived there.

We had a carport next to the house where my father parked our family station wagon. But his prized possession — his beautiful white Porsche 911— was always parked right out front, gleaming and impossible to miss.

At the far end of Grant Circle was a smaller loop where the full colonels lived in large single-family homes. And beyond even that, at the very end of “full colonel’s row,” stood the Commanding General’s house — a stately and fitting centerpiece for a Cold War-era military village.

Jeff Bell and Family

My closest friend at Mannheim — then and to this very day — was Jeff Bell. His father, Colonel Wiley Bell, was a career Signal Corps officer, a veteran of the Korean War, the Chinese conflict, and Vietnam. A battle-tested and respected leader, he was also one of the warmest and funniest men I ever knew.

Mrs. Bell, on the other hand, was memorable in her own way: a chain-smoker, a fan of Coca-Cola by the liter, and someone who hated to cook. As a result, the Bell family ate out almost every meal — and lucky for me, they often invited me to join. They favored a cozy nearby Gasthaus, where Jeff and I always ordered our two favorites: Jägerschnitzel (mushroom cream schnitzel) and Zigeunerschnitzel — a paprika-spiced dish better known then as Gypsy Schnitzel.

Jeff Learns to Eat Italian

Jeff Bell was at our house for dinner regularly, but I’ll never forget one spaghetti night in particular. My mother had made classic spaghetti with meatballs, and Jeff took his usual seat at our table. After we said grace, Jeff picked up his fork and knife and began cutting his spaghetti into neat little pieces.

My father immediately stood up. In his firm but calm voice, he told Jeff to leave the table and go sit in the living room. Jeff obeyed, completely unsure whether my father was joking or serious. He sat there in awkward silence while the rest of us waited. Eventually, my father called him back into the dining room. He explained, in no uncertain terms, that in an Italian household like the Carbone’s, you never cut your spaghetti. Ever.

Then, with that rare combination of pride and precision, my father gave Jeff a lesson in Italian table manners, teaching him how to take the spaghetti with his fork and twirl it into a spoon in his other hand. And if you were to ask Jeff today how he eats spaghetti, he will still tell you: “I twirl it in my spoon — like the Italians do.”

The Red Volkswagen Bug

Jeff was one of the only students at Mannheim American High School who had his own car — an old, beat-up red Volkswagen Beetle, which made us kings among high schoolers. The heater didn’t work, so Jeff kept wool Army blankets in the back seat, and to make the windshield wipers work, I had to pull on strings coming out of the glove compartment. But it got us around.

Mannheim Officers’ Club

We had a habit of sneaking away from school during lunch to eat at the Mannheim Officer’s Club. We charged our meals directly to Colonel Bell’s Officers’ Club account, eating like lieutenants while we were still teenagers. I still remember the code: 0011 — a number permanently burned into my memory like a locker combination.

Years later, I told Colonel Bell about our lunchtime exploits, expecting some scolding or disapproval. But instead, he laughed so hard his false teeth fell out.

Mannheim American High School (MAHS) Bisons

Class of 1975 Seniors

The Class of 1975 was Lynne’s Senior class, and it was filled with stars: Chris Corpus (Senior Class President, Varsity Football and Basketball), Jeff Wing (Varsity Football), Jeff Blair (Varsity Football and Basketball), Chuck Grayson (Varsity Football, Basketball and Golf), Bob Nicholson (Captain Varsity Football and Baseball, Class VP), and Kyle Kamalu (Varsity Tennis and Golf). Lynne’s best girlfriends were Gail Hayward and Lori Herrick (both Lettergirls with Lynne). And our duplex neighbor, Mark Sanchez — brilliant and eccentric — loved Diana but became one of my best friends.

Class of 1976 Juniors

My sister Diana, in the Junior Class of 1976, was the most popular girl in school. She was Junior Princess, Varsity Cheerleader, and Homecoming escort to Jeff Blair. Everyone was in love with her. Her class included Rudy Glenn (Varsity Football and Varsity Soccer Captain 3 years in a row), Lorraine Duhovnik (Varsity Tennis), Terry Swenson (Varsity Cheerleader), the Auna twins, BeeBe (Varisty Cheerleader and Class President) and Murph (Varsity Basketball, Class VP and JROTC Officer), Kathy Wing, and Kelly Diest(Varsity Cheerleader)— along with Jeff Bell, my best friend and our beloved golf captain. Super athlete, Jenny Leitnaker, was in Diana’s class but was more of a friend of Jeff Bell and mine.

Class of 1977 — Me and my Fellow Sophomores

I was a sophomore in the Class of 1977, but thanks to being ahead in school, I ended up in several of Diana’s classes — and even Lynne’s Physics classwith the infamous Miss Sapatka, a devout Star Trek fan who wore a Starfleet uniformand gave the Vulcan salute regularly. Odd as she was, she made physics one of my favorite subjects.

I was also in Diana’s Chemistry class with Mr. Voltz, another science nerd with a great sense of humor, who eventually made me his assistant teacher because I earned straight A’s and was his top student. Diana wasn’t thrilled about sharing her classes — or her spotlight — with her nerdy little brother, but she had plenty of distractions, with every boy in school falling for her.

I was inducted into the National Honor Society, joined the choir, and made the Junior Varsity Soccer Team thanks to Rudy Glenn (Captain of the Varsity soccer team and a future professional soccer player), who took me under his wing. One afternoon, Rudy came up to me, dribbling a soccer ball, and asked if I played. “Not at all,” I said. “I can’t play anything.” He smiled and said, “Anyone can learn soccer.” And I did. By senior year, I was Captain of the Varsity Soccer Team, and we won the European Championship in our DoDDS division.

Rudy Glenn, Varsity Football & Soccer Star

Other Class of 1977 Notables

My class also had its own share of notables: Debbie Murray, who became a nurse anesthetist and a lifelong friend of Diana and mine; Andrea Simmons, the Diana Carbone of our sophomore class; and Jim Mills, son of my father’s S3, who followed us to Bad Kreuznach and became an All-Europe athlete there.

Class of 1978–Freshman Class

And from the Class of 1978, one student I’ll never forget: Debi Bell, Jeff’s sister, who I thought was beautiful, kind, and incredibly talented. She was a JV cheerleader, a top gymnast and volleyball player, and she even agreed to be my date for a few dances — mostly out of kindness… and brotherly loyalty. Jeff and I made every single game and practice of Debi’s. Yes, I had a big (unrequited) crush.

Homecoming ’75: A Portrait of the Perpetual Ninth Wheel

The photograph of me below with 4 senior class friends: Mark Sanchez, Chuck Grayson, Kyle Kamalu, and John Timmerburg with their dates (forget Mark’s date name, Gail Hayward, Beebe Auna and Michele Kamalu). This was a photograph taken before Homecoming dance at Mannheim American High School in 1975. This sums up my high school romantic life in a single photograph — this night, I was the 9th wheel!

Mannheim was a great school with great students and faculty. It was one of those small Department of Defense Schools Europe (DODSEUR) where everyone had to be involved in everything just to make the school function — which made it an absolute blast. Our superstar athletes were also in the choir, the chess club, and every other club imaginable because each one meant one thing: a road trip. And when your school is in Germany, that means one club might hold a meeting in London, another in Nürnberg, another in Berlin. The sports teams traveled somewhere exciting nearly every other weekend. It’s how I saw all of Germany for free.

Basketball Teams Roadtrip to Nüremberg

I remember traveling to Nürnberg for a basketball tournament with the teams — but even more memorably, I traveled with the cheerleaders and beautiful Kathy Wing, who was my co-basketball manager.

They put us up in the old Nürmberg Castle, right in the center of town. The youth hostel was actually located in one of the ancient towers of the castle. That night, I figured out that the cheerleaders were in the room directly below mine. Naturally, I tied my tennis shoes together by the laces, leaned out of the castle tower window, and started swinging them down, hoping to get their attention. Sure enough, I was thrilled when Terry Swenson and Kelly Diest poked their heads out of the window below and looked up at me, laughing. I might have been small in high school, but I definitely put my genius IQ to work when it counted.

Kelly Diest and the Kissing Booth

And then, there was my first real kiss. I can’t remember the exact event — it might have been a school fair or some kind of student fundraiser — but I definitely remember the kissing booth. And I absolutely remember who was inside it. There she was: the one and only Kelly Diest — gorgeous, red-haired, and a cheerleader. I was already in love with her, and now, here she was, smiling at me through the booth window. I gave her a quarter and stepped up. She gently placed her hands on my face and kissed me on the lips — once, twice, and on the third kiss, I felt something I had never felt before: my first French kiss. I was stunned. Giddy. Smitten. My head was spinning.

I left the auditorium, ran home to my room, grabbed a roll of quarters I had saved from commissary tips, and sprinted right back to the kissing booth. I stood there handing Kelly one quarter after another — completely starstruck. At one point, I remember Kelly turning to one of my sisters and saying with a laugh, “I think your brother really likes kissing!” She had no idea. I’ve never forgotten Kelly Diest.

Summer Hire at Seckenheim

In the summer of 1975, Lynne had just left for college in Boston, and Diana and I both signed up for “Summer Hire” through the U.S. Government. We earned $1.65 an hour — not much even back then. Diana landed a cushy gig working the front desk at the Military Police Station with her best friend, Leslie Roddy. Their job mostly involved answering phones and getting flirted with by MPs all day.

I wasn’t quite so lucky. I got assigned to an isolated Army base out in Seckenheim, a kaserne filled with warehouses and a giant industrial laundromat and ended up working in a warehouse that handled shipments of household goods — giant wooden crates shipped from the States. The place was run entirely by German nationals working for the U.S. Government, most of whom considered it the ultimate cush job. As the token American kid, they made me do everything: the paperwork, the filing, and even unloading trucks with a forklift — at age 14.

To pacify me, they called me Meister (which means “Boss”), fed me cartons of German Orangina, and gave me girlie magazines while they lounged around drinking beer all day. Yes, it was a bizarre experience.

Joined in Seckenheim by Jeff Bell & Kathy Wing

The one saving grace was that I wasn’t alone. I was stationed out in Seckenheim with my buddy Jeff Bell and the stunning Kathy Wing, who I adored and who later became our basketball team manager with me. Jeff got an equally tough assignment at the government furniture warehouse. We both worked like dogs that summer. Every day we ate lunch in a tiny canteen — just two Deutschmarks (about 50 cents) for a hot meal.

At first, Jeff and I were completely grossed out by the laundromat staff: large, tough old German women in sweaty uniforms manhandling loads of military uniforms and linens. But by the end of the summer, we’d catch each other sneaking glances at them — clearly overworked and heat-addled — and then smack each other on the shoulder and break out laughing.

Honestly, the only real consolation was the twice-daily commute. Jeff and I crammed ourselves into Jeff’s tiny Volkswagen Beetle for the long, hot ride to and from Seckenheim every day with Kathy Wing. That made the entire summer worth it.

Mischief in Mannheim

Mannheim was definitely my mischievous era. Our family had a lot of rules, which wasn’t unusual for military families at the time. One of the biggest rules was that we were not to leave the house when my parents were away — a rule you’ll soon see I broke more than once. Another rule was that Diana, Lynne, and I had to leave for events together and return home together at our designated curfew.

Jeff & I Watch Out for Diana

That meant almost every weekend ended the same way: Jeff Bell and I driving around Mannheim in the VW Beetle looking for Diana, who was always just moments away from getting in trouble. She wasn’t a bad kid — not at all. She was just incredibly naive when it came to boys, and Jeff and I became her unofficial watchdogs.

Chinese Fire Drill

And speaking of that little Volkswagen Beetle, Jeff and I made the most of it. We cruised around both on-post and off, pulled Chinese fire drills at intersections, and generally used it as our ticket to freedom. Once, when I was supposed to be babysitting my younger sisters Pamela and Cynthia, Jeff and I decided to take them out cruising. We hit a stoplight somewhere downtown Mannheim when a car full of other Army brats behind us honked, which was our cue for a car swap.

Jeff and I jumped out of the Beetle and ran to the car behind us, leaving Pam and Cynthia in the front seat. To their horror — and mine — two strangers jumped into the Beetle and drove off with my little sisters. According to Pam and Cynthia, it was one of the most terrifying moments of their childhood. Thankfully, the “strangers” were just other high school kids we knew — and Jeff and I recovered the girls moments later. My parents never found out. To this day, Pam and Cynthia still bring up that story, and I still count my lucky stars that I survived that one without court-martial.

Night of the Armor Ball

But I wasn’t always that lucky. One night, my parents got all dressed up — my father in his Dress Blue uniform and my mother in a gown — and they headed out in the Porsche for the Armor Ball. That usually meant they’d be out until midnight or later, so it was one of the nights I decided to sneak outof the house. Big mistake.

My mother became ill on the way to the Armor Ball, and my father turned the Porsche around to bring her home and put her to bed. Meanwhile, I was out with Jeff, causing mischief for hours. When I finally returned home and slid my key into the front door, it opened on its own. My heart stopped. There, standing in the doorway, was my father — still in his uniform pants with suspenders, jacket off, calm as could be. In a very soft voice, he said: “Go sit on the couch.” I did. And I sat there for what felt like hours. Eventually, he came back into the living room and, in the same soft, low voice, he said: “Never do that again.”  I shook my head and muttered, “Never again, sir.” Then he quietly said: “Now, get to bed.”

My father’s power and authority

That was how powerful my father was — with everyone.  He never had to raise his voice. In fact, I can say with 100% certainty that he never raised his voice at my mother — not once in my life. It reminded me of that time back in Leavenworth, when the hippie brat came stomping into our quarters. My father spoke to him with the same calm authority, and I’m pretty sure that kid messed his pants.

The American Youth Association (AYA)

On weekends, all of us high school students gathered at the AYA (American Youth Association), which was a cultural time capsule of the 1970s. There were couches to hang out on, a few pinball machines, a small snack bar window, and walls covered in blacklight posters. At the center was a big dance floor, and suspended above it, the ultimate prize: a shiny disco ball. We had dances every weekend, and for a teenage couple on an Army base, an AYA dance was about as far as you could go.

Saturday afternoons meant the post theater. Matinees were free, and regular movies cost 25 cents. You had to show either your military dependent ID card or your dog tags to get in. Every movie began with everyone standing for the National Anthem — no exceptions. And because soldiers and dependents were seated together, the theater lights were never turned off completely. We watched every film in a dim glow.

Fun Times at the A&W

And then there was the A&W drive-in just outside the back gate of Sullivan Barracks. In the days before fast food chains conquered the globe, this was a very big deal. Jeff and I would pull into the lot and a waitress — often on roller skates, would come to take our order. We almost always ordered the same thing: an A&W Crunchburger (a hamburger with crispy onion strings on top). And of course, an ice-cold root beer float.

Those nights — cruising with Jeff, jukebox tunes playing, root beer in hand, sneaking glances at girls we liked, hoping not to get caught breaking curfew . Those were the sweet, golden days of youth. Mannheim was structured and disciplined, but it was also a place where we found room to rebel just enough, laugh just loud enough, and live just fully enough to remember it all forever.

Military Orders Again!

But as all military kids know, just when life starts to feel perfect, the orders come down. Midway through Diana’s senior year, my father received new orders: he was to leave his beloved tank battalion and take a position at 8th Infantry Division Headquarters in Bad Kreuznach. Lynne had already left for college in Boston, but for Diana and me, the news hit like a punch to the gut.

We were devastated. Mannheim had become our home and the greatest place we have ever been assigned. I was just beginning to feel like I belonged, even though girls like Kelly Diest, Lorraine Duhovnik, Terry Swenson, or Kelly Wing barely noticed me. A teenager’s hope that one of them might give me a chance lingered, but that dream soon shattered. Yearbooks, countless photographs, and cherished childhood memories remained my solace.

Decision made–Diana stays in Mannheim; I go to Bad Kreuznach

There were tears, long talks, and serious negotiations, but eventually my parents reached a compromise: Diana would stay behind to finish her senior year at Mannheim. She moved in with the Roddy family until she graduated. Meanwhile, the rest of us — my parents, my younger sisters, and I — packed up once more and moved to Bad Kreuznach.

Major Mills and Family Follow Us to Bad Kreuznach

We weren’t the only ones making the move. My father’s trusted S3, Major Jim Mills, was also reassigned to 8th Infantry Division HQ. His son, Jim Jr., followed us to BK — and the two of us would become close friends.

As the curtains closed on our life in Mannheim, I left behind a whirlwind of memories: first crushes, first kisses, wild drives in a beat-up Beetle, soccer matches, school dances, and the unbreakable bond with friends like Jeff Bell. Mannheim had been magic. But now, it was time to start again.

Photographs of Fellow Mannheim Bisons

Mannheim American High School Class of 1977 Graduation

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