A Cold War veteran's lament still lives

By Dick Rosse`
Special to the Coastal Point

There I was, a newly-minted second-lieutenant, reporting for my first active-duty assignment. The time was October, 1956, and I had just been ordered to join a corporal-guided missile battalion outside the Rhineland city of Mainz in what was then West Germany.

Guided missiles were considered pretty hot stuff back then, an exalted — even elite – sub-branch of the field artillery. Ordinary artillerymen had to suffer through endless maneuvers in all kinds of weather, moving their ungainly weapons through muck and mire.

We missile men were told we’d spend most of our time performing ceremonial duties, like parading our big corporals in our dress uniforms down wide German boulevards, flaunting our power in the face of the Soviet enemy.

Unfortunately, events conspired to change that scenario dramatically.

Within a week of landing in Germany, my battalion was put on high alert and ordered to deploy to a place called the Fulda Gap — a broad, flat corridor that the Communist East Germans, supported by their Soviet friends, were expected to use as a speedway for their tanks in the event of war. That could put the Reds at the Rhine by nightfall.

Our vastly outnumbered troops had orders to plug that gap, as Cold War tensions rose ominously. In late October, Hungarian freedom fighters began to toss Molotov cocktails at Soviet tanks in the streets of Budapest. Simultaneously, Egyptian President Gamal Abdel Nasser elected to close the Suez Canal — a move that triggered a retaliatory strike by Israeli, French and British forces.

On top of all this scary news from the political front, the weather was miserable. It was cold and the rain was unremitting. We were deployed in a deep forest, just about 20 miles from the East German border. Our missiles were positioned on their launch pads, armed with nuclear warheads.

Sitting there in my soggy fatigues, trying to capture a little warmth from an oil-fed stove, I was, by turns, scared, depressed and self-pitying. It wasn’t particularly cheering to realize that you would be among the first to make the ultimate sacrifice at the start of World War III.

But the crisis passed, as did several others in the three years I spent with my missile battalion on what they called “the front line of the Cold War.”

I have a reason for recounting this incident that happened so many years ago.

My wife and I were invited to play cards at the American Legion Post 28 in Millsboro recently. I liked the place and the people, so I requested a membership application and mailed in my check.

With great regret, my check and my application were returned, since I had not met the eligibility requirements.

Legion membership is restricted to men and women who have performed wartime military service. Specifically, the rules say membership is open to those “serving in the U.S. Armed Forces during times of national crisis, regardless of place of service.” On the application form, dates of eligibility are listed. Alas, my term of service, from 1956 to 1959, does not qualify as a time of “national crisis.”

Certainly the jittery times near the Communist border during the Cold War do not compare with the sacrifices made by our troops in Korea, Viet Nam and, currently, Iraq. But, by the Legion’s rules, a member of the military who served only one day of active duty during those wars, even if that day was spent in a transportation depot in Iowa, would be welcomed aboard.

I’m sure there are a number of us “Cold Warriors” who feel we performed an important service at a time of extreme international tension, when a stupid move by either side could have triggered mutually assured destruction (MAD).

I’m also sure there are, well, legions of folks who would enjoy the camaraderie and the justly celebrated good cheer that comes with membership in their local Legion post. Both the Legion and the Cold War veteran are the losers because of those arbitrary membership rules.

We’re just going to have to find someplace else to play cards on Wednesday.

Dick Rossé is a 36-year veteran of the Mutual and NBC radio networks, and for his final dozen years at NBC served as senior news correspondent in Washington, D.C. He currently resides in Dagsboro.