Yellowstone

After the year at Ricks College, I was employed for the summer as one-half of a two-man trail crew in Yellowstone National Park. Each of us had a horse, a mule, a power saw, and an axe. We were charged with clearing the previous winter's dead wood, as well as new spring growth, that threatened to impede the progress of fire fighters to any fire that might break out. I spent most of the summer in the wilderness south of Yellowstone Lake in almost total isolation from other people. This was enjoying nature at its best. Deer, thousands of elk, several moose, bear, and other animals were frequently observed in their most natural state. Fishing was unbelievable.
For a while, my partner and I (I don't recall his name) linked up with another pair of men doing the same thing. One of the guys was from Waco, Texas and played football for Baylor. He would ride along on his horse, spitting tobacco as he rode. I thought this looked neat. So, for a brief time in my life, I chewed tobacco, spitting from astride my horse. Then the moment of truth arrived. We crossed Yellowstone Lake on a small boat and the wind came up and the boat began to rock. I was foolish enough to have a wad of tobacco in my mouth. It and everything else I had eaten for the previous twenty four hours came retching out of my stomach and over the side of the boat. Never again in my life have I even considered chewing tobacco.
Before moving south of Lake Yellowstone, we lived a few days in a cabin near the Lake Ranger Station. One evening I poured out some corned beef hash on the ground back of the cabin. We spent the evening in the Lake lodge attending a program. When we got back to the cabin, I went back of the cabin to pee. I was greeted by a huge grizzly bear that reared up on his hind legs and roared at me. I was gone in a flash. The next day, however, we put out a trap and a day later, we had trapped the grizzly. We daubed a little white paint on him (so he could be recognized if he came back) and then hauled him way up into the mountains and let him loose. It was an experience I shall never forget. We had previously captured several black bears and hauled them off. Frequently, they came back and were then destroyed. But a grizzly was something quite different, awesome and fierce.

Tourists - 2004

At the conclusion of our time in Hamburg, Faith and I were joined by our two sons and drove to the city of Greifswald in the former East Germany. Wade, who is the youngest of our five sons, served in the Germany Berlin Mission and his two-year older brother Mark (the San Pablo, Philippines Mission) had come to Europe to pick us up and travel home with us. They went to Greifswald a day or so ahead of us to allow us to finish checking out of the house and turning it over to my successor. Greifswald had been the last city in which Wade had served and he had special feelings for the place and the people.

We also visited Denmark (where I had served a mission some 48 years earlier). On the way back to Greifswald for a second visit, we stopped in the town of Ribnitz-Damgarten for dinner. I knew there had been a Soviet airfield there but did not know exactly where it was. After dinner I ventured out onto the town square, accosted a local native and asked him if he knew where the airfield was. “Oh, Ja,” he replied and proceeded to show me on my map the exact location of the airfield. The idea of visiting that airfield began to ferment in my mind. During the trip to Berlin a few months earlier, we had found the Soviet airfield near Jüterbog Altes Lager and I had driven onto the main runway at the airfield shouted loudly “we won!” and left after taking a few photos – obviously not appropriate behavior for a mission president, but it felt good.

In conversation with the man on the town square in Ribnitz, I learned that I could not possibly visit the Damgarten airfield that day since it was all closed down for the day but if would return the following day, it might be possible. I decided to try anyway. My wife, Mark and Wade were tolerant and went along with the idea not knowing what to expect.

Not knowing where exactly the airfield was, we entered a road that led into some woods. A couple of kilometers down this road I saw what appeared to be an apparition. There, standing at a stop sign in the road was a young man dressed in a field uniform of the former East Germany Army. This was simply too realistic! No one had worn East Germany uniforms for more than 12 years, but sure as could be there stood a young man in such a uniform. He flagged me down and emphasized there was no way I could venture further down that road that evening. I persisted, finally he made a phone call on his cell phone, returned and told me to drive ahead and report to an administrative section I would encounter further down the road. Not knowing what to expect, we drove on. Finally as I was about to despair and Faith was very frightened, we came upon an encampment of perhaps a hundred young men – all of whom were dressed in either East German or Soviet field uniforms. At this point, Faith was deeply concerned for our safety. But I got out of the car and approached the group of men nearest to where the car was parked walking around the makeshift barrier they had set up. I introduced myself in German and explained I was an American. One of the men responded sarcastically, “Oh, that is nice.” But when I explained I just wanted to visit the runway of the airfield, they settled down and became friendlier. One man and a boy who looked to be about 16 (dressed in an old Soviet Army field uniform) got in a car and led us to a small road where we could enter the airfield and drive upon on one of the taxiways. Sure enough we were on the Damgarten airfield. It was overgrown with grass and weeds but the hangarettes were still there, hidden in the trees with no doors. We drove close to one then turned around and left the airfield. Once again, I exulted. “We won,” I yelled, then for good measure said “Wir haben gewonnen” then added “Pobeda nasha” just for effect.

I never found out what the hundred or so men were doing at an encampment in the woods dressed in old East German and Soviet uniforms. I suppose I should have asked, but I didn’t. They reminded me of those ill-conceived militia organizations that sometimes spring up in response to some policy or practice that some people don’t like.

Edinburgh

Chapter Fourteen– EDINBURGH

(1977-78)

Defence Studies. In the fall of 1977, I found myself knocking on the door of the Defence Studies office suite at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland. The Air Force had sent me to learn at the elbow of Professor John Erickson – a world-renowned scholar on the Soviet Armed Forces. Somehow, word had never gotten to Erickson that I was coming and the whole office suite was still locked up for the summer holidays. I was fit to be tied. Why did I leave my family to come here? I asked myself over and over. My morale was about as low as it could get. I left my family for this? The previous evening I had stood in the train as we approached Edinburgh and saw the yellowy glow of the city’s lights through eyes filled with tears.

Summer in Scotland is not exactly like summer in Ohio, and I found myself without a coat – in Scotland it is always a good idea to have a coat. So I hopped a train and went up north to a U.S. Navy base at a place called Edzel, where I bought a black raincoat at the Base Exchange.

When I finally hooked up with Erickson, I was provided an office and then basically ignored. I wasn't sure what this meant. But I knew I was going to be there for almost a year and I had better make the most of it. So I busied myself by completing the Air War College correspondence course. Then I wrote a long paper that I sent back to Washington. The general in charge of the program liked it very much. But when I sent it to Air University, they bled red ink all over it. They insisted I write what they wanted in the style and format they decreed. So I did as they asked, wrote a mediocre paper on strategy, and finished the course.

Conference on Soviet Military Manpower. I then organized a conference on Soviet manpower to be hosted by Defence Studies. The name Erickson, in connection with the Soviet Armed Forces, drew some pretty heavy hitters. Admiral of the Fleet Sir Peter Hill-Norton chaired the conference. He had previously served as Chairman of the NATO Military Committee. He went on to become Lord Peter Hill-Norton, and a member of the English House of Lords, thereby achieving the highest recognition one can receive for service to the British Empire. John and I once had lunch at his house and admired one of the old rum kegs he had removed from ships of the Royal Navy, thereby eliminating a tradition that had lasted for over a hundred years. Others in attendance included the Commander of the NATO Defense College in Rome, and the Commander of the Belgian 16th corps. We were to publish the results of the conference.

As I pondered over the stuff I had been given to publish, it suddenly became clear to me that I knew as much as these big guys and I could write as well as they could. So after finishing the work on the Soviet military manpower document, I started researching everything I could find and finally chose to write an article on Soviet helicopters. By now, Professor Erickson and I were nearly inseparable. He was afraid the Air Force would send him someone who knew nothing about academic research; I had passed the test. When he read my paper, he suggested I publish it in the International Defense Review, produced in Switzerland. I sent them the paper and they published it. I was startled how easy this was.

I then wrote an article about Soviet Frontal Aviation for Strategic Review, a journal put out by American conservatives that focused on security issues. This was followed by a series of published articles written in subsequent months.

My Mentor. Professor John Erickson was a unique individual. I know little about Intelligence Quotients, but I am sure he ranked near the top. He was simply brilliant, but eccentric. He harbored a dislike for the English upper crust that reflected his own upbringing in the northern English town of Newcastle where he was the son of a lower class laborer. At the NATO Defense College in Rome, he would scarcely allow his own countrymen to say a word if he detected that upper class accent common to many who have attended the best schools. Yet he had a soft heart for the military that shone through at unusual times. I accompanied him once to a dining-in of the Belgian 16^th Division somewhere in Germany. A very strange German liaison officer, who had memorized Russian phrases from a phrase book, was attached to us. He and Erickson got along famously.

Erickson never accepted an invitation without insisting I go along. Thus I met a great number of exceptional people. He would not even go to lunch at the University Staff Club without dragging me along. I had to ignore the fact that he drank and smoked too much and ate too little. I allow myself these small criticisms because I genuinely loved the man with the respect and devotion that is possible between student and teacher, even though he was not my teacher in the formal sense. Kathy Brown was more than his secretary. She was a lady in the final years of her professional life who also loved John in her own way and acted as his Chief of Staff. Between the two of us, we conspired to influence John for the better in ways we felt he was deficient. It was a labor of love which really did not bear significant results, but which was the natural and unavoidable outgrowth of our affection for a brilliant man.

In a personal sense, there were probably two major lessons that were part of the Edinburgh experience. The first was that I hated being away from my family. In that connection, I had not appreciated Faith nearly as much as I should have. Edinburgh helped correct that deficiency as I realized I did not want to be anywhere without her. The second lesson was an understanding of my own abilities in academic investigation and the writing of articles based upon my own research. This was also a time when I was able to research and come to grips with my Scottish heritage that was so important to my mother and which permeated her character.

The Scots. The history of Scotland is the story of its families, each clad in special tartans, woven of wool from the Highland sheep. Totally different than the English in their origins, the Scots descended from ancient Celtic tribes who had found their way from the European continent to the northern British Isles. Not everyone understands that in some parts of Scotland the Scots actually have preserved their own Celtic language, even though it is spoken by very few.

Historically the Scots descended from a mixture of the Celtic Picts and Gaels, incorporating neighboring Britons to the south as well as invading Germanic peoples, such as the Anglo-Saxons and the Scandinavians. Differing substantially from the English, Germans, French, Scandinavians, or for that matter, anyone else in Europe, the Scots are a distinct people, fiercely independent, and persevering. I would assert that my mother, Amy Buttars, embodied those traits. I never truly understood her until I spent almost a year in Scotland.

A careful look into Scottish history will reveal a small clan carrying the name of Buttars. They are first encountered in connection with a century old war between the Argyll and the families who settled in what is today the southern Highlands and Perthshire. Yet for some unknown reason, it is impossible today for the casual tourist to identify a specific tartan worn by that clan. Nonetheless, I have discovered such a tartan and have inserted in into the history of my mother that I put together. The Buttars clan played a significant role in the events that shaped the history of Scotland. The early Butters (for so most histories record the spelling) found their residence in the area around the old village of Gormack near Rattray not far from the town of Pitlochry.

My Scottish Ancestors. Having made several pilgrimages to Kirkmichael, from whence my ancestors left for America, I can assert that the Buttars were a well-respected and prosperous family. My genealogy on the Buttars side traces back to my fourth great-grandfather, Donald Buttar, who was born in 1693 near the town of Blairgowrie in Perthshire. He is followed by his son and a grandson, both named Donald. The grandson, my great-great grandfather, Donald Buttar, was born in a place called Stronamuck in the parish of Kirkmichael on February 9, 1758. We know this Donald Buttar was the son of another Donald Buttar about whom we, at this stage, know nothing other than his name.

Stronamuck (a word which has several spellings) is an old Gaelic or Celtic name which allegedly means "lair of the wild boar." In its heyday, the place consisted of approximately eleven buildings and was the center for the Buttars family's agricultural activities. Not large enough to have its own church, its inhabitants belonged to the Kirkmichael Parish, about a mile and a half away. Stronamuck no longer exists, having gone to ruins when the Buttars left. At present, a few old ruins remain in the middle of someone else's private property. Kirkmichael lies approximately ten miles east of Pitlochry as the crow flies. Peppered along the road are names found in the Buttars genealogy: Ennochdhu (allegedly meaning "Black Meadow" in Gaelic) lies to south along the road to Blairgowrie, Rattray lie Ballinluig, and Ballintuim.

Donald was married to Beathea Rattray, and they are the parents of my great-grandfather, David Buttars, who was born on December 2, 1822 in Rattray, Scotland. At the age of 29, David joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on January 19, 1851. What courage it must have taken to join an American-born church founded only 21 years prior.

I do not know with precision when he and his wife, Margaret Spaulding, immigrated to the United States to join with other members of the Church in Utah. However, it was some time before their ninth child, whom they named Margaret, was born in Lehi, Utah on August 5, 1863. Tragically, both mother Margaret and daughter Margaret died within a week of the birth on 10^th and 12^th of August, respectively.

At age 44, Great-grandfather Buttars married my great-grandmother, Sarah Keep, who was 18 years his junior. She bore him eight children plus they had an adopted daughter. Among them, was my grandfather, Charles Buttars, my mother’s father.

Publishing. After my stint in Edinburgh, I began to write articles for publication. At first they were about the Soviet armed forces, later they dealt in one way or another with disarmament. And finally, I wrote about the future of Europe. Altogether about 30 of these articles were published. I might also mention that I was a co-author of a book entitled, The Soviet Armed Forces. Later, Ambassador Oleg Grinevsky and I wrote Making Peace, an insider’s account of the Stockholm Conference.

Without a doubt, my experience with Professor Erickson at the University of Edinburgh was a great, even defining, period in my professional development.

Berlin Part V: JFK and LDS Church

President Kennedy visit. On June 26th 1963, President John F. Kennedy came to West Berlin. I stood near the Outpost Theater on Clayallee and anxiously awaited his visit to the American forces. It was a short visit but one I shall always remember. He had already given his famous speech to the West Berliners in Berlin Charlottenburg in which he said, inter alia, “Freedom is indivisible, and when one man is enslaved, all are not free. When all are free, then we can look forward to that day when this city will be joined as one and this country and this great Continent of Europe in a peaceful and hopeful globe. When that day finally comes, as it will, the people of West Berlin can take sober satisfaction in the fact that they were in the front lines for almost two decades. All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and, therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words 'Ich bin ein Berliner.'"

President Kennedy in Berlin

On November 22, 1963, during the time I was a case officer, Faith and I were attending a small party at the home of my boss, Major Ray King. We were all shaken, to our very foundations, when we learned of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, the thirty-fifth President of the United States, which took place that day in Dallas, Texas, USA at 12:30 p.m. CST. I personally had favored Nixon over Kennedy, but still, he was a very likeable character as president, and I had admired his fortitude in dealing with the Soviets over their missiles in Cuba. The Berliners mourned the passing of the American president as though he were one of their own.

Es gibt Nachrichten, die die Welt erschüttern. Die uns aufwühlen, die uns erschrecken, die uns erzittern, die uns ausrufen lassen, „Mein Gott, wie konnte das geschehen!“ . . . Heute empfinden wir nur Schmerz. Heute ist es uns ein Herzensbedürfnis, der Familie des toten Präsidenten und dem ganzen amerikanischen Volk unser tiefempfundenes Mitleid auszusprechen. These few words from one of the Berlin newspapers on November 24, 1963 are representative of the feelings expressed at Kennedy’s death.

Church. During the first part of our stay in Berlin, we attended church services with the German Branch in Dahlem. I served again as young men's president, and that gave me many opportunities to work with the German members. At that time the Berlin mission consisted only of the branches located in Berlin. It had been organized from the North German or Hamburg Mission. Before the wall was built, we were able to meet some of the stalwart members of the church in East Germany.

One family, that of Walter Krause, impressed me immensely with its dedication to the church. They used to bring their son out to live in the mission home so he would experience the freedom of the West and the spirituality of the church. We once invited the Krause family home to have ice cream with us. I asked him why he didn't just do what others had done and remain in the West. He responded that his calling was in the East where the church needed him. I thought of him often after the wall went up, and he was cut off.

Branch President. President Percy Fetzer, who was the mission president, called me to organize the first serviceman's branch in Berlin. I was displeased to think that we would no longer meet with the Germans, but I accepted the calling nonetheless. I was certain that without us the German branch would founder, and I didn’t know where we would get the American membership to have our own branch. Nevertheless, we flourished to the point that years later the serviceman's branch became a full-fledged ward.

The German branch went through a terrible period with terrible leadership provided by a missionary who should never have been on a mission in the first place. I regret this outburst of a judgment I am not entitled to make. But this man had gotten married after receiving his call. For some reason that I shall never comprehend, they sent him and his new wife on a mission anyway. As branch president, he had one counselor who was a thief and a cheat, who embezzled and robbed several members of the branch. He never obeyed the Word of Wisdom. His behavior wreaked general confusion among the members of the church. The missionary branch president and his wife had a child who later died. I presided at the funeral and spoke. It was a very sad affair. I understand that this same man later went off the deep end, left his wife and went into a rather strange relationship with the church. It is pretty difficult to fool the Lord.

The German branch eventually worked out its problems when the second counselor took over. Brother Dlugus became bishop when a Berlin Stake was organized. Once again, I was positive that this was a mistake. Where would the Stake get sufficient priesthood holders to run it? But both the ward and the stake have done well. This was another lesson for me. Do not second-guess the Lord on how he runs his church.

Berlin Part IV: Turbulence on the Ground

Bumping into an "Old Friend" Approximately six weeks after being detained at Rechlin-Lärz, we were on our way north to the city of Stralsund, where we had reservations in a local hotel. Inadvertently, we ran smack into an East German military exercise. The Germans, ever efficient, quickly captured us. For three hours I sat waiting for the Soviet commandant to arrive, while the East Germans kept an AK-47 automatic rifle held about six inches from my head. When the Soviet commandant arrived, it was the same guy who had presided during my previous detention. I complained about the way the Germans had held guns at our heads, and he quickly told them to disperse. When he first saw me, however, his face lit up, he smiled, and exclaimed in Russian, "Stariy Droog (Old Friend) what are you doing here?" Then in perfect German, which he had refused to speak during our last encounter, he asked, "Lieutenant, why are you always going to our airfields?" There was in fact an airfield in the area, Demmin-Tutow, but it was not on our target list. I explained that we were on our way to Stralsund, that this was the only way to go to avoid his mission restriction signs, and pointed out that according to the Hubner-Malinen Agreement that established the missions, I had every right to be where I was. He took note of what I said, dismissed the Germans again, and escorted us to our destination in Stralsund.

At this point in my life, I had no particular interest in making the Air Force my career. However, I loved what I was doing. Every trip into the so-called German Democratic Republic (GDR) resulted in the collection of a significant batch of intelligence. Often I would have more than ten rolls of Kodak black and white tri-x or plus-x film to be developed. Of course, it was also a great adventure. I was young and loved to match wits with the East German and Soviet security services. Ratz and I were brash and sometimes even brazen as we set out to fight our part of the war against the godless communists. At times, they won and I was captured and detained. But by and large, we won many times over and I was confident that they were no match.

There were many “incidents” during this period of  time. For example, a British Mission driver, Corporal Douglas Day, RAF was shot by East German border guards on the outskirts of Berlin. He lived, but lost his spleen and some toes.

General Clark and Marshall Koniev. Chief among the USMLM incidents, that I remember, was the shooting at Major William Schneider in March 1962, as he was observing and photographing a Soviet train containing SA-2 missile systems. His car was demolished, and there was a huge outcry from both sides. Somehow this all got caught up in the anti-US sentiment being promoted by East German authorities. Soon, the East German goons were tailing all our vehicles in contravention of the basic agreement that established the missions. At the end of the day the commander of the U.S. Army Europe, General Bruce Clark, met with the Commander of the Soviet Forces in Germany, Marshall Ivan Koniev (of World War II fame), and things went back to normal.

Clark and Koniev

I am fired. My assignment to USMLM came to an abrupt end in the late spring of 1963 under conditions that caused me enormous emotional turmoil. Lieutenant Colonel Gordon was transferred to Air Force Headquarters in Europe (largely because of his bad heart). A new boss, also a Lieutenant Colonel who shall remain nameless, was brought in. Instead of the devotion and dedication to duty I had experienced in Ben Gordon, this new man was an immoral lout, who cared only about how many women he could conquer. Our first trip together took us to Dresden, where we were to stay in the Wild Park Hotel. As it turned out, the day was Rosenmontag, one of the last days of the German holiday season called Fasching. The hotel was having a large and very successful celebration. In our American uniforms, we were an immediate hit. Everyone wanted to buy us drinks or for us to sit with them at their table. Women wanted to kiss us. The new boss simply exploited this opportunity and took a very young East German girl to bed. The next morning he appeared in the room I was sharing with Sergeant Krieg, a sometimes driver who was replacing Ratz on that trip, and said he had just put the girl in a taxi. I was shocked, but reasoned that things of that nature sometimes happened. Nonetheless, I was gravely concerned since all the security briefings I had been exposed to dealt with the issue of entrapment by communist authorities using young girls as bait.

This was not a one-time affair for the new boss. Instead, it seemed to consume him. It was all he cared to talk about. Sitting in an observation point, where we would monitor East German and Soviet flying programs, he would not shut up. This was an impossible situation; I was appalled by his behavior and deeply concerned about our security. Finally, I could stand no more and reported the man's activities to Colonel Gordon. Unbeknownst to me, Sergeant Ratz had made the same report. So, the two of us were called to headquarters to make a report. I remember with great clarity, being patted on the back and told that I had done the right thing. The accused had his pass allowing him to enter East Germany taken away, and I was advised to take a few days off. I grabbed a flight to Copenhagen. When I arrived back in Berlin, I was being paged at the airport. The Soviets were conducting a giant exercise, and every pass holder was expected to be out in East Germany. The accused had his pass back and was insisting that he tour only with me. For two days, I had to listen to his accusations of disloyalty.

A few days later, the new Director of Intelligence, named John Gibbons, from the headquarters came to Berlin. He hardly spoke with me. When he left, the accused told me that Ratz and I had both been fired, and I was being transferred to Frankfurt. I came unglued, as this was patently unfair. This time I went to the Army Chief of Mission and reported what had happened. The Army headquarters in Heidelberg now got involved. I received an order to report immediately to Air Force headquarters in Wiesbaden. When I did, I was ushered into the Director of Intelligence's office, forced to stand at attention, while Colonel Gibbons browbeat me about being disloyal to the Air Force. We did not, he emphasized, air our dirty linen before the Army. I was ordered to say nothing more about the incident. Interestingly, Gibbon was later promoted to general. Obviously, I didn’t care for the man. He had tried to protect his selection of the man, as well as the man himself. What he did deserved only disdain and punishment.

I fought the reassignment as best I could under the circumstances. I was, after all, only a lieutenant. However, by now enough people understood the injustice of the situation that my orders to Frankfurt were canceled, and I was allowed to remain in Berlin. Less than six weeks after this, the accused insulted a French officer's wife with some overt sexual advance. The French complained to the Berlin Commandant and within twenty-four hours this despicable person was shipped back to the United States.

This was my first real encounter with the politics of injustice. I felt the Air Force owed me a debt of gratitude for exposing the activities of this guy who, I believed, placed our operations at risk. We operated in a sensitive and hostile environment in East Germany; in my view there was no place for any activities, which could bring discredit on the United States. It seemed I was wrong.

Case Officer. For the remaining fifteen months of my tour of duty in Berlin, I became a case officer. In other words, I learned to direct the activities of spies operating in the East. My basic pseudonym was Otto C. Hawk. With this name, I signed all my reports. In addition, I had two other identities, with documents to match. One was Peter Lund and the other was Robert Johnson. In a short, and very informal, training course conducted in Frankfurt I learned the art of secret writing and various other skills associated with what was known as tradecraft. But in reality, it was not a very professional operation. I still lived in military housing on Argentinische Allee, used my military identification to get into the Post Exchange, and generally was recognized to be an air force officer.

I was able to reactivate a spy we had lost contact with when the Berlin Wall went up and had a couple of other minor successes. In general, however, this was a line for work for which I had little enthusiasm. The quality of information we were getting was extremely poor and hardly justified the investment. Then, too, we were just using and discarding people. The final straw came when I made contact with a sergeant in the East German Air Force who worked in a facility that set the frequencies for all East German radar. He agreed to defect, if we could find a way. Using his sister and her boyfriend, we made all the necessary contacts. The CIA approved the operation, but would lend no assistance. As a result, I had to make contact with a local Berliner who specialized in getting people out of the East. He modified a Volkswagen Karman Ghia so it could hide a passenger. He made the gas tank so it would only hold two liters and used the space saved to build a secret compartment. He said he wanted to test it once before using it for my man. It worked fine.
On the night we were to exfiltrate the East German, his sister and I were waiting in a rendezvous point expecting word of a successful operation. None came. Finally, violating all operational rules, we drove to Checkpoint Charlie and arrived just in time to see her brother being dragged off by the police. They had discovered him. Luckily, this was near the end of my tour and I was soon able to divorce myself from this ugly business. Lest I be judged naive for my dislike of this activity, I would note that I recognize its importance in the general scheme of things in the modern world, but it is still largely a business I find personally repugnant. Nevertheless, I understand the importance of the endeavor and admire those who do it well.