Konrad Adenauer still wasn’t calling it an army, but it sure looked like one to Gustav Hozzel. He, of course, was on the inside looking out. However much it looked like an army, it didn’t look like the old Wehrmacht. The men wore American olive drab, not Feldgrau. They wore U.S. rank badges on their sleeves, not German ones on shoulder straps. They still wore those U.S. helmets, too. Gustav did miss his old Stahlhelm, but not enough to risk getting caught by the Russians with one on his head. And they used American weapons, with a few British Sten guns and mortars mixed in. No matter what they looked like, most of them behaved as if the last war had ended week before last—or maybe as if it hadn’t ended at all. Some of the volunteers were kids who’d been too young to take on the Ivans before…although boys of twelve and thirteen had fought in Berlin. A far larger number were old Frontschweine, ready for another go at the Bolsheviks. The Germans didn’t enjoy the good, hard physical shape they’d had six or eight years before.
