SNAFU: A Night At the Opera

Note: Esteban Torres completes advanced electrical training in preparation for four-year assignment in Europe. A series of military foul-ups sees the youngster re-trained to blowing up old bridges and patrolling the brand-new Iron Curtain. Torres' love of cartooning lands him full-time assignment in elite Bavarian environs. Assigned to Intelligence School in Oberammergau, he draws propaganda manuals, a dream job. He's recruited to infiltrate Romania as a spy but the plan never gets off the ground. Like any soldier, Torres' duty comes with adventures and mishaps. The ex-soldier enjoyed telling how his plans for an elegant night at the Munich Opera's first post-war La Boheme turns into a night in jail.

 

Excerpt from Chapter Three, The Autobiography of Esteban Torres As Told to Michael Sedano

1949, Germany

My big let-down of no job, is a move up to a great job. The first months in my overseas assignment, I work mostly in a comfortable office drawing cartoons for the Army newsletter. 

 

I’m also assigned regular Constabulary duties. That means, for all intents and purposes, I’m la chota.

 

In Böblingen, this teenager fresh out of the East Los barrio struts around decked out in shiny black helmet with two gold stripes, spit-polished boots laced-up to the ankles with bloused trousers and Sam Browne belt. 

 

I am the occupation army’s constabulary with authority over 12,000 mostly good people. I carry a weapon and live rounds. Locals call me das Blitz-Politzei after the lightning bolt on our shoulder patch.

 

I’m approaching my twentieth birthday. Back in the United States I still can’t vote and in California, can’t go buy a drink in a civilian bar. I can’t live in Montebello--because I’m Mexican--no matter how old I am. No Chicanos need apply.

 

Joining the military straight out of high school might not be for everyone. You aren’t everyone. Neither am I. Enlisting in the Army was my choice in 1949. I would not do anything differently today. 

 

== 1951 == Torres is now a Staff Sergeant 

 

The boy who left L.A. is a man now. Other men follow his orders. The man from East Los disciplines as needed, keeps matters in the platoon, no need to go up the chain of command. Under my leadership, my men fit together, my men become a team, efficient, effective, in control of the mission. Nothing can shake our confidence.

 

I had to laugh when I thought about my confidence once I’d been in Germany long enough to know my way around. I thought I was unstoppable, except I stopped myself.

 

Not looking back has been a good way for me to keep my eyes on what’s headed my way. That Boy Scout motto, Be Prepared, has lifelong value. In fact, the one time I left myself unprepared it cost me dearly.

 

One of the streets in town was a tailor’s row. Imported yardage had found its way into the economy and the tailors stocked a lot of green wool material, perfect for a young GI with a sense of style to have a custom-made Class “A” uniform made to his specifications.

 

Vanity can be a good thing, when you’re young and do elaborate things that put you into the cultural swirl of things, like the Munich Opera. 

 

My grandmother played opera records on Sunday mornings while I lay on the floor reading the funny papers in the Examiner and La Opinion. I laughed at the Katzenjammer Kids while German opera played in the background. Then came the war against Germany and the Katzenjammer kids, and German opera, sounded different. 

 

After the war, German music came back to life, and although the Opera House had been bombed out, the Munich Opera was doing La Boheme on a rebuilt stage.

 

I planned the event of a lifetime. A fabulous dinner, the opera in my custom-made Class A United States Army uniform. My brass would shine and reflect candelabra lights as I strode up the stairs into the hall. The center of attention.

 

I never made it.

 

I checked into a first-class hotel to get myself ready for my big cultural night. A hot shower, fresh shave, ribbons and brass in place. My “bespoke” custom-made uniform made me look like a diamond.

 

I had just tied my spit-shined dress shoes when a firm knock focused my attention on the unlocked door. It opened and two MPs walked into my room like they paid the rent. I recognized their pugnacity from my days as a Constabulary patrol.

 

“Where’s your pass, Soldier?”

 

Pass. 

 

A detail I’d neglected, I wasn’t prepared. 

 

These MPs weren’t boy scouts and sure were not going to do a good turn daily, let me go to La Boheme, my plans went up in smoke. 

 

The MPs did their duty. I was escorted to jail and that’s where I spent my night at the Opera, all dressed up fancy in my tailor-made Class A uniform, locked up with the drunken GIs. I definitely was the most turned-out jailbird in Germany that night.

 

I had the Pass. My Commander approved my leave, the Company Clerk typed up the Pass and handed it to me. I put the Pass in my fatigue jacket pocket and left it there. My jacket and pass were waiting for me when I reported to the Captain. He laughed.

 

Leadership looks like a laughing man behind a desk and a relieved man on the other side of the desk. The Commander figured my punishment was the cost of the ticket to La Boheme, the price of the hotel room, and the taste of stale bread sandwiches instead of Sauerbraten, Rotkohl, Kartoffelkloesse, and all the trimmings of a fancy German banquet on an enlisted man's pay.