Escape from behind the Iron Curtain: the odyssey of a Lodge-Act SF soldier

There was no moon; the night was dark; and the hour was close to midnight. It was July 1, 1950, and I was in Linz, Austria, standing on the north shore of the Danube, one of the longest and most majestic rivers in Europe. The river was the last obstacle that I would have to overcome on my four-day, circuitous escape from behind the infamous "Iron Curtain."

Linz is divided by the Danube, and there was only one bridge, about one or two kilometers to the west of my position, that connected the two sides. The river served as a natural boundary between the Russian zone of occupation (to the north) and the American zone (to the south). (After World War II, Austria and Germany were divided into four zones: Russian, American, French and British.)

From my vantage point, the contrast between the Russian zone and the American zone was striking: The Russian zone was dark and dreary, with no sign of life. Across the river, the American zone was lit-up by streetlights and neon signs. Strains of Big Band music came drifting across the river. The friendly glow of the American zone reinforced my decision to leave communist-occupied Eastern Europe.

Crossing the Danube by the bridge was not an option. The bridge was heavily guarded by the Russians. There was no rowboat in sight that I could "borrow," so my decision was made for me: I would have to swim across.

This would not be my first time to swim the Danube. My home, Budapest, is also divided by the Danube. As a high-school track-and-field athlete, I routinely swam across the river so that I could save trolley fare while on my way to the sport/swim stadium on Margit Sziget's (Margaret Island) to practice.

In the darkness, I jerry-rigged a small raft using an empty gasoline can and some wood. I completed my preparations for the swim by securing my briefcase and my clothes to the raft. After taking one last look for any patrol boats, I entered the dark but "familiar" waters of the Danube.

Iron Curtain

Why was I placing myself in harm's way by attempting to escape from communism? To explain, I have to go back to 1945 and the end of World War II. The war had ended for us in Budapest in the spring of 1945. The Russians were occupying my birth country, and they had no plans of leaving soon. Hungary was isolated behind the Iron Curtain that extended across Europe. Moscow-trained members of the communist party had moved into all key positions of the Hungarian government. With their autocratic rule came restrictions on freedom of movement, as well as restrictions on freedoms of the press, free speech and education. For example, in assessing a person's qualifications for the pursuit of higher education, the government paid less attention to academic achievements than to political reliability. I did not fit the mold.

Around 1946 an American legation opened in Budapest. In the legation's information center, I could look at American magazines and books, and I could view American movies. As I compared American culture to that of communism, my desire to escape grew.

Here is another illustration of what motivated me to defect. My brother, who was 12 years my senior, served in the Hungarian army during World War II, and his unit operated on the Russian front. Near the end of the war, he and his unit, not wanting to be captured by the Russians, moved westward to meet the advancing Americans. My brother was taken prisoner by the Americans and was interned near Strasbourg, France. Being an officer, he was not required to perform any manual labor. For sustenance, the prisoners ate the "C" rations that the American GIs ate, but they received only half the daily ration given the GIs. When my brother returned home, he was so well-nourished (read "fat") that he could not fit into his old civilian clothes. The obvious benefits of his having fed on American food (we had very little food during the postwar years), along with his stories about the material abundance of his captors, convinced me that my future lay in America.

A year or two after my brother's return, our lackluster existence under communism only increased my conviction that I needed to defect as soon as possible. During that time, almost all of the citizens in eastern Europe listened to the Voice of America, or VOA. Even though it was illegal to listen to VOA, the station provided our only source of untainted information. One day, as I was listening to the station, I heard, to my amazement, that able-bodied men from Iron Curtain countries were eligible to join the U.S. Army. After completing five years of service, any of them who wished could become U.S. citizens and reside in the U.S. I cannot describe my excitement. The time had come to put my plan into action!

Fifteen months later, after crossing the Iron Curtain, I learned that the action by America was known as the "Lodge Act," because it was sponsored by then-Senator Henry Cabot Lodge Jr., who later became the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations. Officially, the Lodge Act was designated Public Law No. 597, 81st Congress.

My opportunity to defect had come a week or so before the night I swam the Danube in Linz. My school's track-and-field team, on which I was the javelin thrower, had traveled by train from Budapest to Prague, Czechoslovakia, where we competed in an athletic contest. When the games were over, I simply did not board the return train to Budapest with my teammates. Instead, I took a local train heading south, toward Austria.

Why escape from Czechoslovakia into Austria? During my planning, I had considered many escape routes. Probably the most obvious route would have been to cross from Hungary to Austria, but rumors had it that the Hungary-Austria border was fortified and heavily guarded. The Iron Curtain was strongest there, and not many escape attempts had been successful. Crossing from Czechoslovakia into Austria was not a popular route, because after crossing the border, one would still have been in the Russian zone and would have had to cross a formidable river, the Danube. However, after taking that fact into consideration, I reasoned that the Czechoslovakia-Austria border would not be as heavily guarded. As you shall see, my assumption was correct.

The small local train that I had taken from Prague was making slow but steady track going south toward Austria, and I relaxed. Big mistake! The border buffer zone, the so-called "no man's land," on my side of the border, extended deeper than I had been informed. I was expecting it to extend 5 kilometers from the border, and I had planned to get off the train at a small station before the buffer zone began. But the buffer extended 10 kilometers, and the train stopped short of my intended station. Before I could react, a pair of armed border guards came aboard at each end of the coach, in a pincers maneuver, and began to check each passenger's identification papers. Not having the proper permits, I shouldn't have been anywhere near the border, but there I was. I had a 9 mm Frommer automatic in my briefcase, but it would have been no match against the guards' submachine guns, even if I could have retrieved it from my bag. If I ran, I would be dead. If they searched me and found the gun, I would receive, at the very least, a long jail sentence, but most likely I would be shot on the spot. My only option was to stay cool and try to bluff my way out.

A young soldier, not much older than I, began questioning me. I showed him a piece of paper, which was legitimate but not an official document, stating that I was attending school. Along with that, I concocted a story about being on summer vacation and going to visit my grandmother who lived down the road. He let me go! To this day, I am convinced that the young soldier knew what I was up to. As quickly as I could, but trying not to appear too anxious, I left the train and disappeared behind some houses. I knew that if the guards called me back, I would not be as lucky a second time. The soldier had let me go, but I had to consider the possibility that he had alerted the other guards and that they would be looking for me at the border.

Leaving the small village behind, I headed south, but not in a straight line. Dusk was settling in, covering my 90-degree turns, zigzags and other maneuvers that I was using to confuse anyone who might be trying to follow me. In the distance, I could see my target: a tall pine forest where the border would be. I decided against attempting to cross that night: The guards could be on alert, and I wanted a full night to attempt my crossing. (I was right about the alert.)

I needed a hiding place for the night and the next day. Still walking across flat farmland, I was surprised to spot a faint light in a farmhouse about a half kilometer away. No one was supposed to be living in this no-man's land. I desperately needed information--I had changed directions many times from my intended track and had become disoriented, but more importantly, I needed intel about the border's location, condition, guards, etc. I would have to take a chance! I approached the house cautiously. The house was dark, but there was a light in the barn, where one man was working. To keep from alarming him, I called out gently for water.

I learned that he was alone; his wife and children were visiting someone. I started to concoct another story to explain my presence there, but he interrupted, saying that he knew all about me. The soldiers had come by earlier, looking for me. He said they would not be back that night. We sat outside, in the dark, and talked about school athletics. It turned out that, like me, he had been a javelin thrower. Incredible! Javelin-throwing is a complex sport, and we began discussing throwing techniques. I saw headlights in the distance and became nervous. He assured me that if the headlights turned toward his house I would have time to hide. He suggested that I sleep in a crawl space above the kitchen in his house. I was hesitant--there would be no way of escaping from there--but I accepted. I felt confident that no javelin thrower would rat on a fellow athlete. Human nature is totally predictable.

The next morning, the soldiers returned. They came into the kitchen, and although I was only inches above them, I remained undetected. It got very warm in that small space, and I was glad when it finally got dark enough for me to come down. Before I departed, the man gave me some information about the geographical features ahead. He had not been allowed near the border in years, but some of his land was there. I tried to give him money, but he wouldn't take it. We parted almost in tears, knowing that neither of us was out of danger. (After the Cold War ended, I attempted to find him, but without luck. So, my javelin-throwing friend, God bless you and your clan wherever you are.)

As I headed toward the forest, a tremendous thunderstorm broke. Again, what a lucky break! Rain was pouring, and the thunder and high winds masked any noise that I made. Still in open fields, I had to hit the mud every time lightning flashed, because my silhouette could have been seen from the woods. The going was slow, but within an hour, I had entered the forest. The storm was still raging, and I felt safer. Now I could spot any guards better than they could spot me. Between lightning flashes, it was pitch dark in the forest. I oriented myself by feeling for the moss growth on tree trunks. I found south by facing 180 degrees from the moss, looked for a reference spot up ahead and inched toward it, all the while looking out for guards.

I was making decent progress in crossing the forest, and the storm was beginning to let up, when I came to what looked like a firebreak. A cleared strip, between 50 and 100 meters wide, ran through the forest. Barbed wire ran down the center of the strip. About 200 meters to my right stood a watchtower. The tower appeared to be unoccupied, but there was no way of being sure.

There appeared to be breaks in the barbed wire, verifying my hunch that the border here would be less heavily fortified. I was overjoyed and thought it possible that this section might not even be guarded. Not taking anything for granted, I crawled on my belly, looking for mines, trip wires, booby traps, or electric fences. I found nothing but a poorly constructed barbed-wire fence. I eased through, making sure not to touch anything, and about 20 minutes later I was in the forest on the other side of the strip.

My javelin-thrower friend had informed me that the actual border would be a small stream running perpendicular to my south heading. I resumed my moss/180-degree orientation routine, and in five minutes, sure enough, I fell face-first into the stream. Cursing, but unhurt, I breathed easier. I estimated that I had covered between 5 and 7 kilometers since crossing the wire. To confirm that I was in Austria, I knocked on the door of the first farmhouse I came to and asked, in Czech, "Where am I?" A sleepy voice told me (in German) to get lost because Russian patrols would be coming by. I was in the Russian zone of Austria. I took off like a jackrabbit.

I needed a place to hide during the day, and I needed to dry out, too. I selected a gentle hillside that overlooked the road. The hill was covered by a growth of small pine trees about 4-5 feet high--a tree nursery. When I stood among the trees, only my head showed; when I lay down, I was completely hidden. As the sun rose, I undressed and laid out my clothes and my pistol to dry. Naked, I was cold in the chilly morning air. I curled up and was soon in a deep sleep.

In my stupor, I could hear cars passing on the road below. I had no interest in investigating. I was perfectly safe in my hiding place, and I did not want to compromise my position. By afternoon I was dry and warm, so I got dressed and was ready to move out. At dusk, I hit the road. Within a few kilometers I left the woods behind. I assumed a method of moving quickly that I had practiced many times as a Boy Scout: the "wolf trot." Using the method, one alternates between a walk and a jog and can cover a lot of ground in a short time without becoming overly tired.

It was dark, there was still no moon, and I was enjoying the exercise. I came to a small village whose road sign identified it as Zwettl. I was feeling smug about how well I had handled the first part of my escape, and my guard was down. I rounded the corner of the road and literally ran into a large wedding party. The whole village must have turned out for the occasion. A band was playing and people were dancing. When I appeared, everything came to a stop. People were looking at me with their eyes and mouths wide open. I definitely did not belong in that part of Austria. I realized my mistake, but I picked my way through the crowd, smiling and waving. It took me 10-15 seconds to make my way through the crowd, but it felt like it had taken an hour.

As soon as I was away from the crowd, I broke into a dash. At the first cornfield, I turned 90 degrees to the right. After repeating the maneuver three more times, I was back on my original course, but I had bypassed the village. Just after making my first 90-degree turn, I heard two motorbikes racing down the road I had just left. It was obvious that people were looking for me. I easily evaded the motorbikes, but I wanted to kick myself for letting my guard down and making my escape more complicated.

Having resumed my original heading and my wolf trot, I was able to cover a lot of ground. It was well past midnight when I picked up the scent of the river. There was not enough darkness left for me to attempt a crossing, so I would have to find another hiding place. For the past few hours I had been traveling through more densely populated areas, avoiding people and vehicles by moving strictly cross-country. I stopped at a point where the terrain began sloping down toward the Danube (the Duna in Hungarian). Looking at Linz down below, I could not miss the brightly lit American zone south of the river. I said to myself, "I am getting there!"

Soon I found a cemetery with a church on one side. I hid in some bushes near the church. When dawn came, I saw that my hiding place was no good--I was as exposed as a newborn baby. I could see a priest feeding some animals in a barn near the church. I got his attention and asked him if I could take shelter in the barn. He must have known what I was doing, but he agreed.

The Zwettl incident was still on my mind, and before I entered the barn, I surveyed the area for possible avenues of escape. I reasoned that the officials in Zwettl must have alerted the Russians, and I could not sleep because I expected a patrol to come by, Although I still had the 9 mm, the cartridges had gotten wet two days earlier during the storm, and I doubted whether they would work. I sat and talked with the priest, pumping him for information, and he gave me some good intel. There were no patrols, and the day dragged on. At 10 p.m., I bade the priest goodbye and headed out. In less than an hour, I was standing on the sandy shores of the Danube. (After the Russians ended their occupation of Austria, I revisited the priest to thank him for his help and to make a donation to his church.)

The general flow of the Danube is from west to east, but just east of Linz, the river makes an almost 90-degree turn to the south. The southward turn of the river causes the strength of the river's current to be concentrated on the north shore, where I was standing. When I dove in, I swam hard for some time, pulling and sometimes pushing my makeshift raft. But the current was very, strong, and when I looked back, I had barely gained a few meters. I was not concerned; I adjusted my drift angle to make the river work for me, and I kept on swimming. Not wanting to attract attention, I tried not to splash too much. Because I was low in the water, I did not waste time looking for patrol boats. Instead, I relied on sounds to warn me in good time if any patrol boats came. I thought that, in any event, no one would capture me this close to my destination. If there had been an encounter, I would have let go of the raft and evaded underwater. Halfway across the river, the current lessened, and I was able to make good progress. When I struck the beach on the south shore, I was more than 5 kilometers downstream from Linz. I was jubilant; I had finished a difficult trip. Now all I had to do was to walk back to Linz, contact the U.S. Army and begin serving my five-year enlistment. What naivete! I would not begin wearing an American Army uniform for another 15 months.

The Lodge Act

I began walking back to Linz but did not use the wolf trot this time: No one was after me, and I had plenty of time. I savored the moment: What a journey! What incredible luck! As I reached the narrow streets of Linz, I wondered how I should approach the Americans. Linz was jumping: Bars lined both sides of the street, and American GIs were everywhere. I was goggle-eyed, but I liked what I saw.

Regaining my composure, I flagged down the first military-police jeep that I saw. The MPs were surprised when I burst into my rehearsed story. Frequently thumbing through my waterlogged dictionary, I explained in broken English that I had just swum the Danube and was now ready to join the U.S. Army. The MPs looked at me with disbelief. They must have been thinking, "who is this nut?" I learned later that most GIs then were draftees who wanted to get out, not in.

As I repeated my story, it must have begun to make sense to the MPs, and they began asking me questions. I did not fully understand their questions, but I understood some of the words--at least I thought I did. They kept asking, "Have you been to CIC?" The words that I thought I understood were "See I see."

The American acronym caused mutual confusion. Knowing that one who joined any army had to be in good physical condition, which I was, I thought that perhaps the U.S. Army had additional requirements regarding eyesight. So I kept insisting that I had 20/20 vision. In fact, CIC stood for the U.S. Army's Counter Intelligence Corps, and the MP's were doing their job by directing me, a newly arrived refugee, to the most likely starting point. My reply to the MPs' questions made no sense to them, and they gave up trying to communicate with me. Instead, they bought me sandwiches and ice cream and drove me to the CIC billets. It was the Fourth of July weekend, and at CIC there was only one person on duty: the lonely guy who had CQ duty. Everyone else was gone for the weekend. I was invited to stay and wait for the staff to return.

When the CIC staff returned, I thought, "Finally I have the opportunity to tell them I am here to join the Army." But the staff had never heard of such a thing. My hopes were dashed. On the other hand, the staff began asking me all kinds of questions about my escape and about the conditions of everyday life in Budapest. They were gathering intelligence, and they kept me there for the next day or two. They were confused about the route that I had taken across the Russian zone; I had to show them where Zwettl was. They were all dressed in civilian clothes, and I couldn't tell whether they were in the Army, but I knew they needed training in map-reading.

After they had pumped me dry of information, the CIC people let me go. I was no better off than I had been three days before! One of the men from CIC suggested that I go to the 7th Army Headquarters in Heidelberg, Germany, where someone might know about "my" program. I asked for assistance in getting to Heidelberg, but they said they could not (or would not) help me. I was disillusioned.

I calculated that if I could get to Salzburg, on the Austria-Germany border, it might be easier to get to Heidelberg, because the German autobahn ran from Salzburg to Heidelberg. But the distance from Linz to Salzburg was 124 kilometers--a long walk. How would I get there? I did not want to spend the little money that I had, but I went to the railroad station. Once there, I observed that two conductors worked each train, boarding at each end and working toward the center. I reasoned that if I were to stand in the center, each conductor might think that the other had checked my ticket. The trick worked. Soon I was in Salzburg (the birthplace of Wolfgang A. Mozart), a lovely little town hardly damaged by the war. But I had no time to enjoy it; I had a date with the U.S. Army in Heidelberg.

Another river, the Salzach, forms the border between Austria and Germany. After successfully crossing the Danube, a much larger river, I thought the Salzach would be easy. But the river, carrying snowmelt from the Alps, was ice-cold, and its waters were fast-flowing. Although the water was only hip-deep, when I tried to wade across, the current knocked me down. I could not swim across, because the riverbed was extremely rocky, and a collision with any of the big boulders sticking up would have caused serious injury. I saw the autobahn bridge downstream, so I headed to it. As I walked across it, a man in some sort of uniform began yelling at me in German. I was confused: I was only going from one part of the American zone to another. What could be wrong? Unbeknownst to me, the prewar borders had been reinstated and were being guarded.

The man in uniform asked if I had any cigarettes or coffee, and not realizing what he was after, I told him that I did not use tobacco or coffee--both were in short supply where I had come from. I explained that I was going to Heidelberg to join the American Army, and that if there was a problem, I wanted to talk to the Americans. He assured me that that I would be allowed to talk to the Americans if I would go with him to Berchtesgaden, a few kilometers away. He explained that because it was Sunday, he wouldn't be able to get the Americans to come until the next day, Monday, but that he had a place for me to stay overnight. It was all very civil. While we were walking to Berchtesgaden, I had a number of opportunities to run away, but my mental guard was down again.

The next thing I knew, I was in jail! I was furious, but the guards calmed me by saying that the Americans would be there the next day. It was a lie. I learned that I was being charged with illegally crossing the border and with smuggling. The punishment would be three months in jail. I was ready to kill someone. I kept insisting that I be allowed to speak with the Americans, but none came.

On Wednesday, I threw a chair against the cell door, demanding that I be allowed to see the Americans. Within an hour, two MPs showed up, and I told them (using now well-rehearsed and more understandable English) why I was there. The MPs wanted to help, but the Germans said that I would have to go before a judge to resolve the issue. In the courtroom, the German judge read the charges and asked me in which court I wished to plead my case: German or American. I shouted, "American," and with that, I was handed over to the MPs. The MPs drove me to an Army motor pool and put me on the first truck headed for Munich.

In Munich, still not in the Army and now in another strange city, I looked for the American Information Center. Even there, no one had heard of the enlistment program. I was beginning to doubt myself: Had I heard it right? However, the staff at the Information Center was able to provide me with other important information, and they made two useful suggestions: that I get a German identification card, and that I get an address to which official notification could be mailed. (I still have the German ID card. In fact, I later used it during escape-and-evasion field exercises in Germany when I was serving with the 10th Special Forces Group.)

Once again, I hit the road, this time to get an ID. My destination was Heidelberg, via Nurnberg. This time my mode of transportation was any motorized vehicle driven by someone who would give me a ride. When I reached Heidelberg, I went to the 7th Army Headquarters; there, no one had heard of the enlistment program either. I returned to Munich.

For the next several months, my life was strictly a matter of survival. I worked odd jobs for a few German marks so that I could buy food and shelter. I frequently visited the American Information Canter, where I studied English. In March 1951 I made a routine visit to an Army post in Munich. To my amazement and relief, one of the clerk typists had heard about the program. He told me that it had been introduced as the Lodge Act, but that it had been passed as law. I asked him to type an application for me, but he had no specific forms to use. Not letting him give up, I insisted that he improvise, using a standard form and adding Lodge Act-specific information. He then put the doctored-up application into Army channels for processing.

It was summer before I received a notification to report to another Army post in Munich for testing. My knowledge of English had increased. By the time I reported for testing, I had memorized more than 2,000 English words. Even though I recognized the words and knew their meanings, I could not pronounce most of them. The test, I learned later, was the same one given to applicants for Officer Candidate School--it was not Iron Curtain refugee-friendly. The test was difficult; even though I had done well with the math and science questions, I had a bad feeling when I turned the test in. I did not think that I had passed!

While waiting for my test results, I stayed at the post to help out with the testing program, getting food in exchange for working. Each group that reported for testing consisted of 50-60 applicants, and all of them had difficulty with the test. In September 1951, I received my "marching" orders: I had passed the test and was to report to Sonthofen, Germany, for induction into the U.S. Army. I was elated! When I arrived for induction, I saw only eight or 10 of the applicants with whom I had taken the test. I did not think that the program was achieving its intended purpose.

During the first week of October 1951, I was sworn in. After more than a year of overcoming major obstacles, I was a member of the U.S. Army. The Lodge Act enlistees were slowly gathering, and in November, when our number reached 50, we embarked for the U.S. by ship. I must have been the first one to spot the Statue of Liberty on that foggy November evening when we sailed into the New York Army Terminal in Brooklyn. My persistence had paid off. The Lodge boys went to Camp Kilmer, N.J., where, after taking more tests (this time full of Army terminology), we were divided into two groups. Those with high scores were sent directly to basic training at Fort Dix, N.J. The others were sent to Fort Devens, Mass., to learn more English. I was sent to Fort Dix.

Our 16 weeks of basic training were eventful, but not unusual in terms of Army routine. My English was improving rapidly. I had an American friend (and still have) who helped me. The Lodge boys were integrated with regular troops--we received no special treatment or allowances. At the end of basic training, I received orders, along with about 10 other Lodge boys, to report to the Psychological Warfare Center at Fort Bragg, N.C. I had no idea what my assignment was about. There was no mention of Special Forces, and no hint of things to come. I was enjoying my new life.

The 10th SF Group

Life at the Psywar Center wasn't what I wanted for my next five years of Army service, for a number of reasons. First and foremost, the unit designation--psychological warfare--had an unsavory connotation for me, because of my experience while living in Eastern Europe. I saw psywar as another form of propaganda, and I had already had a bellyful of that. Granted, I was now on the right side of the Iron Curtain, where the reasons for conducting propaganda were more noble, but the principles remained the same.

Second, I was not doing anything constructive. The unit seemed to be disorganized. We had no formalized training and no classroom studies, and we did nothing but boring housekeeping duties. We were constantly sweeping, mopping and waxing floors--sometimes three or four times a day (I became an expert at using buffing machines). There were many draftees who were doing the same tasks that the Lodge boys were doing. The draftees also operated duplicating and recording machines and typed. As I recall, the Lodge boys and the draftees didn't mix well, militarily speaking. Our objectives were completely opposite. I knew that I had more to offer the Army and the U.S. than my skill at mopping floors! But I was stymied by not knowing what other assignments were available to me or how I could go about getting them.

My doldrums continued until one morning in the spring of 1952, when all of the enlisted men of the Psywar Center were ordered to report to a meeting in the small post theater on Smoke Bomb Hill. Once again, it was a moment that would drastically change my life.

At the theater, Colonel Aaron Bank stood onstage and addressed the group of enlisted men, which contained mostly draftees and about a dozen Lodge boys. The essence of his short presentation was that he was forming a new, elite unit. Anyone coming into the unit would have to be a double volunteer: first, for the unit itself; and second, for paratroop training. Colonel Bank made no direct mention of Special Forces. He emphasized the paratroopers' privilege of wearing their trouser legs tucked into their jump boots. About that time, all the draftees walked out, wanting no part of such "crazy" schemes. Fewer than 10 Lodge boys stayed. To this day, I am very proud that I was among those who remained and volunteered.

I was intrigued by the uniforms, but I had no illusions that we would do nothing but parade around in jump boots! There had still been no mention of Special Forces or any word about operating behind enemy lines or in civilian clothes. To me, none of that would have made any difference. Despite the Army adage, "Never volunteer," I was anxious to sign up. Recognizing the far-reaching implications of Colonel Bank's comments and reading between the lines, I saw a great opportunity for returning to Hungary and settling some old political and personal scores.

Colonel Bank made no reference to any other prerequisites for becoming part of his special unit, and we Lodge boys took it for granted that he was after our language talents and indigenous backgrounds. He had access to our records, so he must have known that only a few of us had previous military experience. Of the Lodge boys who remained in the theater, only one or two had military experience; the others, like me, had been students. We had completed our infantry basic, but that was really basic compared to what was to come. But despite our lack of combat or military experience, all the Lodge boys had one thing in common: a knack for survival. We had survived World War II and all the postwar hardships, and we had made our way out of Eastern Europe. We possessed a skill that was hard to duplicate through training, and it would be a very useful skill in the operations that Colonel Bank foresaw.

In hindsight, it seems obvious that Colonel Bank was faced with a problem. In Europe, the Cold War was simmering, and it could have erupted into World War III at any moment. Bank had organized his elite unit (on paper) around language specialists. Without language specialists, he could not send any group of U.S. Army soldiers behind enemy lines to work. But in one brilliant move, he had solved his problem by coming to the Psy-war Center and recruiting the Lodge boys for his yet-unformed unit. The Lodge boys were a crucial factor in his efforts.

I was now in Special Forces at Smoke Bomb Hill, and what was I doing? Sweeping, mopping and waxing floors, and scrubbing latrines--in general, about the same things I had done before, except that the motivation was different. Now it was for SF, and the work detail did not seem as disagreeable as it had before. Our mission was to get a row of barracks ready for use by incoming SF troops. We, the initial troops, had nothing to move into, and within days, more and more enlisted men and officers would be coming in to assume their duties. Hence a sense of urgency prevailed.

Built during World War II, the barracks had not been used since the end of the war. One day, as I was scrubbing seven years of caked-on yellow deposits from toilet bowls, a towering figure of a soldier came to give me a helping hand. His name was Lieutenant Colonel Shannon. I had never seen a lieutenant colonel up close before, let alone one scrubbing toilet bowls. That was the SF spirit then.

Our priority soon shifted from cleaning to getting much-needed supplies--from paper clips to pistols, and everything in between. I am sure that we requisitioned most of those items through the proper channels, but there were times when we cut corners and secured equipment through less-than-official means.

Normalcy was slowly coming to SF. We were organized into a military unit, and one of the first orders of military business was physical training, or PT. The training was intense. The unit administered PT tests, and everybody had to pass. I loved it! All my life I had worked to stay in good physical condition, and this was just an extension of that, with a real purpose. It felt good to pass the PT test with a high score. NCOs with specialty MOSs--demolitions, radio, medical and weapons--began forming groups, writing lesson plans and tests, and trying out training procedures on all the enlisted men and officers present. The Lodge boys received no favors, nor did we ask for any. We all had to qualify to SF standards. In addition to earning my foreign-language MOS, I earned a demolitions MOS, and I later earned MOSs in both light and heavy weapons.

Initially, except in PT and in map- and compass-reading, I felt inadequate among the incoming volunteer NCOs. They all had specialties and 10-15 years of service. At that point, I had eight months of service and no specialty. I spent many hours studying the new subjects, and I had to soldier hard to keep up with the NCOs.

One day the soldiers were heading out to make parachute jumps in order to meet their jump-pay requirements. To their surprise, they found out that I wasn't jump-qualified. I said, "It's O.K., I'll go with you and you will show me what to do!" Well, of course, that would not do. Shortly afterward, all of us SF Lodge boys were on our way to jump school at Fort Benning, Ga. I did not find jump school to be very difficult, and the four weeks of training there were almost like a vacation.

By the end of September 1952, I had graduated from jump school and was headed back to Fort Bragg. I returned to a beehive of activity: The SF school was in full swing; training was more formalized; and we were cross-training on all SF specialties. I was finally a fully qualified member of Special Forces.

Closure

More than 50 years have passed since the formation of SF. Looking back to that time, I have experienced the same problem as anyone else who has tried to recall the past: Time either dims or highlights events that happened long ago. I have attempted not to let that problem taint my chronicle. I have tried to keep my story short and to the point. Anyone who is familiar with SF history knows that there are hundreds of side stories that one can read between the lines. My intent was not to rewrite SF history, but to show, through my own experiences, what motivated the Lodge boys, the beginnings of Special Forces, and the role that the Lodge boys played in those beginnings. In this, I hope that I have succeeded, and I am grateful for the reader's indulgence.

The Lodge Act

After the defeat of Nazi Germany in 1945, postwar Europe faced the daunting task of rebuilding its shattered cities and restoring the ruined economies of the nations that had been occupied by the Third Reich. Among the many difficulties was that of "displaced" or "stateless" persons--those people who had either been forcibly removed from their homes to serve as forced labor in Germany or who had fled the countries of Eastern Europe ahead of the Red Army.

These displaced persons were effectively homeless in Western Europe. Their number--nearly 14 million--represented a huge problem for the rebuilding nations of Western Europe and the United States in terms of food, housing and jobs. The U.S. and Western European nations tried numerous programs designed to assimilate the displaced population, including one that offered enlistment in the U.S. Army.

In 1950, Senator Henry Cabot Lodge Jr., the Republican senator from Massachusetts, authored Public Law 597 as a means of incorporating select members of the displaced population into the U.S. Army. Popularly called the "Lodge Act," Public Law 597 offered the opportunity to apply for U.S. citizenship in return for five years of enlisted service in the U.S. Army. Passed by the 81st Congress in June 1950, the "alien enlistment program" received its first enlistees at the 7720th Replacement Depot at Sonthofen, Germany, in 1951.

The Lodge Act did not bring in the flood of combat veterans that the Army had envisioned. Problems in advertising the program, as well as bureaucratic mismanagement, curtailed the number of enlistees. While the actual number of Lodge Act inductees is the subject of some debate, fewer than 400 from the pool of 2,336 candidates eventually completed basic training at Fort Dix, N.J., in the 1950s. Of these, several dozen found their way into the 10th Special Forces Group at Fort Bragg and subsequently deployed with the 10th under Colonel Aaron Bank to Bad Tolz, Germany, in 1953.

Lodge had envisioned the program as the initial step toward eventually replacing a significant percentage of the U.S. Army in Europe with units of a "Volunteer Freedom Corps"--trained battalions composed of displaced Europeans. The concept of the Volunteer Freedom Corps lived on in a tenuous fashion until nearly 1960, when the U.S. finally abandoned the idea in the face of opposition from the European nations.--Dr. Kenn Finlayson, USAJFKSWCS historian

Rudolf G. Horvath was a member of the first iteration of the 10th SF Group to deploy to Bad Tolz, Germany, in November 1953. In addition to performing his assigned duties at Bad Tolz, he taught skiing to the other 10th Group soldiers. He served the remainder of his five-year enlistment at Bad Tolz and was discharged, as a sergeant, in October 1956. Granted his U.S. citizenship in February 1957, he began attending college part-time and working fulltime. After 12 years, he received his bachelor's degree in mechanical engineering from the City College of New York in 1969. Licensed as a professional engineer by the state of New Jersey, he worked as a mechanical engineer for more than 30 years before his retirement. He is a licensed pilot (multi-engine rating) and, at age 71, remains an avid downhill skier.

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