Back in the time of World War II, some German prisoners of war were brought to Mason County, Kentucky and placed in a work camp. They were sort of at the disposal of the citizens. If you needed work done, you simply "checked out" a few prisoners and they worked for you for the day. You just provided them with food and water and they were at your disposal.
Well, Russell "Fatty" Galbreath was never too big a fan of working himself, so this sounded like a good plan to get his farming done. He went down and got a group of the German prisoners to work on his farm. All morning they worked hard, each one doing far more work than Fatty could do. He was very pleased. At dinner time he brought them up to his back yard and served them a big meal of fried chicken and potatoes. They hadn't had a meal that good in a long time and they were very appreciative. When they finished eating, they were ready to get back to the afternoon work, but Fatty needed a little time to relax and let his huge lunch digest, so they all lounged around under a shade tree for a while.
Fatty's normal work clothes consisted a a pair of bib overhauls, usually with no shirt, and the cheapest shoes he could find. This particular day he had a pair of really cheap leather shoes on. He didn't have any laces in them because he couldn't get in position to tie them anyhow. As he lay relaxing he noticed a fine pair of boots one of the Germans was wearing. The German saw him looking and hiked up his pant leg to show the well worn, but still good looking military issue hobnails they referred to as "jack boots". The soldier looked over at Fatty's shoes and with sort of a half grin he pointed to them and said "Jewey", then he pointed to his own boots and said "No Jewey". Even though he was just a simple Wehrmacht soldier, he knew the Truth.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Language Barrier
Mike Devine and I sat in a bar in Copenhagen one night, enjoying a few bottles of Tuborg and our hard earned liberty. We sat and drank and smoked and shot the bull for a couple of hours and both of us started feeling some hunger pangs.
We had noticed a couple of the waitresses serving some sort of a meatball on a stick. Hadn't seen any other food being consumed in the joint, so we were both craving some of those "meatball things".
I went up to the bar to get a couple more beers and asked the bartender about the "meatball things". He made a puzzled face and said he spoke no English. We drank another couple of beers and I told Devine we were going to have to leave and find someplace to eat, because I was starving. He laughed and said he would order us some of the "meatball things". Said he had been paying attention to the Danish language our entire time in port and that I should have too, so I wouldn't, once again, appear to be the Ugly American.
He flagged down the nearest waitress and made a lot of gestures with his hands and then shouted "meatball things" at the top of his lungs. She jumped back and started to run, but a passerby laughed and spoke to her in her native tongue and she quickly went to the kitchen and brought us our snack.
Devine was very pleased with his mastery of the foreign language. I was pleasantly surprised with the flavor of the "meatball thing".
Another liberty stop was in Oslo. Mike Devine and I were once again out on the town and got hungry. We had tried a couple of restaurants over the past few days and usually met with disdain from the proprietors. They immediately figured us for ruffians and were very rude. So we were just mainly drinking beer in town and eating back aboard the ship. Well, anyhow, we came across a little mobile kitchen. Like the Roach Coach you see around industrial areas at lunchtime. We walked up and saw the menu board was in English. Cheeseburgers and fries! We were in hog heaven. We each ordered some good old American style food and proceeded to a little side bar that held the condiments. There was red and yellow. Not anything like ketchup or mustard, but they looked the part. Whatever, we were chowing down when Devine saw a little picture someone had scratched into the paint on the end of the food truck. Rather an obscene little drawing of a stick man and woman and underneath the words "do pic" were scratched.
Of course, old multi-lingual Devine decided "do pic" would be a good opening line when and if we met any girls. I had my doubts, but I was along for the ride, good or bad.
That evening, in a beer joint, Mike tried out his new opening line on one of the local lovelies. He may very well still have the red outline of that girl's hand on his face (and it happened 40 years ago). We may never know what "do pic" means, but I think it is better off left out of conversation with Norwegian women.
We had noticed a couple of the waitresses serving some sort of a meatball on a stick. Hadn't seen any other food being consumed in the joint, so we were both craving some of those "meatball things".
I went up to the bar to get a couple more beers and asked the bartender about the "meatball things". He made a puzzled face and said he spoke no English. We drank another couple of beers and I told Devine we were going to have to leave and find someplace to eat, because I was starving. He laughed and said he would order us some of the "meatball things". Said he had been paying attention to the Danish language our entire time in port and that I should have too, so I wouldn't, once again, appear to be the Ugly American.
He flagged down the nearest waitress and made a lot of gestures with his hands and then shouted "meatball things" at the top of his lungs. She jumped back and started to run, but a passerby laughed and spoke to her in her native tongue and she quickly went to the kitchen and brought us our snack.
Devine was very pleased with his mastery of the foreign language. I was pleasantly surprised with the flavor of the "meatball thing".
Another liberty stop was in Oslo. Mike Devine and I were once again out on the town and got hungry. We had tried a couple of restaurants over the past few days and usually met with disdain from the proprietors. They immediately figured us for ruffians and were very rude. So we were just mainly drinking beer in town and eating back aboard the ship. Well, anyhow, we came across a little mobile kitchen. Like the Roach Coach you see around industrial areas at lunchtime. We walked up and saw the menu board was in English. Cheeseburgers and fries! We were in hog heaven. We each ordered some good old American style food and proceeded to a little side bar that held the condiments. There was red and yellow. Not anything like ketchup or mustard, but they looked the part. Whatever, we were chowing down when Devine saw a little picture someone had scratched into the paint on the end of the food truck. Rather an obscene little drawing of a stick man and woman and underneath the words "do pic" were scratched.
Of course, old multi-lingual Devine decided "do pic" would be a good opening line when and if we met any girls. I had my doubts, but I was along for the ride, good or bad.
That evening, in a beer joint, Mike tried out his new opening line on one of the local lovelies. He may very well still have the red outline of that girl's hand on his face (and it happened 40 years ago). We may never know what "do pic" means, but I think it is better off left out of conversation with Norwegian women.
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