Six Days to Zeus: Berlin, Back to the Beginning

By Samuel Hill

"Just because you trust someone doesn't mean that person is trustworthy!" Berlin: Back to the Beginning takes a trip back in time to the Cold War, when Chief is thrust into the dark world of espionage and illicit agent networks. His initial assignment to Field Station Berlin, an NSA collection site, changes the trajectory of Chief's life foreve

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arc Angel Six
• Release date: Nov 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218306472

Book preview

Prologue

A shift in politics led to a shift of enormous proportions when Ronald Reagan became President of the United States in 1981.

Prior to Reagan becoming president, U.S. Intelligence Services were on the defensive, content with not rocking the boat in a surveillance and monitor only mode focused almost exclusively on post World War II Europe and the great Russian empire. Chief got into enormous trouble, while under severe stress and pressure working the illicit agent mission, by provoking operations based on KGB involvement in a car bomb attempt on his two boys.

They get to come over the Wall, blow shit up and then go back to sanctuary in the EAST? That’s bullshit. he complained to command elements who were stuck in the past, content with the old ways. Let’s go over there and find them where they sleep."

Chief was overheard by like minded individuals from an organization that didn’t officially exist. And that chance moment in time changed the trajectory of his life forever.

Reagan was looking for men and women who would bring the fight to Russia and topple the Soviet Union. His new administration was filled with like minded individuals and the operational status of U.S. intelligence changed drastically. Led by Reagan’s former campaign manager, William Casey was appointed as director of the CIA and was lock-stepped with Reagan on breaking the Soviets’ back. He created a powerful link between policy makers, armed forces, covert agencies and intelligence services and developed a small group of operatives only answerable to the President and the Secretary of State. Officially the organization didn’t exist. Unofficially, it was called The Deception Committee led by Bill Casey, with a direct link as director of the CIA to the President, any time of day or night.

To this day, although people know about the Deception Committee, the actual organization, architecture and unit structure still doesn’t exist. Never did. Because we served under the mantra, We were never there.

Everyone in the West thought Russia was a giant bear with incredible strength, power, financing and operational integrity far superior to reality. The only thing they had really, were nukes. Russia did everything in their power to project the facade of power and false narratives to embellish their position and keep the lies alive. In reality, they were a paper tiger. Most of the time, there was no fuel in the gas tanks of their vehicles and armor. The units stood at 30% manpower most of the time and even less during seasonal harvest time back in Russia. Over 50% of their GDP was spent on the Russian military. Their economy was crashing. And US intelligence knew it. Reagan pushed the cracks and the Wall came tumbling down. Literally.

There are times intelligence is critical to decision makers and the decision making process. Intelligence can be the golden nugget of information that proves or disproves enemy intent, capability and actions. Because after all, the core issue of intelligence operations is not just to expose truths and fallacies. All the information in the world is worthless when you can’t figure out your enemies’s motivations and intent. Both sides go to extensive lengths to prevent the other side from learning truths. Disinformation is an art form that blurs both truth and motivation behind a country’s true intentions, or a leader’s deceit.

Sometimes, especially within the dark world of covert operations and special access projects, the self licking ice cream cone syndrome deeply applies. We spend exorbitant amounts of time, manpower and money to complete a mission that is nothing more than self-indulgent exercises in futility. People get side tracked and enamored with the processes instead of the outcome, only to prove that it can be done. Nothing more. And it can be difficult at times to break the gerbil wheel and actually peel the onion to get to and understand the enemies’ motivation. Because intelligence processes can be bright and shiny in a very dark world. People get so mystified by the process, they miss the true focus, meaning and intention of the operation. And the result they so desperately seek becomes illusive. Even with the best intelligence available, it often times can be nearly impossible to get leadership to change course and make different decisions. You see, intelligence is a living and breathing organism that changes constantly. Just like humans. The decisions they make change, motivations change, intentions change and countries can end up going to war seemingly overnight. But true intelligence professionals spend a lot of time in the I told you so chair, reviewing history and wondering, What if. Especially when their entire career is wrapped around the process instead of the outcome.

Some operatives are in it for the excitement. The adrenaline can be addictive, being important in the overall scheme of world situations can be heady. Yet others in it for the fleeting glory, especially if they are able to preempt a war, or provide intelligence in a timely manner that truly has an effect on world situations. But others simply get caught up in the process and skew intelligence, motivated by their next career move.

The consequences of human subliminal programming and the outcome of our pre-ordained motives cannot be consciously predicted nor fathomed as we travel on this journey we call life. We are too close to the trees to be able to see the forest as a whole. But later on in life, when the noise stops, when one can take the time required to look in the mirror and see patterns and to connect the dots, is when clarity comes, bringing with it not only a new lens on life, but also answers to questions that we could not even formulate or ask during our younger years.

At a certain age, usually in our late sixties to mid seventies, every human ends up, or should end up at some point, pondering our lives. Most are looking back on their younger years, evaluating decisions they made and trying to find something to hold onto, something to hold up for others to see and say, See! I did something worth while! They are looking to prove that their life wasn’t meaningless. That somehow, they contributed to the greater good and did something worthy to help humanity. It’s a sad state when a human can only wonder, never having really done anything that affected the world in a positive way. They will die knowing they were oxygen thieves, inhaling and exhaling oxygen that good people could have used. And they will know in their last dying breath just how worthless they were. Consuming continually for their own comfort, their own survival having never known what true sacrifice felt like, nor the honor of giving of themselves for the benefit of others. Worthless and never missed by anyone.

For those men and women of Field Station Berlin, they will never have to ponder that question in those terms. Even if they don’t know specifically how their mission affected the world, had they not done their part in the professional manner in which they did their jobs, the world would have catastrophically ended by nuclear war long before this book was written. That is not hubris, nor an overstatement. It is my humble opinion based on my personal experiences at a time they called The height of the Cold War, when nuclear destruction was all but assured.

It still amazes me, as it does the civilian population who learn about the Field Station as time goes by and things are declassified and/or leaked, that 20 year old men and women were involved in things so important, so huge on the world stage, that the consequences of failure meant that global nuclear war was hanging in the balance. Although most of the work being done on The Hill was based on NSA collection and reporting requirements to higher echelons of leadership, the enormity of the job, the horrendous consequences of failure or even minor mistakes put us all into a pressure cooker environment that took a toll on our daily lives, our psyche and those of our fellow soldiers.

Some soldiers thrived in that environment. Others collapsed under the pressure and not only failed to thrive, they washed out and left the military, divorced from the job and their friends, to be excommunicated from the tribe. Others died. And whether due to brain immaturity at such a young age or by design, no one really had the consciousness to comprehend that the job had anything to do with the outcome. It was just normal.

Many times you could hear explosions at the Wall, sometimes sporadically, other times nightly from within Andrews Kaserne, the barracks that housed most of the T-Berg soldiers. Soldiers could be relaxing in their rooms, or sleeping soundly and be awakened by rifles and machine guns at night, only to read in the local paper the next day of the execution of East Germans trying to transit the Wall. To the East Germans and border guards, it was necessary to keep the State safe and free from the Western hordes. To us, it was murder and the sounds kept us in a state of hyper vigilance and keenly aware that just across the man made obstacle called The Wall, people were willing to die just to be free. Perpetual empathy for those who just happened to be in the wrong place when Soviet Occupation forces decided to block streets, board up windows of buildings and commence building the Wall, motivated the intelligence professionals at Teufelsberg on a primal level.

After all, the lexicon of bumper stickers is rife with sayings like, Better to die on your feet than to live on your knees. And Freedom isn’t free. And true democracy must be refreshed every so often with the blood of patriots. Yet our generation never had to sacrifice ourselves for freedom. Field Station Berlin was considered the Outpost of Freedom. And there are thousands of East Germans who knew full well they would never know the freedom America provided. But they believed in the concept so deeply, they were willing to support U.S. intelligence efforts, even if it meant they had to give their life. And they did so freely, with a smile on their face.

Those soldiers who failed to assimilate to the pressure of the job, were replaced. Those who thrived, moved deeper into the world of compartmented missions, eventually becoming divorced from everyone they knew and loved. The result, was isolation. There were no permanent relationships. No long term commitments to anything other than the mission! Period. If Uncle Sam wanted you to have friends, or long term relationships, he would issue them to you.

As with all things in the dark, sneaky world of covert operations, when something never happens because someone in the intelligence world pulled off a spectacular stop op, how does anyone ever know the worth of that action. When nothing happens in the world and everyone simply goes on with their life, how do they thank someone for what they did, for preventing a catastrophe that never happened. This is the Catch 22 of the intelligence world. And very soon after getting into the missions we prosecuted, it became very clear that if you were in it for the I love me stuff to put on your wall, if you were in it for thanks and glory, then you wouldn’t last long.

Intelligence is a thankless job, conducted by those who know the meaning of greater good. The sacrifices they endured went on long after mission completion. Even when no one else ever knows what transpired, nor the cost.

In retrospect, both were the case for Chief. No one knew what he did and no one could predict what it would cost him. Neither professionally, nor personally. His childhood programming and trauma set him on a path of subconscious self-fulfilling prophecies, all the while convincing himself that he was unworthy, unloveable and expendable, the outcome of which, to him, was fate. Sorting out which was programming and which was fate, didn’t matter until much later in life when the noise ceased and Chief consciously set himself on a path of healing and intentional living. And that was something he’d never done before. He’d never taken the time to turn off the noise, to contemplate the trajectory of his life, to find peace and solace in such a chaotic and never ending cycle of mission creep. And by the time he did, it was way late in the game and his trauma closet was full of demons and dragons. He left the intelligence services in late 2006 after starting his journey in 1976. And all of the in between stuff came to a head when he was laying in a body cast at Walter Reed, asking himself how he got there, paralyzed, homeless and very, very much alone in the world.

The epiphany came one day when Chief sat frustrated, chewing on his soul and watching the civilian society that he took an oath to protect and defend. Why were humans so selfish? Why was everything about them first, their neighbor next and the rest of the world last? To Chief, life was about selfless service. Life was about what you did to other people. But apparently, that lesson was lost on the very America he swore to defend. Chief realized he was different a long time prior to this day, but he never imagined his basic personality would be exploited by an enemy he couldn’t see.

There were givers and takers in the world. He knew that instinctively, all the way back to his primal days. But after 30 years of service and ten more years recovering from his injuries, numerous reconstructive surgeries and narcotic addictions, Chief realized that he’d spent his entire life doing for others when they couldn’t, or wouldn’t do for themselves. He truly believed in fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves, knowing full well what it felt like to be alone, in life threatening situations and realizing no one was coming to help. Just like the day his father shot him with the 12 gauge shotgun. There was no one in Chief’s corner. And as he got older and sunk deeper into the dark world of highly classified covert operations, he knew he was expendable. He was OK with that. Simply because it felt like it was his fate. He was destined to die for a cause he truly believed in, un-rewarded, un-noticed, un-named. Just like he was programmed all those years ago in the Catholic community he called home.

The nagging questions came later in life, when he was discharged as excess luggage, no longer fit for continued military service instead of being retired. Civilians who heard of him and heard the stories about him were the ones struck with and felt compelled to meet him, thank him for his service and try to a get more information about whatever it was that intrigued them. The concept was so foreign to a man who’d lived so long in the shadows, doing the mission instead of seeking glory or fame.

How did you end up doing what you ended up doing? How did you get into this field and how can my son get into something like that?

The question hit him like a freight train. He didn’t really have an answer. There really wasn’t a career progression outlined in the recruiter’s manual. Chief was the victim of his own making, seen by great leaders within the inner circle, baited, groomed, put into situations of greater importance and criticality until he either proved himself or washed out. And Chief was batting a thousand, right up until he lost his Team, his mind and his body. But the question hit him hard enough, for whatever reason, that he deemed it important enough to drill down on, spend time thinking it through and trying to find an answer.

The truth was, he didn’t know. There wasn’t a specific skill set, training or a career path that others could follow to bring them the same life. He didn’t have a clear cut answer on how he got into the things he got into, other than the right people at the right time had seen him and mentored him into decisions that led him on a path that very few had ever walked. In order for Chief to answer that question, that nagging mystery that hit him so hard, he would have to go back in history. Berlin: Back to the beginning is the story of when it all started at a super secret NSA collection facility 110 miles behind the Iron Curtain. It all started during the height of the Cold War, in a place called Field Station Berlin. And the consequence of failure was total nuclear annihilation.

Chapter 1

The Backstory

We were never there: The inside story of NSA- No Such Agency at Field Station Berlin: 1976-1989

How does a young man from such humble beginnings end up at the center of the Cold War, engaged in espionage activities of the Russian KGB, the renowned Soviet thugs of the East Bloc, the East German government State Security office or STASSI, and end up at the epicenter of one of the biggest breakthroughs of U.S. intelligence that eventually led to the fall of the Soviet Union and the collapse of the Berlin Wall?

Some say it was synchronicity. Others speculate that it’s Karma and still others remain steadfast in their belief that it is fate, the eventual triumph of good over evil. But even now, some 46 or so years after the fact, there are those who were deeply involved who still don’t have a clue what went on nor what their part in the Cold War was all about.

The Cold War, by definition, was all about the ideological differences between capitalism and communism, between subjugation and free markets, about distrust, lies, misinformation, espionage and jockeying for position by the United States and the only other super power at the time, the Soviet Union. They both engaged in games just short of open hostility and overt war that led humanity to the brink of total nuclear destruction by using covert war tactics.

Field Station Berlin, an NSA collection site, was built at the top of the rubble pile, making it highest point in all of Berlin. The Hill as it was also called, was built from the ruble of WWII, brought to the edge of a huge green forest and piled high. NSA’s collection site took advantage of the elevation by building a radio research facility on top of the cement blocks, bricks and steel rubble, forming a 394 foot tall mountain that provided line of sight all the way to Moscow. Located 110 miles behind the Iron Curtain, Teufelsberg, or devil’s mountain, was a thorn in the Soviet’s side for decades. Known for outstanding operational achievement, Field Station Berlin was a target of Soviet espionage, the great golden egg they needed to crack and the Soviet KGB and East German Stassi spent millions of dollars trying to exploit those who worked there, to expose what secrets the Allied forces gained from T-Berg. And to do that, they used the operational tactics they knew worked. Honey traps, the oldest profession in the world, was used with great skill along side espionage, blackmail, money and coercion to break down those who practiced the second oldest profession in the world, intelligence collection.

The words Special Compartmented Intelligence is difficult to explain to those who never worked in that realm. Indeed, after re-acquainting myself with some of those men and women who worked at a little known outpost of freedom called Field Station Berlin, there are those who completely understand the enormity of the mission, the seriousness of the life and death operations and the impact our work had on the entire world. Others still have no idea what we were really doing there. Some were so deeply involved, it broke their soul. Others were compartmented into a job that required them to come to work, sit Poz for eight hours collecting signals intelligence, and then went home. Although their job was Top Secret, it was compartmentalized down to a simple task. Listen, translate and report. They got to travel, see the city along with the rest of Europe and got to spend time with friends and family.

While others went on about their lives, traveling and enjoying Berlin, others had their heads down, seeking the gratification of putting it all together and understanding what the entire Field Station was doing. They spent untold numbers of hours on every shift, sifting through the minutia to make sense of the data, to fuse the intelligence together and send it back to the Puzzle Palace at Ft. Meade, Maryland in the hopes that their dedication and sacrifice would somehow mean something. By doing so, by dedicating their lives to the mission, they became divorced from all the other operators. And when their time was up, they simply disappeared from the scene to either PCS (permanently change station) to some other mission, or left the military without pomp or circumstance never to be seen or heard from again.

O5Hogs, the military occupational specialty name for a Morse Code Intercept Operator, were stationed on the upper floor of Subsystem Papa, with a single staircase to get to their Poz or position, a nick name for the work station they sat at to collect morse code. Their job was simple. Dial the frequency knob on a R390 radio set, (later a Watkins Johnson digital frequency hopper), listen on specific frequencies at specific times of the day and copy the code they heard. Which literally meant, listen for the dits and dahs, the dots and dashes as it were, then type the numbers or letters those dits and dahs corresponded to.

For some of the operators, it was purely a game for which they got paid. Even better, they got a room, called the barracks, to stay in at no cost and either ate on the economy, getting paid a monthly rate directly into their paycheck for living off post, or got free food at the mess hall after being issued a meal card. All of those perks and privileges were directly tied to their professionalism, which equated to their rank. Rank was tied to being recognized for dedication and diligence to the mission. Other times, rank came as the calendar clicked off and they had enough time in service to be promoted. Eventually, they left the barracks to live on the civilian economy and blend in with the locals. For their eight hour shift, that’s what they did. They simply typed what they heard onto paper, sometimes recorded the sked on a reel to reel tape machine, then handed it off to the traffic analysts on the first floor.

The DELTAS, or O5Ds, usually called Dogs, were also trained in morse code. But mostly for recognition purposes, not to copy full schedules. They didn’t really copy, or type down on paper what they heard because they had an intercom system between the second floor p0z where they sat, and the third floor where the Hogs intercepted and copied the code. All the dogs needed to do was make sure they had the same target at the same time the Hogs did. Their job then was to play magic with an oscilloscope and try to determine the azimuth the signal came from.

In short, there were several of these DF stations with oscilloscopes throughout Europe, from England to Italy, stretched the full length of the continent, that listened in on the exact same morse code at the exact same time and shot an azimuth from each of their locations. Using technical means, by coordinating those DF shots, the analysts could triangulate each DF shot from all those locations to determine where the signal originated. This was called Direction Finding or DF. Hence the Hogs did collection, the Dogs did DF and the analysts put it all together on the Collection and Reporting floor.

Further analysis of the data from the Ops floor, told them who that morse code belonged to with a scientific, wild ass guess or SWAG, that associated the originator to a specific Soviet or East German Army or Air Force unit. But for those who worked Subsystem Papa, the stakes were much higher. The targets they copied, the morse code they intercepted belonged to Russia’s top of the line assassins and military Special Operations personnel called Spetznaz. These were the highly trained, extremely patriotic forces of the Soviet military. The primary task of Spetznaz in life was to infiltrate NATO countries, do surveillance and coordinate for first strike operations. In other words, these were the guys who tried to decapitate enemy governments, destroy critical infrastructure and assassinate key government officials. They traveled to their target countries during peacetime to recon where they would be during war. The only difference was they were sleepers during peacetime, ready to blow up specific targets during the early days of the war. They intended to cause as much chaos and mayhem as possible to ensure a quick Soviet take down of the West. And they were good at what they did. Highly trained and feared by most countries.

Combined with the Illicit Agent mission of SSP, the targets they copied were some of the most dangerous humans on the planet. Especially at the height of the Cold War when the world held it’s breath wondering when nuclear war would break out. To say the job was stressful is an understatement. But the truth is, those who never put the dots together, those who never really knew what they were doing, lived a life in total denial, never understanding the severity of the danger, nor the concept that their lives were in danger every moment of the day from either all out war, or simply being assassinated by Russians.

Sure, Field Station Berlin, or Teufelsberg, was 110 miles inside Communist East Germany, inside the double wall of Berlin. But it was also behind the Iron Curtain that stretched the full length of Europe as well.

The Hill was a pile of rubble left over from the war that was stacked up as they cleaned streets and tried to rebuild the war torn city of Berlin at the end of World War II. At the end of the process, there was a pile of concrete and bricks that rose up 394 feet high, taking up more than five acres of land in the rich green forest called the Gruenewald or Green World. Which meant it was the highest terrain feature in all of Europe until you went further south to the mountains. With the technical capabilities of the equipment hidden behind the giant golf ball coverings at The Hill, T-Berg was considered the eyes and ears of U.S. Intelligence, a first warning site strategically located inside communist East Germany but completely protected inside West Berlin. And only the very best operators and analysts were stationed there.

That was their job, that’s what they did. They collected signals and reported them back to NSA at Ft. Meade, Maryland. For some of the operators, the rest of their time in Berlin was spent as tourists, sight seeing throughout the city, traveling to other countries when they had a break and enjoying the local food and culture. They never fully understood the implications of what they were doing. They were on the third floor, someone from the first floor came and took the papers off the rack they were sitting at and like a hamster on a wheel, that’s what they did all day. Listened to specific frequencies at specific times and typed the morse code they heard. Same with the D-Bay operators. They simply wrote down the reference numbers and gave their best guess as to where the signal originated. Sometimes they got it right. Other times they got a back azimuth, which meant their guess was 180 degrees off from what they thought it was, obvious ONLY by comparing their guess to the rest of the Dogs on the network, spanning from England to Italy. Back azimuths were pretty easy to see when six or seven DF sites posted azimuths in the same direction and one was 180 degrees off. Again, without getting into too much technical detail that might disclose classified techniques, the overall accuracy and success rates of the DF network were pretty high, giving the analysts confidence to file specific reports.

For the very few who worked on the first floor, the analyst floor, the hair stood up routinely on the back of their necks. When certain data came together, a flash precedence order was drafted to be sent out within one minute of reception to be on the President’s desk. Flash Traffic was a big deal and when it was generated, the world stopped. The standard operating procedures, or SOP, dictated that the incident be reported on and updated every fifteen minutes. Reporting only ceased when things returned to normal, or the incident became the new normal. In some cases, NSA dictated that the reporting cease.

Once such flash message, the name of the precendee, became emblazoned in everyone’s memory when it was turned into a CRITIC, a message of critical importance that stopped all other messages on the network to allow its unobstructed passage. President Reagan was on his way to deliver his famous, Tear down this Wall speech at the Berlin Wall. U.S. intelligence intercepted communications from a Soviet Air Defense missile battery just outside of Berlin with intentions of shooting down Air Force One. Flash messages covered everything from assassinations to bombings, to terrorist hijackings and other intelligence information that had an impact on operations and the world situation.

The U.S. State Department had delivered an advanced copy of the speech as a courtesy to Gorbachev and it spread like wildfire throughout the Communist hardliner network. The hardliners were already livid with Gorbachev for his perestroika and glastnos speeches, and they wanted nothing to do with it. Tensions were already high in the country because of Gorbachev’s proposed changes in Russia. His vision of expanding Soviet citizen freedoms under communist law and bringing innovation to a stagnant economy were completely misunderstood by the hard liners. And that misunderstanding led them to believe Gorbachev would end up destroying their Motherland. The hard liners saw him as a traitor and his vision as blasphemy. As a result, they wanted him dead.

As is the case with every book in the Six Days to Zeus series, this book is based on a true story. Only the details have been changed to comply with Pentagon Pre-Publication Security Review process and stay within the boundaries of Non-Disclosure Agreements the author signed with the U.S. Government.

Chapter 2

Dairy Queen

No one ever promised that life would be fair…nor amazing. It’s up to you to make it amazing! Life Lesson No. XXX

Sarah and Daniel Welsh were like so many other typical Wisconsin dairy farm couples. The dairy farm was a family operation, inherited from her great grand parents who immigrated from somewhere in Europe in the early 1900s. Sarah and Daniel were the third generation living and working on the farm, raising two boys and a girl. Sarah was the lifeline to the family. Born in the back room of the old, broken down house in 1959, storm damaged from decades of snow and wind mounted and the house needed to be torn down. Mom refused, being the product of the Great Depression years, and they got along by putting out pans when the roof leaked and hauling more firewood when the winters got cold. In order to keep the government and Child Protective Services out of their lives, they purchased a double wide trailer delivered to the property on a lease to buy option. And that’s where Sarah raised the kids while her mom and dad still lived in the old house.

The rest of their lives depended on milk production and the markets. To say they were barely getting by was an understatement. On this night, as usual, Daniel was in the pristine new milk house, a stainless steel, state of the art, automated dairy carousel that made a five hundred cow milking operation a breeze. She’d fought long and hard over at least five years to persuade her parents to upgrade. The new equipment was going to be expense and that was their only argument. But the farm was going broke anyway, they were all getting older, winters were wreaking havoc on their arthritic joints, their income was never the same due to market prices and the labor involved in milking several hundred cows by hand was taking a toll on their old bodies. It was beyond back breaking work, and to her, it just wasn’t worth doing anymore.

The outcome of her genius, her persistence and the eventual resignation by her family, was an operation that set the standard for milking farms throughout the state of Wisconsin. And Sarah was damn proud of it, even when no one gave her any credit. As usual, the fruits of her labor and persistence, left her stuck preg checking cows. And that meant that she was up to her armpits in bovine rectum, checking the uterus on nearly one hundred cows, by hand. There were all sorts of new technologies and automation in the barn subsidized by the Wisconsin Department of Agriculture. But when it came to pregnancy checks, there was no alternative to the manual process.

Dammit. Another one open she said with an exasperated sigh as she checked the numbers on the clip board while trying to dodge another deluge of semi-liquid feces hitting the floor in front of her. She knew, from a lifetime of working in the dairy industry, what all the vernacular meant. Being open meant that a cow wasn’t pregnant and therefore, wouldn’t produce milk. The only way to prove if a cow was pregnant or not, was to manipulate the uterus and determine if there was a fetus inside or not. And the only way to manipulate the uterus, was to go up the rectum and feel for the organ through the intestinal wall. And that meant putting a long, clear plastic glove on one hand and arm, lubing it up and penetrating the cow’s rectum up to her armpit.

The pain in her shoulders was almost too much to bare. Every night, it took several hours of ice packs to get the inflammation down and keep her rotator cuffs burning off. Then on her next shift, she’d use the other arm, usually taking a bath in cow urine while she stood on concrete floors in rubber boots, wearing a huge, heavy rubber apron. As she lubed the gloved arm again, preparing to examine the last cow on the list, a radio commercial caught her attention as she gazed through the parlor glass and watched Daniel.

Join the people who have joined the Army the voice said forebodingly as she listened to Danial whistling that tune he always whistled, swinging the automated suction machines into place, dipping udders in a mild Clorox solution while the cows nonchalantly ate small amounts of corn dust, relaxed, as if on vacation while they were milked in style.

That will be the damn day. she said to no one. She couldn’t image joining the military.

The stress level on the cows was very low now and production was through the roof. She was almost jealous of their demeanor. The new milking parlor was finally up and running with fully automated stalls, a carousel that transported cows on a rotary grate system, keeping them off the floor in a much cleaner environment. Now, all the cows had to do was wander into the parlor, get milked, go back outside, eat and then lay down for an hour plus chewing their cud. Milk production was up by an additional thirty thousand gallons, the cows seemed happy and Sarah had a sense of accomplishment after all the persistence and dedication it took to get the farm upgraded. It just seemed so damned unfair that she ended up with the literal shit job, while he reaped the benefits of her hard work and years of begging, pleading, in depth conversations with her parents about the cost and benefits of switching to modern technology. There was a down side to it all. A mountain of debt came with the upside. But at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel and in twenty five to thirty years, they would break even.

The divorce was finalized. She was sure they would share custody of the kids. The double wide trailer they brought onto the property was almost paid off and she smiled briefly as she thought about how overjoyed the kids were when they each got their own bedroom and how relieved they both were when they got their own space and moved out of their parents house. Things came to a head that night. He was drunk again and went on his nightly rant, telling her how much he wanted another baby. Come hell or high water, that wasn’t going to happen. She was way past her tolerance for his bullshit, knowing full well he wouldn’t step up to help. He’d end up doing what he always did. Go to town, get liquored up, stay out all night with some hussy and them come home to sleep while she took the kids to school and picked up the slack, milking the entire herd by herself.

If they could only both act like adults, maybe they could get past this mess they were in and eventually end up breaking through to black ink, instead of being consumed by the perpetual stress of being on the verge of bankruptcy. She didn’t have a crystal ball to be able to see into the future. Nor did she have a lens that could see the freight train coming. She was exhausted, the preg-checks were done and it was time to ice her shoulders, get a shower and head for bed. The children would be up again in a few hours. And the gerbil wheel she called her life would begin all over again way too soon.

What’s this? she asked Daniel as she walked into the kitchen. As usual, he was already eating dinner without waiting for her. Mom made dinner and kept a single plate in the oven for him. But there wasn’t one for her. And that just chaffed her even more. The subliminal indicators were becoming more and more aggressive. She was trying with all her might to keep the peace. After all, she’d lived on this dairy farm since birth, worked every single day since she could remember. He’d gotten her pregnant at 16, or at least that’s what she told her parents. In fact, she was four months from her 16th birthday when he was already 20 years old. She was pregnant again at age seventeen and again before she turned 19. Now, at age 32, she was worn out, tired and fed up with being treated like a second class farm hand.

Read it! He said sarcastically.

In the matter of Welsh v Welsh the court finds…. She damn near fell on the floor. What the hell were they thinking? Full custody granted to HIM?

Your folks decided it would be better if you left. The kids and I are staying. You gotta go. Get your shit and get out. Daniel said as he cleared the plate from the table, breaking the glass and plate as he tossed it