A couple of hours after our border incident, our little caravan came across a truck stop. I felt a little out of it, but Frank, a Brit to the end, cheerfully announced as we pulled into the parking lot: “Time for tea and sandwiches!” He, of course, appeared to be just fine, but I knew he was still hurting, too. Introducing ourselves to everyone in the café, we told our tale of the border crossing. As we finished, everyone clapped and we took a bow. Frank later told David Gray that, more than likely, his book had been confiscated to embellish the story of the guards drinking with two crazy Englishmen. I was just happy that we were still in Germany.

After lunch, Frank jumped into the driver’s seat of the truck again and David decided he wanted to drive the motor home. A few miles later, David spotted a huge military tank on the side of the road with a US soldier flagging us down. Happy to see us, the soldier told us the tank had broken down.

“Can you give me a ride to the base?” he asked. “It’s about 10 miles down the road.” We all looked at each other and told him to “jump in.” Introducing ourselves, we told the soldier we were touring with Lou Reed. He started laughing and we asked him, “What is a tank doing here on the highway?”

“Ah,” he said, “The rest of the guys went on ahead when the tank broke down. That was 30 minutes ago, and they haven’t returned. I’m on maneuvers and I’m impatient. Knowing those guys, they probably continued with their maneuvers. Or they just forgot and headed to the canteen. So here I am. I figured if I locked up the tank, immobilizing it, I’d find someone to take me back.”

In certain parts of Germany in 1973, the highway breakdown lane was also the Army or tank lane, so leaving a tank there worked for them. Seemed a little bizarre to us, seeing a tank by the side of the road, but, well, who were we to question? I noticed that the soldier was holding what looked like a fuel line that was attached to a brass valve of some kind.

“Hey,” I asked, “Is that a line you took out to immobilize the tank? We generally take out the distributor cap.”

“No,” he said, smiling, “It’s not part of the tank.” Unscrewing one end of the line from the block, he asked, “Would you like a puff? It’s full of hash.” None of us could believe it but, sure enough, the brass fixture with the line coming out of it was filled with hash. Everyone except David had a toke. And then another. And yet another. Soon came the obvious next question: “Is there any more where that came from?”

“Could be,” he said, smiling.

By the time we arrived at the main gate of the base, we were pretty happy. The soldier jumped out of the motor home and talked with the guard, who lifted the barrier as the soldier jumped back in the vehicle. “David,” he said, “just drive straight ahead on this road for a bit.”

We hadn’t gone a hundred yards when David slammed on the brakes, and Reed’s stage roadie fell out of the top bunk. Picking himself up off the floor, he started flipping out, pointing out the front window. Passing right in front of the motor home was a convoy of West German tanks speeding from one side of the road to the other. David, aghast, said, “What the fuck’s happening?”

“Oh that,” the soldier replied, “Just base maneuvers for the German tank force.” Just then, one of the tanks, traveling across the road at high speed, turned its big gun on us. We all hit the floor, as if that would have helped, except the solider, who just laughed at us. As we sheepishly got up from the floor, David climbed back into the driving seat. Looking around, the tanks were gone. No noise. No dust. Nothing. Nada. It was as if this had been a communal dream; those tanks had gone as quickly as they had come.

Continuing to the US barracks, we finally stopped outside one long building. Jumping out of the motor home, the soldier said, “I’ll be right back. Wait here. If anyone asks, just tell ’em a tank broke down and you’re helping the gunner.”

Within minutes, the soldier was back with a sergeant, who thanked us for bringing the gunner back to base. “He woulda been out there on the motorway until late night,” he said. “And we wouldn’t have got the tank back until later. Thanks!”

As an MP’s jeep pulled up and started talking to the sergeant, the soldier said he would lead us off base after a quick trip to the barracks. Within a few minutes, a huge semi-truck with a flat-bed and a huge winch on the back pulled up to the jeep. The driver got out and began chatting with the MPs and sergeant. Soon, the once stranded gunner returned, now sporting a heavy jacket and drinking a cola. He stopped and talked with everyone before coming over to our motor home. As he entered the motor home, his sergeant was right behind him.

“Hey, guys, thanks for the lift,” he said as he pulled his hand out of his jacket pocket. Shaking my hand, he surreptitiously palmed me a large chunk of hash. “Good traveling to all of you!”

Soon we were past the gate and back on the autobahn, heading for Copenhagen. It’s one thing to drink our way into Germany and play war games with the Army, but now we were heading for the Danish border with a huge chunk of hash and no pipe. No one was interested in eating, so it was time for a soda can pipe. And yes, we did finish that chunk and dispose of the can before we hit the next border. And, yes, it was good traveling for all of us.

Read more articles from My Life Is the Road:

Part I: Rock ‘n’ Roll Animals in Europe, ‘73

Andy Topeka: The Rolling Stones Technician

Part III: Dawson and the Legendary Gig Wagon Races