Foreign Service life in Copenhagen: Like something from a fairy tale

Part 4: Take the long way home ...

Last time out, I recounted our travels across Europe while in Copenhagen from 1985 to 1987, and the existential crisis I encountered during my posting as general services officer at the U.S. embassy there. In short, being a GSO is not recommended for the fainthearted—or with anyone possessing low tolerance for fools, as my father would have put it—and is not a job I would wish on anyone (except a few lazy officers who never seemed to have lifted a finger to change a light bulb before or after entering the Foreign Service). Even in a paradise like Copenhagen, officers—or their spouses—found a heck of a lot to complain about, mostly about their (free) housing, with whom some were eternally dissatisfied.

My primary job as GSO was to resolve all complaints as quickly and effectively as possible; thank goodness I had a remarkable staff, who did most of the legwork efficiently. The legitimate issues I understood—no one needs a broken water pipe or malfunctioning refrigerator in a US government-owned house (we owned perhaps half a dozen residences, including the Ambassador’s rambling mansion north of the city)—but some issues took longer to resolve than others. Headaches were a’plenty—and patience, sadly, was not in the DNA of some senior officers, whether civilian or military, or their spouses (the Embassy housed a very large military attache’s office, with a staffer who handled some issues). My immediate predecessor had curtailed (transferred out) early—I soon understood why she left. My job was informally considered hard-to-fill, requiring a language-trained but relatively junior officer, even though part of the job description was to serve as acting administrative section chief in my boss Larry’s absence. (I soon learned never to ask his secretary for any assistance—a beautiful Danish woman who looked like a fashion model, and quickly and roundly disabused me of any illusions about her willingness to perform any clerical work for anyone except Larry.)

In my opinion, the only way to grow as an admin officer was to learn all the jobs from the ground up, giving one a broad complete perspective. Perhaps it was my own background in retail store management—I had run my family’s business for five years, from sweeping the floors to managing the payroll and accounts. But few FSOs came in with any real management experience. All incoming officers were already required to serve as a consular officer at least once; I firmly believe that requiring every officer—all cones, no exceptions— to serve at least one “grunt” job before advancing to the upper levels would have been an even more farsighted decision. But enough about my gripes.

I did have the opportunity to perform other tasks that appealed to me—serving as airport control officer on a tourist visit for Lady Bird Johnson, the former First Lady, and her daughter, Luci Johnson Turpin, was one pleasurable highlight. Mrs. Johnson was as gracious as ever, if beginning a slow decline, and my main task was greeting them at the airport and seeing them off. Luci was about my age, and I well remembered her first marriage (to Patrick Nugent) while her parents were still in the White House. I knew she had later been divorced, but did not know she had recently remarried—and rather than call her “Miss Johnson,” I called her “Mrs. Nugent” at one point. Famous for her quick wit, Luci whirled and raised her eyebrows at me in mock disbelief, paraphrasing a famous line from a TV comedian’s cameo (on the old Red Foxx show): “Now you can call me Johnson … or you can call me Luci … but you doesn’t have to call me Nugent.” Properly chastened, I smiled and then she began to laugh at me, as if to say, “Gotcha, Ben!”

Lady Bird Johnson (above) and her daughter, Luci Johnson Turpin, whom I met in 1986. Public domain photos

As a world-class city, Copenhagen had no shortage of famous visitors, many of whom got to meet Queen Margrethe, a very down-to-earth type—I am sure Mrs. Johnson and Luci Turpin were no exceptions, although I did not accompany them to Amalienborg Palace (someone of higher status would have done that). I never got to meet the Queen, ‘tho people who did said she was a great conversationalist—an amateur archaeologist with a wide range of interests.

But there were other U.S. visitors, who did not meet the Queen, including Sylvester Stallone and his then-wife, Danish actress Brigitte Nielsen (of “Red Sonja” and “Cobra” fame). They appeared in Copenhagen at one point, not long after his “Rambo” movies had given him worldwide fame, prompting Danish pranksters to break into the “secure” private facility at Kastrup Airport and spray-paint “Ho Chi Minh Airlines” on his private jet. He and his wife had come to Denmark to visit her young son from a previous marriage, as I recall.

My colleague at the Embassy, the regional security officer, soon told me of his telephone conversation with Stallone, who was literally yelling at him that he needed the Marines to come guard him at his hotel after the airport prank. He described himself as the world’s number one terrorist target—more so even than President Ronald Reagan—and he needed immediate protection from assassins. My buddy —a Marine himself—said he gently reminded him that he was a private citizen, not a public figure—and the few Marines stationed at the Embassy were not a security detail.

Sylvester Stallone (right, wife Brigitte, with Nancy and Ronald Reagan at White House, 1985.
Photo courtesy Ronald Reagan Library

I was not involved in the Stallone affair, but sympathized with my buddy and admired his unflappable response. Because I occasionally acted as RSO in his absence, I was called upon to handle one especially troubling incident involving a mysterious package left on the Embassy’s front doorstep. Protocol demanded that the Danish police be called in to investigate—using a remote-controlled robot that resembled something out of a sci-fi movie—after we evacuated the entire building through rear and side entrances, just in case the package did explode. Tensions were at high alert for more than an hour, all televised from a safe distance, as police closed the street—Dag Hammarskjolds Alle, a main thoroughfare—and staff waited outside the Embassy in safer locations. We had no way of knowing the package—tied up in brown paper—contained only books being returned to the USIS library.

The U.S. Embassy in downtown Copenhagen, as it looked in the late 1950s. Photo courtesy National Archives.

Did we overreact? Perhaps. The Danes may have laughed at the spectacle on Danish TV of a robot shaking open a package of library books—but better safe than sorry, I said. After all, the Embassy, a modern glass and concrete structure, designed by American architects in the 1950s, had a wide expanse of glass just yards from the street, and a bomb would have brought much of the building’s front down. In those days before 9/11, there were relatively few security precautions in place—Copenhagen was not considered a high-threat location—and the public could walk up to the front door, with a wide unfenced portico.

Ironically, it backed up to a Danish military cemetery. Our neighbors across that cemetery were the British and Soviet embassies…almost surreal, if you think about it, during the Cold War. Someone actually tossed a small bomb over the wall surrounding the Soviet embassy while I was there, causing what sounded like an earthquake. Another “prankster”—this one with a violent sense of humor …

* * * * * * *

As my tour in Copenhagen approached its end, I was experiencing an existential crisis of sorts. My father’s recent death at the end of 1986 had forced me into second thoughts about living so far away from my family—and indeed, about continuing to work for the U.S. State Department at all, at least in admin. I recently heard a TV commentator talk about his own beloved father’s death— “you don’t start becoming a man until your father dies,” he said. I can only agree. My father had been a truly independent guy—a Western cowboy, loving and warm, but both strong and strong-minded—a wounded World War II survivor, a paratrooper and glider pilot in Europe; he had been forced to retire from the U.S. Army against his wishes, with a severely injured hand. He eventually became a very successful self-made businessman, a good provider, a pillar of his community, but always put his family first. I missed his wise, reassuring counsel, and now wondered what he would have advised me to do.

“Do what you love, son,” I could hear him saying. “Don’t waste your talents.” As I pondered my next move, an unexpected answer came to me. On the list of upcoming openings in Washington was a press officer’s job—at my rank—in an office under the Assistant Secretary of Public Affairs, an office mixed with with both civil service regulars and a few FSO’s. It sounded perfect. It would get me home to regroup, nearer my family, and appealed to my old journalist’s mind-set. It wasn’t teaching or writing—but it also wasn’t administrative work—and best of all, it would put me in regular touch with working journalists. So I jumped at it—and surprisingly, the folks at home said yes.

In August 1987, I said a fond farewell to the land of my Viking ancestors—and headed home. As we packed up, I was reminded, more than once, of the lyrics to one of my favorite songs by the British rock group Supertramp, from their album “Breakfast in America.” The song was “Take the Long Way Home.” It ended this way…

Does it feel that your life's become a catastrophe?
Oh, it has to be, for you to grow, boy
When you look through the years and see what you could have been
Oh, what you might have been
If you would have more time

So when the day comes to settle down
Who's to blame if you're not around?
Take the long way home, take the long way home, take the long way home…

Next time: More tales of North Carolina’s 19th-century African American legislators