Friday, September 25, 2009

And . . . I'm Still In St. Vith.

Route: St. Vith, Rodt, Poteau
Distance: About 30 km

In a misguided attempt to save weight on this trip, I left behind my excellent MSR lightweight backpacking stove and titanium cooking pots. I really don’t know what I was thinking. I remember in the days before boxing everything up in New York, I had all my gear laid out on the bed. I was going through it piece by piece. Packing it into the bags, checking the weigh, unpacking it, ditching things like I didn’t need like the CD drive to this laptop, an extra book I wanted to read, and some extra clothes.
I was trying to not only keep it as light as possible for my sake, I had to meet a 21 kg per box requirement with British Airways to qualify the bike and the bags for free checked luggage. In the end, I got really drastic and I was throwing things overboard as if from a sinking balloon. Chief among them was my stove, fuel bottle and coffee setup.
Now, I can do without a lot in the way of amenities. I have no problem sleeping on the ground, you get used it after a few nights. I don’t mind it being cold at night, I’ve got winter clothes and the tent with the rain-fly keeps me, if not warm, tolerable. The one thing that I’m having a real tough time with, however, is coffee.
I know it sounds ridiculous to say this, but I can’t think for a few hours in the morning unless I have coffee. I’ve tried replacing it with things like Coca Cola. This is ok if you like having a diabetic attack at 7 am. I’ve tried buying coffee at cafes, but it’s literally $6 a pop and you have to sit and have someone serve you, which I guess is what you’re paying for?
“You should go to Starbucks” Andrea at the tourist information center said to me yesterday. I winced like the good northwest boy that I am.
“Where’s that?”
“Germany.”

So, yesterday, I rediscovered something that I thought had virtually disappeared from American cabinets; instant coffee crystals. By pouring a moderate amount of these pieces of chemical coffee chunks into my mug, and getting hot water from the bathroom, I have had my first homemade cup of coffee in three weeks this morning, which probably explains why I’m writing right now instead of drooling in the corner of my tent wondering where I am. Note to self; Belgium.
Actually, coffee crystals were developed (as with so many other things like Tang, cheese whiz, and bullion cubes, for the combat foot soldier during World War Two. These items would come in little boxes called K-rations. A K-ration usually contained a freeze dried food item like beef noodle soup, a pack of 4 cigarettes, a stick of gum, some chocolate, a toilette or other sundry item, ect. These were intended to be lightweight food for the infantryman on the go. Of course, the worse possible chemicals where used to create these marvels of food engineering and for years after the war you could purchase these for consumption at army surplus stores because they had the shelf life of a Twinkie..
So, on this my second day in St. Vith waiting for my credit card, I will take a cue from grandpa and go and buy some bullion cubes, more coffee crystals, some powdered coffee creamer, and anything else I can find that you need hot water for like ramen. Then, I’m going to get a few candles, some tin foil and a tuna can with which to MacGyver a poor mans camping stove. When you are outdoors, especially during the time when winter could come at any moment, you need warm food. If you don’t get it every now and then, the body shuts down.
During the war, GI’s would have to get creative to eat. There are many stories of men raiding farm houses, especially as they got into this area close to Germany where the political sentiments of some of the people were questionable. As has been done in all wars since the dawn of civilization, they would take all food they could get their hands on. This is just simple fact, not an attempt to denigrate the sacrifices made by these guys.
You have to keep in mind that they were living in the most miserable conditions you can expect; cramped at night getting shelled in a muddy/freezing hole in the ground with no winter clothing during the worst blizzard since the 1880’s. I think they can be forgiven if they pillaged some food. K-rations were almost universally despised.
In Neik’s archive, I came across a letter written by Captain Phillip Burnham, who took over as CO of A Company from grandpa, who had been put in charge when the previous CO had been wounded in Meijel, Holland. His letter is great, as I mentioned in a previous posting, because it’s the first piece of personal written evidence that Grandpa was there.
It’s also cool because in it he tells a story of how the men of A Company, grandpa included no doubt, “found a pig that wandered” into their area. They were starving, so they captured and butchered it. You have to remember that a lot of these men grew up on farms so they knew how to slaughter and cook it.
So they got this pig, snuck out of their area back to the mobile kitchen and broke in to have a pig roast in the middle of the night. The letter says they all had a great time, ate a lot of food, and cleaned up everything afterwards without the kitchen staff ever knowing what had happened. The lengths people will go to for just a hint of normalcy under nightmarish conditions is amazing. They all could have been in serious trouble for leaving their post during an active engagement, although they were in reserve at that time.
Now I think of Grandpa, sitting in a foxhole line on the hills above this town, trying to heat a cup of coffee in his mess kit over a candle during a freezing morning like this one. If he was anything like me he would need coffee to function. Well, that and cigarettes evidently. He was always asking, in almost every other letter, for cigarettes. I guess he smoked about 2 packs a day. Not healthy, but in those days, under those conditions, can you blame him?
After staying up last night reading the after action reports and the S-3 journal again, I have mapped out A Company’s general movements during the Battle of the Bulge. I will follow these on my bike with the day pack, using St. Vith as a home base since I have I have to hang around here anyway.
It will be interesting though, because I no know the general locations of the defense lines and the exact locations of the CP. From these, I will find where grandpa was on the entry into, retreat from, and finally the retaking of St. Vith.

Riding into town this morning felt routine. I had made plans to visit Andrea at the tourist information building to get online, and finalize the meeting with her brother later tonight to discuss the war here in St. Vith. Of course, the internet was still down for normal people like me. I kind of expected this, so I went to the source; the local computer shop.
There I met Stephan, and Kristophe, two 20-something computer guys working in a mom and pop set up run by a friendly gentlemen in his 40’s. They were sympathetic, and more than willing to help me when I told them I was a writer, and I hadn’t posted my stuff in a week. For FREE, they led me into the workshop, a simple room filled with desktop machines in every stage of disassembly with a panoramic view of the Schnee Eifel Hills to the East, and set me up on an old CRT monitor with a European style keyboard and a coverless upright CPU ticking away on the desk.
I thanked them profusely and got online without people watching over my shoulder for first time in a long time. Finally I got to email home, post some stuff, and check on the progress of my card. Thank God, it should be at the St. Vith post office in a couple of days. Let’s keep our fingers crossed on this one shall we!
With this out of the way, I headed down to the hotel where Andrea’s brother, Freddy, works as a cook. He wasn’t there, but I got a chance to meet the proud grandmother who runs the place. It’s a family affair, and it looks like it’s been there since well before the war judging by the pictures on the wall. There was also a certificate of appreciation from the 106th Infantry Division Association, one of the units directly involved in the defense of St. Vith along with Grandpa’s unit. I had a great feeling about getting some inside stories after seeing this place.
With this meeting set up, business was done for a while, and I headed to the town of Rodt, a small hamlet in the valley about 5 km to the west of St. Vith. It had been the headquarters of the 48th AIB during the early days of the battle, and I wanted to see what it looked like.
Heading out of town toward the west, I felt like I myself was retreating. It occurred to me that by the time Grandpa’s unit made it here due, it was already too late. The Germans had taken the heights to the east of the town, and with those under their control, it was only a matter of time before they brought down the fires of their 88’s to the positions held by the 7th armored across this little valley centered on Rodt.
The town itself is very small; a church, new of course, in the central street crossing surrounded by mostly residential buildings also new. It’s ignominous distinction as the HQ of the 48th made it a prime target for the Germans. Also, when the Americans pulled out, they couldn’t let it fall intact. Either way, it meant the end of centuries of built environment. The name of the town is the same but, like St. Vith, the town itself is new.
Finding one of the Euro Velo signs near the center, I followed the road to Neundorf, another tiny town to the south. This was the southern edge of the defense put up by the 48th AIB. Riding the road through these fields filled with cows and barns I felt like I was flying through the little fields of Vermont. Dairy farmers were going about their business, some tractors and bailers were driving the back roads. There were very few cars. Also, it was mostly downhill and I hit 54 kph at one point! I dread the thought of having put those bags back on the bike.
Soon I came somehow to the town of Cromach. This was completely by accident. I must have zigged when I should have zagged. In any case, it was obvious that the apse of the church in this town was original, with a new addition built alongside. Around the perimeter was a new rock retaining wall. Inset in this were original tombstones shaped like crosses with skulls on them in the style of the old world similar to what you would see in an old graveyard in New England.
This is something that I’d seen before, but for some reason failed to understand what it was. These were the stones of the people who had been in the graveyards next to the churches before they were bombed by the Americans or Germans. When they rebuilt, they used them as historical art pieces to pay homage to those had been there before. They function now as reminders that this new building is in fact ancient.
The ride back to Rodt from there was amazing. I came up a rise and was able to get a view of the entire valley. From here I could see the hill that Grandpa’s unit was tasked with defending. I decided to head over, but on the way I found this really cool old railroad bridge with a bike trail on top. I found a little uphill jumper path up to it, and had a picnic consisting of processed cheese product and salami meat-like substance. Sadly, such is the state of my finances.
After wrapping up my “meal” I noticed that on either side of the rock pathway were shrines with the figure of Jesus in different poses. One had him on the cross. In another he was giving bread and fish to the people. Each one was surrounded by bushes which constituted the only cover on top if this arched structure situated so that every car that passed on the highways below could see whoever was on top. I had to pee. This presented a problem as, of course, I had no desire to pee on the Jesus. Luckily, I found an unsanctified patch of bushes back toward the trail I had taken up.
I followed the railroad grade down the other side of the bridge to a narrow roadway leading at an angle up the hill back toward Rodt. The hill that grandpa had been on was to my front. After a long struggle, during which I passed many a confused looking cow, I found myself at the highway roundabout that I had crossed through two days ago on my way to St. Vith. There was a sign pointing to a patch of woods on the other side. It said “Bier Museum”. I was curious.
Passing into the trees, I saw that I was entering into a managed trail system in a section of woods astride a hill overlooking St. Vith. The museum was sadly closed, although this was really a blessing in disguise as it would have probably sucked me inside for the remainder of the day.
Instead, I found a board depicting a large network of backwoods trails covering the whole area all the way back to Poteau and up to Recht. This was exactly the hill and the woods that I was looking for. Grandpa had been all over this area during the defense of St. Vith. Following a random trail, I soon came across an old foxhole filled with brush looking east into the valley. It acted as a sort of counterpart to the trench lines I had found on the hills overlooking my campsite in the east.
After doubling back, I stopped with a squeak of the brakes when I saw a huge crater in the trees. I propped the bike against a large fir, and walked over the shell hole. It must have been five feet deep and twenty felt across. Trees had grown up on its edges over the years of course, but the hole itself had been used as a fire pit, so it’s shape and size were pretty much intact.
Continuing downhill on the trail, I flew through stands of new and second growth timber. Every time I slowed for a corner, I could see the trenches and foxholes dug under the new growth. I finally stopped at a cross gate which was lowered over the road. Like any good mountain biker, I ignored it and went around. I soon found myself at the junction of a highway and another trail map. After seeing this board, I realized that I was now standing in the general location of grandpa’s company during the first days of the bulge.
I was about 5 km southeast of Poteau, and about 7 km west of St. Vith. Here was where the 48th CO had placed A company, to hold these hills and protect the road leading back to Poteau from enemy infiltration. At best, this was a stop gap measure because the Germans were flowing west to the north of this hill, and to the south of the valley I hadjust crossed. In short, the 7th had arrived too late to save St. Vith. The Germans were crashing around the division like a wave around a rock at the beach. Sooner or later, the rock would be swept in the tide
It occurred to me at this point that I, and perhaps my family, owed its very existence to an order coming from the British 2nd Army commander, Field Marshal Montgomery who said on the 23rd of December 1944 that the 7th Armored was allowed to withdraw. The American command had wanted to keep them in to the last man. Monty rightly perceived that they had slowed the Germans long enough, and any further resistance on these hills would have been a pointless waste of life.
This order may well have saved grandpa’s life, because by the time it was received on December 22nd 1944, his unit was in very real danger of being surrounded. The Germans had broken through in the south to Rodt in the valley below the hill, and onto the main highway leading to Vielsalm. They had also been bypassing to the north throughout the battle. They were starting to break through to the direct east, and come up the hill directly from St. Vith.
The only way back at this point was to perform what the manuals called “A fighting advance to the rear”. In other words, they ran west through the trees, leaving their vehicles and equipment behind. In an earlier action, the Germans had managed to capture or destroy the 48th AIB motor pool back at Poteau anyway, so there was no other option but to hike out in the snow.
The after action reports state that the church steeple at Vielsalm was the rally point, and that all units were to report there when they arrived down from the forest. This means that there was a scattered retreat happening all over the area, with no communication, so they picked a visible landmark and said go there. Once in Vielsalm, they crossed the last bridge over the River Salm. They code named this bridge “Brooklyn” and the assembly area on the west side of the river “Flatbush”. Sounds like home.
They blew the bridge on the evening of the 23rd after everyone had made it across. Of course, not everyone made it. The family story, that I’ve so far been unable to support with hard evidence, is that Grandpa and some of his men did not make across the bridge in time. This is born out by circumstantial evidence because the 48 AIB was the last unit to be withdrawn from the sector. The last man across the bridge was from HQ Co 48th AIB.
Since Grandpa was way up in the hills fighting on three sides, it’s likely that he didn’t even get word that they were supposed to pull out. This was not uncommon in those days. The Germans had cut all communication lines, so the only way to get a message through was by radio or runner. The radios of the period were famous for not working, and when they did work, they drained their batteries very quickly. During an engagement, SOP was to maintain constant contact with surrounding units, so those batteries would have been long dead by the 22nd because they had been fighting on this hill for 5 days by then.
Option two was a runner. Runners were sent out to bring Monty’s withdraw order to the front line. In a lot of cases, they made it through, but they also could only do so much. Since grandpa was effectively cut off on a wooded hill behind Germans, I think it would be a safe guess that word didn’t reach him, or if it did, it was very late like the next day.
There were thousands of these stories during this battle. All up and down the western front, the Germans were pushing relentlessly west making for the Meuse River and, ultimately, Antwerp. The theory was that if they made Antwerp, they would deny the use of the port for supplies, but more importantly, split the British and American Armies in two. If they succeeded in this plan, Hitler could have pushed for a negotiated end to the war in the west, and turn his attention back to fighting the Russians in the east. Needless to say, this would have made the history of the world very different.
So, Grandpa and his men, cut off and surrounded on all sides by the 23rd of December, had to trudge downhill to the west through forest and hope to make it back to Allied lines, which were also retreating west pretty fast. He did make it, along with some of his men, to Vielsalm in time to join the rest of Division on its further retreat to Manhay. For this, he received the Bronze Star and a battlefield promotion to 1rst Lt. He also, of course, got to live.
Tomorrow, I’m going on a bike ride up into some of the places where the 106th Infantry Division was surprised by the Germans with Andrea’s brother Freddy. He seems nice enough, speaks pretty good English, and is the cook at their family run hotel. We met last night, and he loaned me some maps and a book about the opening days of the battle. He said he can show me some good stuff in the hills around St. Vith, so I’m pretty stoked.
He also said when he was a kid, you used to find things like helmets, ammunition, canteens, pieces of rifles, and other such refuse of war. Now, he says, you will find stuff, but nothing good. The foxholes and some of the shell holes are all still there however, and it will be awesome to ride some in some of the famous places like “88 Corner” and “Skyline Boulevard”.
To all my peeps, thanks for reading and I’ll have more to report tomorrow!

Peace.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

The Trails Here Rock!

Route: St. Vith to Ardennes Forest Trails Distance: About 30 km It got cold last night, very cold. I’m starting to wonder if leaving home with a 20 degree bag was such a great idea. That and I have no head cover. I can’t imagine how I forgot a winter cap, but there it is. Anyone who knows realizes that it was lucky enough I get the ten poles here, let alone the details like a winter hat and a credit card. Still, watching the trees emerge from the mist like ghosts has got to be close to the view that grandpa had. I really doubt he had time to notice it, busy as he would have been during his first time here on Dec. 17th 1944. Still, he was a painter and does take time in his letters to describe details and scenes through the eyes of artist. Maybe he did notice. He would have shivered at night too, and he wouldn’t have had the benefit of a tent or sleeping bag because they left all that gear behind in the rush here to counter the German attack. Also, when he was here, it was below freezing and snowing. Right now it’s probably 35 degrees and it will be sunny today. So that, plus the fact that I’ve got a much better chance at emerging from St. Vith alive, means I can put up with some cold nights. I had a quick chat with another biker in the camp named Luc. He’s from Holland, big surprise as touring seems to be the national sport, and he was up smoking a roll you own and shivering when I passed on my way to the shower. He had come from Germany and was on his way back to Holland after three weeks on the road. “It’s getting too cold for me!” he exclaimed when I returned from the bathroom. The sun was just beginning to burn off the cold mist of the night, and we could both see that it really was going to be a great day. I planned on heading into St. Vith for two pieces of business. One, stop at the post and get them to agree to accept a package coming to me from Holland (my long lost credit card). This was a bit tough to communicate to the German guy running the place who spoke very little English, but he was very helpful and I got an address to give ti Niek. Two, get online and try to get things posted. I passed the tourist office which had a big lettered sign proclaiming “Internet 24/24” on its window. I entered, and found a polite women in her 40’s sitting behind the desk. I asked her about the internet, and she replied that it was down. She then got out a city map and directed me to a place that had it. Then, just to be safe, she called over and guess what? Their internet was down as well. No cybercafes in town. That’s it, I was shot. I haven’t posted in over a week now and I’ve got a ton of stuff. More to the point, however, was my urgent need to get the address to the city post to Niek so he could send my damn credit card when it arrives. I’m starting to think that there is a monster who eats packages sent from the US to Holland. I still don’t understand why this is such a big deal. I mean, really sending a package from Hawaii to New York is a longer distance, but they somehow manage to get it through in a few days. She could sense my need, and got a mischievous grin on her face while telling me that if I was quick, she would let me use her system which was magically working. I thanked her a million times and sent a few emails. She had that funny French keyboard. The one where you can’t find things like an exclamation point and the A is where the Q is supposed to be. It’s enough different so my emails read like I had spent too much time in a hyperbaric chamber. I could tell she was getting a little nervous when she mentioned that if her boss came in, I was to say that it was an emergency. I hit send on my last email. Her name was Andrea, and as it turns out, she has a brother who is very into World War Two. When she found out what I was doing, called him and set up a meeting for tomorrow. I’m very excited about that because it means I should get some great stories about the fighting around here. After this, I said goodbye for now, and thanked her very much while purchasing a little St. Vith sticker which now resides on my seat tube. I thought with business out of the way, it was early and maybe I’d do a little exploring around town. Not only was my interest hirtsorical, but this town is going to be my home for a few days while I wait out the credit card. With this in mind I made a sweep around the area finding in quick succession the cathedral, the entrance to the bike routes, and the discount grocery store in that order. It’s a much smaller town than I thought last night. The kind of place where the only younger people are married or otherwise tied down. All in all, hard to imagine that one of the bloodiest episodes in recent history happened here. On my way out of town, I ran into Luc headed north. I sidled up and said “There he is!”, he said “Hey, you lost already?”. A few minutes later and we were seated at a comfy outdoor table at a cafĂ© enjoying a coffee and rolling smokes. Turns out Luc is, of all things, an insurance salesman. You wouldn’t know it by looking at his shaved head, slightly grey, short cropped hipster beard and tattoos covering his arms down to the cuff, but there it is. I guess things are different in Holland. We talked about bikes, touring, and that favorite discussion of kindred biking souls, our worst accidents. “I was coming down this real steep grade, probably 20%, and I was just flying” he started out. “You have to know the trail, you go left, then quick right, then quick left, then straight down. Well, no one told me that they were resurfacing the road on the straight part and I hit 6” of gravel at 45 kph.” “Jeez!” I exclaimed, “You must have rashed your hole body!” “I landed on my face, and skidded for 30 meters on my knees and elbows. I got a little scared of down hilling after that.” This from a guy who has spent the better part of his life on a touring bike. :”I was in South Africa in ’96 just after aparthied ended.” “Wow, I’ve heard that South Africa can be dangerous?” “Well, no…ok yes!” he laughed. “I was in the countryside though, camping next to the Indian Ocean. It was amazing!” “I’ve done a little biking in Alaska, mostly trail riding, but there are a lot of people who tour there. I’d love to go back and do the Alcan someday.” I mentioned not letting on that it would be my life’s goal to run that road. “Yeah, I would like to go to Canada. I’ve never been to the states, but I don’t really want to go you know? Its just not that interesting to me.” He said this after we had talked for a while and he knew I wouldn’t explode with patriotic bullshit. “Yeah, there are of course great parts, but on a whole its sure got nothing on this place.” I said, of course its true, but I’m not in the business of selling the great parts of the US. One thing I’ve learned on this trip is just how great we have it at home. We must have one of the only places in the world with so much land that anyone can camp and be free. Here in Europe, while it’s really great with all the showers little trails and campsites, it’s also a lot more controlled. I didn’t mention those things. We said goodbye after two coffees. He headed north and I south to find the trails. I’ve learned that this place is a Mecca for mountain bikers from all over Europe. There are trails that link this forest from one end to the other. Hundreds of kilometers of old railroad grade, improved bike pathways, and plain old single track. All of it safe and well maintained, and all of it free. I went out looking for these trails. Like everything here, they are not well marked. It took a little doing, but soon I saw the Euro Velo sign, and swung a left. What a difference! All of a sudden I was following a nice paved, but rural path through the deep woods. As I continued downhill, the trees grew thicker and the air colder. I was in the middle of the forest. Suddenly, a clearing was up ahead, and I passed under the giant concrete freeway bridge which spans the valley between two wooded ridges. After a junction with another little trail, I was flying through trees again. Soon I came to a little ancient village nestled in the valley. It’s centuries old central church sat adjacent to a little stream which flowed under the rock bridges and supports. I wondered if grandpa had been through here and seen this little village, which to me looked rather untouched by the war. Suddenly, I got an idea. I took my flipcam, and duct taped it to my helmet. I can never emphasis enough how important duct tape is. Bring it always. So far, I’ve patched my tent, and poles, fixed my water proof map case, and now made a helmet cam with it. After making a test run to check the angles, I headed downhill into the valley below the village. A quick right put me on a tiny street leading to a small tunnel. I was back on the railroad grade. After almost being eaten by a large German Shepard who felt it was his duty to let me know I was invading his turf, I entered back into a small alcove of evergreens. Passing through this the trail transitioned to gravel and I felt like I was mountain biking. I had to mentally remind myself not to think that! I was riding a road bike with road tires. No big jumps, bumps, or mud on the agenda today. Too bad though! There are some great pieces of single track branching off this well marked and kept path. Signs at every intersection reminded me that I was heading toward Prum, Germany. I looked back and they all said St. Vith, Belgium heading the other way. It was pretty hard to get lost. I headed through a long dark railroad tunnel. In the middle, while you could see the other end, it got so dark that I couldn’t see the ground in front of me. Talk about heading for the light! I was just hoping not to get eaten by gnomes. But that’s the kind of place this forest is. Around every little bend in the trail is an ancient Catholic shrine, church or castle. Each little new bridge is always built next to the remains of an ancient stone one probably used by the Romans. Indeed, St. Vith itself was founded as a stopping place on the Roman road to the city of Cologne. It’s as if I rode into a story book. On the way back, instead of taking the tunnel, I took a more promising looking trail leading through a small stand of large Douglas Fir trees. It also had the manners to be a downhill. Well, for a few meters. Then it turned a bend, and headed straight up the side of a hill, and I mean straight up! It was probably a 14% or so grade. Luckily, I was only carrying my daypack and not my full kit. After riding the granny gear very slowly for around 3 km up this hill, I came into yet another amazingly gorgeous little town which I passed right through to the bike lane on the other side of the hill. Here was my reward for that damn hill. I dropped all of that elevation in a blinding series of switchbacks heading down the grassy slope of the other side. I passed under the freeway bridge again, and through another little hamlet at 55 kph. When I reached the bottom, I came out on a stretch of highway that I didn’t recognize. Oh well, I thought, might as well head back toward the bridge. Riding back up the gravel road leading under the bridge, I stopped several times when I noticed that the trees, all second growth sized timbers, were growing out of obviously man made grades like those of an old roadbed. One tree was growing out of a circular shaped hole. It was a shell hole, and the old road grades were probably quickly made bedding for heavy vehicles like tanks and halftracks. I was standing in the middle of a front line defense work area. The more I looked, the more I saw the lines of trenches, the holes dug around the road, and the circular shell holes strewn about at random over everything. All of these marks were rounded and faded under moss, underbrush and trees. It was like looking at a shipwreck after it has been sitting in a corral reed for a century. This must have one of the lines in the southern part of the St. Vith “Goose Egg”. Obviously, it had received a hell of a lot of shelling. Probably, the shelling destroyed whatever forest was here before, and the trees which I stood under now had all grown up afterwards. As I looked more closely at one tree, I saw that it grew right next to much larger stump covered in moss. Growth out of death. Grandpa wasn’t on the south of St. Vith, but rather the north shoulder of this defense. The terrain, however, is very similar. He would have recognized this area in any case because during the retaking of the city in 1945, it was his company that was tasked to capture the hills that I knew rode my bike through. So he had been here after all, maybe right where I was standing, surveying the devestation. At that time, it would have been a moonscape. I’ve seen pictures of St. Vith taken by reconaisence aircraft during the Battle of the Bulge. It is unrecognizable to the town I see today. Through shell and bomb holes, you can make out the fragments of a crossroads town. When the 7th pushed back through in January 1945, the roads were so destroyed that they couldn’t even get jeeps through. This forced my grandpa and his men to walk through town to the place I now stood, some 6 km south. Neik mentioned that when they rebuilt the town after the war, they just brought in bulldozers and wiped the slate clean creating the top of the hill on which the town resides today. “Million dollar hill they call it” he said, “because they just put everyone’s household, jewelry and all, into the ground.” Tomorrow, I’ll head to Rodt, a town 5 km to the west of here. Grandpa was involved in heavy fighting to take it back from the Germans after being pushed back in Decemeber 1944. From there I’ll cross the hill to Poteau again to see if I can get back into the museum. As I’m sitting here writing this, I realize why I love cycling so much. It’s the last free thing. John said that to me back in England, and I agreed, but I didn’t really think about what it meant until now. You just get on and go. No license, registration and proof of insurance. 900 km later, all of it on a bike, it has become quite clear that there really is no limit to what you can do with an idea and a bicycle. Please keep reading, there are a lot of new posts below going back a few days. I’ve had a lot of trouble getting online here. I know it’s the 21rst century, but if you keep in mind that I’m traveling through the South Dakota of Europe right now, maybe that will explain things! Thanks, as always, for reading and commenting! I hope you all enjoy it, and I love to hear what you think on facebook and whatever. Rawk On! Post Script: I just walked into the hills above my campsite. It’s dusk and the sun is setting creating a pink glow in the west. Starting up a rocky hiking trail, I made the first switchback before being engulfed in gloomy trees. It was dark and cold, and soon a figure appeared in front of me coming down the trail. It was a man barely restraining a German Shepard which was barking and jumping at its chain. I froze as a high pitched voice yelled “Halt!” For a second I thought I was seeing a ghost. As the figure walked down the grade toward me, he turned into a smiling old man of around 60 with a harmless shaggy hound who was afraid of me. He laughed when I asked if this was private property. “No, it’s fine!” he pronounced, while dragging his reluctant pooch around me. I continued up the hill. Towards the top, there was a clearing with a fence. The other side was a green field which was full of light. The trail however continued around another switchback and I stopped for no real reason. Then I noticed a ditch cut a long time ago riding the crest of the hill. It was facing toward my camping area in the valley below. Here men had died either attacking or defending this little hill. Probably both. I thought I heard a noise in the brush to my right. I decided it was time to go to bed. Coming down the hill, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was being watched. Maybe it’s my nerves, and my over active imagination, but I walked out of that forest. That is why there are few monuments here. There don’t need to be. The hills are lined with them in the form of foxhole lines and trenches. No statue or set of names on a wall can compete with that.

The Safe Decision Is Not Always The Right Decision

Route: Jalhay to St. Vith via Spa, Stavelot, Trois Ponts, Veilsalm, Poteau
Distance: About 65 km


Last night another crazy guy on a bike rolled into the lonely trailer court of a campground I had been staying in. We said hi to each other, and I shook his hand. His name was Mark, and he was from Amsterdam. He came just as I was trying like hell to get my rear wheel bearings to reincarnate. Because of this, I started out by asking if he knew any bike shops around, he didn’t, but thought maybe Spa. Verviers was closer, but that was the past. Plus, I really didn’t like that town for some reason. It was a little trashy, maybe I just felt a little odd being back in a city after so many weeks on the road.
Anyway, after this retarded introduction, we of course talked bikes. He had ridden his mountain bike down to the Ardennes for a week with friends. He recognized my Tubas Rack, and when I went over to check his bike out, I saw that he had the same one in the back, and he was mounting a front rack as well, with a front shock. I didn’t think this was done, but he did it. Tubus has a great system for it, but he said, he can’t go to the Lowrider mount which he would prefer, especially on the hills here in the Ardennes.
Again, gear is all about the individual. In retrospect, I may have considered going with a front rack and bag setup as well. It’s likely that I wouldn’t have fried my rear bearings in 800km where that the case. But, as I rode out of Jalhay this morning, my bearings protesting every crank while I prayed for the rear wheel not to sieze, I was happy not to have the weight of front panniers when climbing the steep hills. At a slow speed, it would be a bear to keep the bar straight.
I knew that I had a very limited time on this bum wheel. The thing sounded like a steam locomotive. Chug Chug Chug. It echoed off the stately Belgian country houses and in the rock courtyards of the ancient manors. People looked up from there formal morning coffee at the Brasseries and watched the idiot with the broken bike go shoveling by. How improper.
I soon faced a choice, a fork in the road, literally and figuratively. To the right lay the road back to Verviers. I didn’t want to go that way, but it was 7 km and my chances of making that were good as long as I babied the bike. To the left lay the road to Spa, 12 km of unknown hills and forest highway leading to the resort town famous for being the Headquarters of 12th Army Group during the war. To the right lay the past, to left the future.
I had to decide. I thought I should be safe here. Don’t get stuck in the middle of the country with a frozen wheel. If that wheel froze, the bike wouldn’t role. If the bike didn’t role, I would have no way of carrying my 45 pounds of gear and the bike with me. As Harold Ramis once said to Bill Murry in Ghostbusters “that would be bad.”
So, I started down the road to Verviers for a second, but I just couldn’t do it. I cursed under my breath “Damn the consequences”, and flipped a u-turn. The correct decision is not always the safe one. This is likely something Grandpa would have said to me had he been around.
Heading to Spa, I felt good about the decision when I realized it was mostly downhill. This was an added bonus because it didn’t require me to put extra torque onto the already damaged rear wheel. Of course, heading downhill made the clunking a lot worse and I was worried that it would seize a couple of times. There was nothing to do but go slow, keep my hands on the brakes and hope for the best.
Coming into Spa, I began to realize that the countryside had changed. I was out of the rolling farm fields and starting to see big stands of evergreens lining the ridges. The roll into the town itself was all downhill through a forest not unlike those found at home in Oregon on the coast range. The smell of clean firs in the morning was contesting with the sight of tall treetops emerging from the mist across the valley below for my admiration. Now if I could only find a bike shop.
Of course, finding a bike shop and finding one that’s open are two different things here. Europeans love their weekends. They love them so much that they often begin on Friday at noon, and end on Tuesday. Counter-intuitively, this goes double for bike shops I’ve noticed. The first thing the guy told me at the Maison de Touriste was that it was unlikely that any shop would be open today because it was Monday. The second thing he told me was that even if they would open today, it’s too early in the morning at 9am. I was prepared for this. Hell at Sid’s we don’t open till 10. Of course, we are open 7 days a week, but, whatever.
As I clunked my way down the cobblestones of Spa, an ancient city known for its hot-springs and mineral baths all the way back to the Roman Empire, I passed the World War Two Memorial right in the heart of town. It was inspiring to see something so big and public in this land that Americans had died by the thousands to save from the Nazi’s. It also represented the only American memorial that I would see today.
But, I wasn’t about my grandfathers business just now. I was trying to fix this wheel so I could continue. I was mentally prepared to have to wait a full day to get a shop to open long enough to tell me that they could get new bearings by next Tuesday.
I was more than pleasantly surprised to find Sidi Bikes and Sport open and fully staffed by a kindly bike racer in his 40’s named Luc who only spoke French. He was very nice though, especially once I gave him one of my business cards from New York and explained the bearing situation. He smiled, and disappeared down a metal spiral staircase into the bowels of the shop only to return with a new wheel. 72 Euros. Damn.
I, of course, was hoping to get out the shop for around 20 Euro. Needless to say, I’ve seen this scene repeated at our shop in New York a thousand times. Guy comes into the store with a problem that only a new wheel can fix, but he doesn’t want to pay what it costs to get a new wheel. Dilemma. Most people in my situation would probably just pay the 72 Euro and wait to get the wheel installed. Not me.
Since I’m a mechanic, which is always a good skillset to pick up if anyone out there is thinking about getting into long distance road touring, I asked if I could use his shop downstairs. He laughed when I told him in really bad French that I “knew what I was doing.” Long story short, he could see by the way that I overhauled the rear bearings that I did know now to do it. I just didn’t know when to call it quits.
I should have known when I opened the hub seal and found that I was missing 2 bearings. They had to go somewhere. The races seemed ok, and I cleaned everything up, installed two new bearings and put it all back together no problem. But, since the overall round of the bearing race must have been distorted enough by the “great bearing escape” somewhere backing Holland, it quickly became apparent that there was no way I could get the wheel to turn correctly. Not good enough to trust it for another 800+ km anyway.
I sighed, and reluctantly installed the new Deore wheel on my bike. He nodded in approval when I came back upstairs and opened my wallet. I think he felt bad because he only charged me 70 Euro. This wouldn’t be that big of a deal except I’m still waiting for the credit card to arrive at my friend’s house in Holland. From there, he will post it to St. Vith. Waiting and waiting for that card.
Oh well. Sometimes these things happen, and if nothing else, I know a cool bike shop in Spa now. I rolled out of town feeling a lot better as the bike performed smoothly and made no noise again. It felt great to know I was on a fresh wheel, and I reminded myself to check the bearings every night. If I had only done that before!
Spa also marked the point at which I joined grandpa’s route exactly. From here I would follow the exact road that he had taken when his unit was called down to St. Vith from Holland to plug the gap left by the German attack. It was an emergency situation, and the roads were all jammed with traffic of all types. Today, the riding was slow going but amazingly beautiful as I low geared up the steep incline out of town and into the forest.
And I continued up that hill for an hour. I’m not kidding. They don’t play around with road grades here. It went straight up a hill for 6 km. I probably gained 1200 feet of elevation. It was a haul. Going up is always ok though because you know you get a great downhill on the other side. That, plus the view was incredible. A morning mist was just burning off and the ridgelines of green trees could be seen receding in the distance. The church towers of many little villages all poked out each little valley like that whack-a-mole game and the hills curved into one another as far as the eye could see.
I really can’t complain about this portion of the ride. For one thing, I knew that I was on grandpa’s exact trail. I was seeing the same things that he saw. I was passing a lot of the same buildings. For another, every so often, I’d be cruising around thinking I was home in Oregon because of the forest, then I would look up and see a castle in the distance. These were mostly from the 15th or 16th centuries when such structures lost their use as fortresses, and became more like fancy country houses for the rich. They were ornamented with spires, points and gargoyles. I felt like I was in a Brothers Grimm story. I think I was actually smiling as well.
The route went by too fast even though I was barely moving because of the hills. I passed through Stavelot, Trois-Ponts, and Viesalm before I knew it. Each one of these little towns is situated on a river, a crisp little stream, which cuts a little canyon on its way to the Meuse. The whole canyon is covered in firs which ride its walls up to the sky on each side, and the towns have probably been resorts since the time of the Ceasars.
Each one of these grandpa passed by on his way to battle. A battle he knew was serious and one that he had a good chance of not walking away from. How tough it must have been to pass these little resorts and see the beer ads and the fishing signs. How similar to the Northwest it all is. He must have felt a strange sense of home as well.
Every now and then when I got going on a real stretch of straight away or an uphill I thought I could see him. I saw him riding in a halftrack, shivering in the cold, leaning against a frosty window in the passenger’s seat. He was waiting. Waiting to move probably because the whole convoy was sitting for hours on end in one place, then moving a mile, then sitting some more. But, I really felt close to him in a way that I can’t describe. I almost felt like our consciousness touched across time on this stretch of road. That he, sitting in his halftrack in 1944, looked up for a second without realizing why and paused in query before returning his head to his arms to sleep.
The highway portion finally terminated in Veilsalm where the 7th turned up this little country road going straight over a hill toward St. Vith. I followed this road for an hour up into the evergreens. I could see the shell marks and the trench lines still visible under the now mature second growth timber on either side of the little windy road. I was now in the front line area. These woods had been fought over for a month and a half in 1944 -1945. It’s impossible to erase the scars of that from the earth. Certainly, there was a loneliness about the forest here.
This is when I realized that I didn’t come looking for museum, tour groups, veterans or storytellers. I didn’t come for the living. I came for the dead. They had to be all around me now, thousands of them lurking in the trees waiting for eternity, watching me pass. Here is where you’ll find them. Not in a well manicured cemetery.
When I emerged from the trees into the valley below, I was in Petit-Their, a little hamlet mentioned so many times in the after action reports. Here the unit was pushed back after a few days. There was a CP here, and grandpa was in the hill I had just come down out of on a defense line during the hurried withdrawal of the 7th from St. Vith after holding for 5 days.
Soon, I stopped at a crossroads to change the song on my ipod when I happened to look left. I saw the Poteau War Museam. I had wanted to come here for years after hearing about it. This little crossroads is another area where I knew grandpa had been. He was in the hills above here holding the defense line against the attack.
Sadly, the museum was closed. Not just closed because it was 6pm, but closed because it was September 21rst. The last date that it’s open is Sept 15th. Bummer. I had come so far only to see this sign mounted on a railing separating me from private property. I could glimpse the halftrack and field gun sitting in the field behind the house. I rang the bell. No answer. I thought about leaving a note about my mission, then thought I would just come back tomorrow and try again.
Suddenly, a minivan pulled up, the sliding door swung open, and elderly German guy got out and starting asking me questions. I replied that I spoke English. He smiled a little, said ok, and proceeded to break into the museum. He must have been a veteran. Judging by his age and his enthusiasm I’d say he was young, but old enough for Hitler at that time. He beckoned me to follow him in trespassing as he disappeared around the corner of the house. I walked in a few steps, but felt really wrong about it.
Then, the whole carload of German wives and friends, cigarettes burning, followed him into the field and began talking. I wanted to go in so much, just to see the machines, but something just didn’t feel right about it. Maybe it was because it was posted everywhere that it was private property. Maybe it was because I felt that this little German invasion was somehow part of the reason why this museum ended up here in the first place. I got on my bike and rode on.
The last few kilometers into St. Vith were like coming back into the modern world. My first view was of a windmill power station standing tall and white contrasted with the green trees. The 21rst century juxtaposed on the 14th. Everything changes. Soon there were truck stops, a shell station, strip malls and a freeway overpass to be negotiated. Once past these little obstacles, I realized that I was about to enter the town where it all happened.
Here is the place where Grandpa and his men fought and lost, then fought and won back. It looks surprisingly large for what I expected. I flowed through a full downtown tourist area, with tons of shopping, bars and restaurants. I realized that all of the signage was in German. St. Vith had actually been in Germany for centuries before the armistice in 1919 gave it to Belgium. I strangely felt like it belonged to the Germans.
In every sense of the word, I am happy to be here. I found a great little campsite next to a stream near just south of town. The very nice caretaker speaks only German, but had her daughter translate for me. She got that I needed a spot with power, and rather than charging me a full rate for a camper spot like everyone else, she went out of her way to get a power cable for me to use at a regular tent campsite! This is awesome!
I plan on spending a few days here riding through the towns where Grandpa fought, trying to hike a little and maybe find the old foxholes. Oh, and of course, wait for my damn credit card to show up at the central post. In that sense, I’m stuck here until then, but what a great place to be stuck! Surrounded by tree covered hills in a clean campsite with clean showers and free power and water for 10 Euro a night! What more could you want?

The Back Wheel Goes South

Route: Valkenburg to Janhay, Belgium via Verviers. Distance, about 70 km

The rain again came in the night. What had been a perfectly clear day gave way to a rain soaked night as I woke at the first sounds and struggled barefoot into the storm trying to get the rainfly up as fast as possible. It was too wet to get the bike inside, so oh well. I did stop my stuff from getting soaked though. Small victories!
I had been sitting in Valkenburg, thinking about the past few days with Neik in The Netherlands, and trying to process through what I had just been given about Grandpa. I had found him mentioned in a letter, found people who had known him, found people who had seen him during the war, and stood in the same places he had. I found myself anxious to get home and start calling these guys. But, I also knew I had more trip in front of me.
As I pedaled out of Valkenburg, I found that I was traveling in a storybook land of rolling hills, trees and ancient castles. There were amazing little towns everywhere, each with a perfect little brook running through the middle of town. That and it was Saturday, so there were huge numbers of people biking. Tone of road riders out in full kit, another ton of mountain riders out, but strangely not one with mud on his bike and finally, groups of middle-aged tourists transiting these quiet lanes on two wheels. It was like a picture out my perfect vacation. That, and there were beer houses at every little intersection.
I couldn’t stop though, I was trying to get some mileage, maybe find a McDonalds to check my email, and find somewhere cheaper to settle down and write for a couple of days. Verviers, I was thinking. It’s a city mentioned in the Battle of the Bulge and Grandpa undoubtedly visited it during the war.
My rear wheel started making a small squeaking noise about halfway there. The country had become hilly, and I was pushing up the grades now more often. At every hill, the noise got louder. I must have been stupid at the time because I just pushed right on through with it squeaking. I was in and out of Verviers as fast as possible. Once back in Belgium, it became more like France. No bike lanes, everyone was a little ruder, and even the lady at the gas station yelled at me for reading through the map I was thinking of buying.
Wow. I thought, let’s just get out to the country as fast as possible. So, out I went after aquiring a map from a nice person. Up this huge hill. Up and up while the squeaking became worse and worse. I rode for several km like this until I got out of town enough to find camping near the little village of Janhay, A picturesque Belgian town near the German border. It stands up on a hill overlooking the Ardennes Forest below. I am one day’s ride from St. Vith, which is my next stop on the Grandpa’s War Stories Tour.
This morning, I decided to stay and extra day and finish some writing. Also, I thought, I would check the bike over and maybe see what that squeak was. So, I spent a lazy morning finishing some work, and decided to go get breakfast foods in town. The local Bakery had been helpful last night, and I needed to visit the butcher. The squeaking was much much worse than I remembered it.
To make this even better, a huge group of road cyclists decided to ride the exact stretch of road, at the exact same time, I did. Squeak Squeak Squeak went my bike as the German’s laughed at me. Dammit! As soon as I got back to camp, I pulled the rear wheel off, and found the bearings loose on the cog. I adjusted them tight, but they wouldn’t adjust correctly. The damage had been done. They were shot. I checked the front, also loose, but not shot. Thank God.
Now I’m sitting here wondering if there is a bike shop back in Verviers that I can ride to without my wheel falling off. Certainly, I can’t carry the weight of my gear back to the city on this bearing. I’ll have to take the bike into the city, around 10km, in the morning very carefully and hope that the wheel doesn’t crack on the way. I’ll have to do without taking my gear, which means I may have to stay another night here in Janhay that I wasn’t planning on.
These things happen right? That seems to be a mantra for this trip. I’m still waiting for a credit card from Bank Of America that they entered the wrong address on. Neik says he’ll deliver it to me when it arrives, but it hasn’t arrived yet. That, plus the wheel, plus my little power adaptor almost breaking today are adding up to some frustrating fun as I move forward.
Still, this place is amazingly beautiful. The green hills are filled with fruit orchards and horses. The church bells ring out through the little valleys, like they have for centuries. The modern world has made inroads in the form of an ATM and a laptop at the campground bar, but other than that it is as it was here.
The people are very nice. I’ve been into the local Bakery and Bucher’s shop a few times. The workers don’t speak English, but know a few words and laugh at me in a good natured way when I try to speak French. We generally communicate well, and have a good time in the process.
The large Belgian woman who runs the campground bar is seemingly always smoking Marlboro reds and sitting at the end of the bar at the laptop. She grins, only partly out of politeness, when I come in because she knows she’ll have to do something. I asked her if she speaks French in French. She doesn’t. Only German, Dutch and some English. This is so confusing to me. Belgium. Here they speak French, mostly or German, or Flemish, or Dutch, and sometimes English. Jesus. Growing up must have been hell. That’s four languages you have to know just to get by in this country.
Overall though, the feeling here is very French, except without the snootiness. People are all very nice, and go out of there way to help me. They even like practicing their English when they can. What a lifting change from France! All the good stuff, without the bad attitude.
Except for, of course, everything closes on Sunday. So, no bike shops, no food, no service today. I have to sit and wait until tomorrow to hope that a shop will be open in Verviers. Assuming that I can get the bearings replaced, and also that the hub isn’t coned out from all the damage I did to it going up that damn hill, I should be on the road by 1 or 2pm tomorrow, which puts me near St. Vith. It’s around 80km from here.
St. Vith was a major battle during the war. It was here that the German’s aimed their last major attack on December 16th 1944. They came in in the early morning, completely destroyed an entire US Army Infantry division, the 106th, for breakfast, and then descended on the little crossroads town. They were aiming at cutting the Allied Armies in half by running a quick armored attack force through between the American and British sectors. The eventual goal was to capture Antwerp and thus cut off allied supplies. If successful, this would have changes the course of history.
The whole plan for the battle that we came know as “The Battle of the Bulge”, was predicated on speed. The Germans only had a specific amount of fuel and supplies. They had to take the ground on schedule, or they would be in trouble. One of these little pockets of resistance that slowed then down long enough to make their drive for Antwerp impossible was the defense set up around St. Vith.
A lot has been written about this battle. More than I’ll ever be able to contribute to. The important thing for me is that Grandpa came into St. Vith on December 17th, along with the 7th Armored, and helped to slow the Germans down. The town was lost on December 23rd. They held against the most that Germany could throw at them for 5 days. This obviously cost a lot of lives.
In addition to all of this, it was the worst winter in 80 years. It was 20 degrees below freezing, feet of snow on the ground, and cloudy skies which meant that the Air Corps could not fly. A small wound became fatal if the man wasn’t treated and removed from the battle area within 15 minutes. Men used to go to sleep in their foxholes, and wake up with their legs encased in ice that had frozen during the night. A lot of men simply went to sleep and never woke up.
The area where grandpa was is actually a small town called Poteau. It sits just to northwest of St. Vith. His unit was part of a semi-circular defense around the town that came to be called the “goose-egg”.
The plan under General Bruce Clark of the 7th Armored was simple; get as many men as possible armed and into the defensive perimeter and hold until relieved or ordered to withdrawal. Everyone knew that there could be no withdrawal. If they fell back, the Germans were that much closer to turning the tide of the war. In Clark’s mind, he would stand there.
I’ve always wanted to come here. Family stories have it that grandpa was cut off with his men behind enemy lines and that he helped to lead them out. I’m not sure if this happened here, or in The Netherlands, but it wasn’t that uncommon of an occurrence during the Bulge. Especially during the first few days, the situation was so chaotic that men often didn’t know where they were. Orders weren’t always passed through the usual channels, and communication lines were cut.
On top of this, the Germans parachuted a bunch of English speaking commandos behind our line who reeked havoc with communication and distribution. They did things like reverse road signs. That sounds like a small thing, but after having spent some time trying to navigate through Western Europe with a crappy map and no one shooting at me, I can attest that this simple little act of sabotage probably cost many men their lives.
Into this atmosphere grandpa was thrown, fresh from fighting in The Netherlands, and then going into the line for a brief stretch in the Hurtgen Forest, where I’m currently camped. He drove down a crowded highway full of panic stricken men running the other way. There was such a bad traffic jam that it took the bulk of the 7th armored almost 24 full hours to get to St. Vith from Waubach, Holland. To put that into perspective, that’s around 100km. It would take you an hour in a car. I could do the whole thing on my bike with gear in 6 hours.
Every minute extra they spent on the road to St. Vith, the Germans were that much closer to taking the town and pushing further west.

The Castle at Valkenburg

Route: Ospel to Valkenburg. Distance, about 60 km

I’ve just spent three days with Grandpa’s ghost. Walking in the trees of an abandoned pillbox line, sitting by the canals where he first met the Germans in combat and riding my bike to the very bridge he crossed as part of a counterattack.

I’m sitting the shadow of a ruined hilltop fortress in Valkenburg. The castle was besieged and destroyed by the Hollanders in the middle ages and the city has grown up around it since. Portions of its outer wall are now shops and Beir Hauses grown up around the great stone alcoves and gates of the once formidable battlements. What a perfect setting to sit and relate to you all, the experiences of the past three days in Ospel. Hang on to your socks this is going to be a long damn entry. I may have to split it up into a few. Anyway…..

Part One: Of Glider Pilots and Men

The rain fell on the roof of my tent all night. First it came in little droplets which I heard tic tic tic on the rain fly. I could see water running down the sides. Then it came in buckets reminding me of a good Oregon winter. It was pelting the tent, and I was a little worried about getting wet.
Adam, if you are reading this, thanks for the tent dude. The old thing kept me dry and cozy during the worst rainstorm I’ve had yet. I sat inside writing and listening to the rain. Somehow, I didn’t feel alone in these woods. I felt at home, and there was something else, an embracing of the dripping firs perhaps. I was camping near the first town where I knew for a fact Grandpa had been. Lommel, Belgium.
In the morning, I slopped together the wet remains of my tent, and ran around like a jack rabbit getting all of the sensitive bits of kit like the laptop and my sleeping bag wrapped up in plastic bags. I also have a packet of Grandpa’s letters with me. These are in a blue cardboard folder which is far from waterproof. I’m counting on the yellow rain bags for the panniers to keep these intact and dry as I can’t afford more bags.
I trucked to the McDonalds, my new home base away from home, hoping to get something greasy and terrible like one of those eggs mcmuffin things inside a pancake, hopefully wrapped in something like bacon. Imagine my disappointment when I approached the mikkyd’s, and saw that the damn thing didn’t open till 10:30?! WTF?
Oh well, I was really only there for the free internet anyway. I checked my email to see if Niek had responded. The previous night, I had told him where I was and where I would be (McDonalds, 9am). I had yet to hear from him.
Soon as I saw a grey Jeep Liberty pulling an equipment trailer pull into the parking lot.
“Gavin Wells? From New York?” came the shouted query from inside the cab.
“Yes, how are you?” I replied, walking over to the driver’s side as a middle-aged gentleman sporting business casual and full, but well kept, beard stepped out of the jeep and grabbed my outstretched hand.
“It’s good to meet you!” he yelled in perfect, if slightly accented, English. “Let’s load up your bike! I told you 9am, but there was traffic on the way!” This last sentence rendered with an American-style smile that could have been right at home in a boardroom in New York City.
To say that Niek Hendrix is a dynamic personality is to say that Steven Hawking is a promising scientist. Every word, thought, and motion from Niek is one of purpose and charisma. He works with his family as a managing partner in Hendrix Genetics, a large multi-national company specializing in genetic breeding stock for the poultry industry. This had grown out of a chicken farm that his parent’s had started in 1954, when the ravages of the war were still as fresh as the milk is here in the morning.
It now employed over 1000 people worldwide with offices in the Netherlands, Canada and Asia supplying breeding stock to the world’s leading agribusinesses. “It’s not how much you have it’s who you are inside.” Niek told me in the car as he programmed the location of a meeting we were bound for into the GPS navigation system. Evidently I was to meet his friend, Luke Severns, and a World War Veteran named Bob Meier that morning, without showering, changing, or even drinking a cup of coffee. To say I was fresh from the road would be an understatement.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Niek said, “I drive slow.”
“That’s fine with me.” I said, not quite sure what to expect by slow in The Netherlands.
“Just kidding!” He laughed as he pulled out onto the freeway onramp, with my bike precariously locked to the front framework, at around 80 MPH. Once on the freeway his speed varied between 120 and 160 kph. I’m not sure how fast that is, but it didn’t seem to matter. He knew right where he was going, and exactly how to get there. It was obvious he had spent his entire life in this area.
We were headed to Severun, a city to the north of Niek’s home in Ospel. As we pulled into the driveway of Luke’s place, Neik turned to me and said, “Now you will get real Dutch hospitality. Luke’s wife has made special Netherlands pastry for us, and coffee!”
“Coffee?” My ears perked up like radar dishes. Franky, I was sleepy and I stunk. As we walked into the proper Dutch house, it became only more apparent how much.
The perfectly cleaned white walls and tile floors were separated into formal rooms via doors with the rooms function written in script Dutch on little wooden placards. “Klueten” read the one we entered. Around the formal dining table sat two reporters from the local paper, an elderly looking man across from them spoke in Dutch, while an even older guy dressed in US Air Force blues sat at the head telling a war story.
His head was bald, except for the little strips of grey/black hair circumnavigating it, visible when he removed his Air Force cap. I shook his hand as Niek explained who I was and what I was doing here.
“This is Gavin Wells from New York, his grandfather was 7th armored in my town Ospel, and he is riding his bike to follow his path.”
“Well, I’m from California,” the 87 year old veteran of all the major campaigns in Europe from Normandy to Berlin said to me. “So we you know..” He smiled and shrugged at me indicating that he was kidding.
“Actually sir,” I replied with a grin, “I’m from Oregon, so you know…”
“Oh, ok. I met my wife in Portland. We lived in the west hills for some time!”
“Ahh the west hills! Nice view from up there huh?”
“Yeah, well I haven’t been back since the early 1970’s.”
“Well, not much has changed.” I assured him. Yeah right.

Bob had been a glider pilot during the war. These guys had onne of the toughest, and most dangerous, jobs in human history. Basically, before helicopters were invented, they used gliders towed by aircraft into combat to deliver troops and supplies. These large high winged aircraft were made of paper, wood and canvas, and were typically connected via a nylon cable to a C-47, the standard cargo/troop carrying plane of the day.
This all meant that Bob’s job was to ride this glider full of gear (landmines in his case) into a firestorm of anti-aircraft and ground fire at around 600 feet altitude and around 150 mph until a controlled crash landing called “touch down” either killed him, or allowed him to get his share of supplies to the airborne troops who needed them.
“I asked the captain one day why we didn’t get co-pilots on our missions”, he said to the table full of journalists. “Why waste two guys!” was his reply.\
Bob had dropped with the 82nd Airborn into Normandy on D-Day. His job was to land the craft, establish a perimeter consisting of himself and a Colt 1911 .45 Automatic pistol, and contact the other troops to make sure that they knew that his load of landmines made it in one piece.
“After this”, he said “They had made no provisions for getting us home. So, we would go to a city and a have one good time I can tell you!” An impish grin and a twinkling of the eye indicated what he meant.
“Seriously though, we were left out there hanging. So much money and training had gone into getting us out there, but no one had even thought about getting us home! So, this meant that we weren’t technically AWOL when we stayed in Brussels for three weeks after Market Garden! Brussels is real party town right?”
“Oh yes!” replied the journalists and photographer. “Still to this day, people party there!”
“Well, finally, Eisenhower had to send out a special order; “All glider pilots return home!” So, we contacted the Army in Brussels. What are we supposed to do? Hitchhike the Army said! So we did, I stuck my thumb out, and we got back by traveling south to Spain, then catching a plane to Tunis, then back to England on a C-46. Once we got back they told us we were back on the duty roster like nothing had happened! They figured if we got back, we got back, so forget about it!”
“One time”, he said after asking the reporter if he just wanted him to recollect, or if had any specific questions, “we were coming into Holland bringing the 82nd Airborne some gear. You guys have probably seen the movies right where they pull open that big red curtain in the ready room, and the mission for the day is on the board? Well, today the mission was for a place called Graves, Holland. Jeez, we all said, we’re supposed to land in a place called Grave!?”
He paused for laughter, and the crowd around the table chuckled.
“Anyway, me and my buddy, Mark Phillipson, we’re flying in together as wingmen. He had been on two drops with me, so he was a veteran and I trusted him. He was my buddy. I had learned this practice called a full stall landing. This is basically where you take the aircraft, and come down in a nose up full stall so when you hit the ground you’re only going about 45 to 60 mph. Some guys used to think that you landed these things at full speed, like 150 mph. and used hedgerows in fields to break the momentum as you slowed down. Well, you guys know that those hedgerows, after centuries of peasants throwing stones from the fields into them, were basically rock walls. If a guy hit one at 150, well, you know, that was that.”
We all looked at each other while Bob paused. His eyes filled with tears as he struggled on with his story, the croaking in his voice becoming more and more evident.
“So, anyway, we were flying into this field. I touched down, no problem. Just then, I saw my buddy’s glider coming in behind me. He was just about to land when a guy with a Panzerfaust who must have been hidden in the trees, hitt him in mid-air.”
Silence at the table.
“He was carrying landmines, so that was it. There wasn’t much left. All I got was a piece of his glider, a little piece of canvas that I have at home.”
Niek spoke up, “Did they ever find the body of this guy, your friend?”
“No, well, they sent a casket home to Chicago, but there was nothing in it.”
“How do you spell the name Bob?” Niek asked respectfully. Bob spelled it out for him, as he and Luke talked in Dutch with the reporters for a while. I used this chance to meet Bob informally.
“Hello Bob, I just wanted you to know that my other Grandpa was a B-17 pilot.”
“Oh he was? When?”
“1944 through the end. Several missions in both B-17s and B-24’s” Bob was trying to be polite and listen to my little introduction, but I could tell he was elsewhere.
“Also, I am a student pilot.”
“Oh you are?” He smiled looking relieved. “How many hours?”
“5” I smiled sheepishly.
“Ok, great, in what?”
“Cessna 172, but I was learning in Alaska so we flew the full stall landing a couple of times?”
“You did?!”, he sounded surprised.
“Yeah, we were flying out of bush fields, no pavement, and my instructor wanted me to learn what it felt like.”
“Well then, I’ve got a story for you!”
Before he could tell me, Niek interrupted.
“Bob, we are talking, and we are going to try and find your buddy for you. I have access to lots of sources, and I can find a lot of things. I will try tonight to put his name in and see if there is anything we can find for you.”
“Oh, ok.” said Bob sheepishly.

After eating our Vlaai, a traditional Netherlands pastry consisting of fruit and sweet breading resembling a thin fruit pie, we headed out to the garage where Luke keeps a fully original and authentic Willys Jeep painted in the numbers of the 7th Armored Division. This jeep, as Luke informs me, is 100% original, meaning it actually came here to Netherlands with the US Army in 1944 and was involved in the battles around this area. Luke runs a tour business with vets. He takes them around to specific areas in his jeep, usually places that no one knows about. The profits go to an organization which supports vacations for the disabled. Luke has made his money in this life. It’s pretty cool.

Part Two: Finding Grandpa

Bob, as it turns out, is pretty spry for a guy whose 87. He lives on his own in Orange, California. He walked over, and mounted the passenger seat of the jeep like a 20 year old. “Muscle memory!” He joked. Niek and I followed in his “newer jeep” as he put it, and we headed into the country surrounding the town.
As we left Severun, flat farmland with the smell of cow poop in the air, surrounded by rows of oak and ash trees billowing in the soft breeze greeted us. The fields all had corn, flowers, or livestock slowly munching their cud. In the distance, in all directions, were a number of church towers denoting towns. Ospel, Severun, Weert, Nederweert, Meijel to name a few. These are names that I’m familiar with, having spent a summer reading after action reports. These are also names that in my mind had become synonymous with war.
I was finally seeing the country where Grandpa first saw battle. Here among the oddly familiar fields of The Netherlands, he and his men of the 48th Armored Infantry Battalion of the 7th Armored Division, finally met with the crack troops of the 9th Panzer and the 15th Panzer Grenadier Divisions. 20,000 Germans against 1200 Americans.
This is a battle that almost no one in America has ever heard of. There are a number of reasons. One of the most important is that this area was mostly liberated under the control of the British 2nd Army. Another is that the story of the 7th Armored has been lost to history because it is only recorded, mostly, in Dutch by the people who witnessed it. A third is that this fighting here wasn’t nearly as spectacular or victorious as other battles like Omaha Beach and Bastogne. Here the fighting was a viscious tit for tat affair on ground not suited for tanks, and generally characterized by men dying in the mud for a few meters of roadway.
“I mean, everyone was evacuated man.” Says Niek as we closely follow the Jeep through little gravel roads that I know I’d have no hope of finding on my own. “So, there were only a few people here. My father was one, because he was 17, and the Germans had put out this order than all men between 14 and 65 were to be sent to Germany to be slaves. So, he was hiding out in our village, Ospel, in the basement of his parent’s house.”
I thought about what this would be like for a minute as I watched the tranquil countryside roll by. He had ignored a direct order from the Germans by not assembling for slave duty. He was living in a dirt hole underneath a house made of sod and thatch, without food, power, or water.
“If he was caught by the Nazi’s, of course he would be shot right away. No questions, no trial, just bang; right to the head.” Niek made a point with his finger and mimicked the action of a gun.
“Anyway, he saw the first troops of the 7th Armored Division role into Ospel. Some men stayed in his basement. You will meet him later. But, basically, because either no one was here, or those that were heard English being spoken by the army guys who came to liberate them, well they just thought that they were British you know? They didn’t know the difference between an Englishman and an American. That’s why the 7th Armored, why your Grandfather, never got the recognition he deserves.”
I nodded, and said yes while Niek continued. He was picking up speed. \\
“You see, I’ve had to fight these people here who say that the American’s never came here. It’s crazy. They say that the British saved them, when it wasn’t the British at all. It was the Americans attached to the British Army sure, but who was running the war?”
“Uhh, Eisenhower?” I replied lamely, knowing that it wasn’t the right answer for Niek,
“Army Group 12 under Bradley, who was under Eisenhower of course, but if you look at the staff picture of Army Group 12 what do you see? Do you see any British? No, it’s all Americans. So, the British Army was under the Americans you see? “ Niek was smiling and gesticulating with his hands while now riding up the ass of the Jeep in front and swerving all over the narrow Dutch road. “So, even though the 7th Armored was attached the British 2nd, it doesn’t matter because the British 2nd was under Bradley at Army Group 12! You see?”
I could see that Niek knew his shit. I could also see that Niek was far more knowledgeable than I ever could about the war, and I was getting a sense that his interest in this wasn’t just a hobby, but more a religion.
I don’t think we realize in the US just how important and alive this war is for people in Central Europe. Through the course of our next few days together, I would come to realize that Belgium and The Netherlands are two places were Americans are thought of in almost mythic terms. Here, no one has forgotten the blood spilled to save them from the Nazi’s.
The French, well some French, are still angry with us for bombing their cities. Others, more than is polite to talk about these days, actually allied themselves with the Nazis. For these reasons, it makes sense why I got the reception I did in France, according to Niek. In Central Europe, the Germans turned to fight for the first time since Normandy. Here the people remember the battles. It’s as if this past lives continually in the minds of those who were there.

I just picked a poor drowned grasshopper out of my wine glass. I thought about telling him to spit it out, but he’s already gone. Anyway, back to the show!

The first two stops we made in the jeep were at hallowed ground for the Dutch. One was at a crossroads where the Germans had discovered a boy in hiding who had pretended to be a girl by wearing a dress and bonnet. He made the mistake of talking too loudly near a German sentry and they shot him without hesitation. Then the Germans made the people from the boy’s farm, which was nearby, get a wheelbarrow and take the body home to his mother.
Another was down a narrow stretch of gravel road, really a wagon trail through dense trees. We stopped at a seemingly random place which had a large number of trees to the right and left, as well as a deep ditch running into the woods on the left. Luke pulled out a binder with photos of the area in 1943 and explained that it had been a resistance camp. At one point they had over 60 people living in the woods making fliers, newsletters, underground radio messages to the British and Americans, as well as providing a stop for downed Allied pilots and escaping POW’s.
The thing that I can’t believe about this place is that it had taken us approximately 20 minutes driving time from the center of a major town to get there. “How did the Nazi’s never find it?” I asked Luke.
“Well, they did after one and a half years. Someone turned traitor on them, and the Germans came to attack the place. The people got wind before it happened, so they packed up and dispersed. They found new locations, but nothing ever like this with so many people.”
“The Gestapo would torture a guy for a week straight.” Chimed in Niek, “They would drown them in tanks till they were almost dead and bring them back over and over again. They would do other really bad stuff to people, but always only for one week. After a week, if you didn’t talk, they’d take you and shoot you behind the building.” At this, we all piled into our respective jeeps, reversed back down the trail to the main road.
After a short series of amazingly confusing turns, we found ourselves on a tree lined road heading for a small rise with a grouping of firs on it.
“This is called Fox Hill” Niek told me, “Well, that’s my name for it anyway. The literal translation is Fox Hill, so what the hell right?”
“Right” I said
“So the Dutch army built 7 pillboxes on this hill during the 1930’s because they were scared that the Germans might attack. Of course, they did, and the hill was taken intact by the Nazi’s. Anyway, look to your left down there. Do you see that line of trees?”
“I think so”, I replied seeing about 15 different lines of trees.
“That is the Nord-Wessen Canal. You see to the right, in front of us there?”
“Yeah sure.” I had no idea what he was pointing at.
“That’s the Willems Canal. Your grandfather was between these two, right in these fields here. This was all American before the German attack. They came from across those two canals. Can you imagine? The Tiger Tanks, the artillery firing all across the canals? The troops storming across in bridges and boats? 27 October 1944, they attacked as a wave. The 9th Panzer and the 15th Panzer Grenadiers. They swept right over these canals and pushed the 7th Armored back to this area.”
Our conversation was cut short as we parked the SUV next to the Jeep alongside a pillbox overgrown with fir trees. We all got out, and Luke put a map on the hood of the Jeep. I felt like we were commanders during the war gathering around our CO as he explained our next battle.
Luke pointed to the canals that Niek had mentioned earlier.
“This is where a famous story happened during the German attack over the canals.” Luke said. I looked over and Niek was practically boiling over with enthusiasm. Niek picked up the dialogue while Luke looked on.
“This is Fox Hill. This is where a bunch of US 7th Armored Division soldiers were cut off and in real danger of being killed or captured by the Germans.”
“It was the 87th Recon and the 48th Armored Infantry.” added Luke.
My eyes went wide, and I asked excitedly, “Does anyone now which Company of the 48th? That’s my Grandpa’s unit!”
“It was A company and B company, I think.” Said Luke.
I felt something now in these woods. Grandpa was here! Right where I was standing, staring out across the fields at the German tanks as they got closer and closer, probably wondering if he was going to live long enough to write another letter home.
“So, anyway, they were pretty much surrounded by now,” Niek continued, “and they were really in trouble. All of a sudden, a boy on a bike came over to them and told them that he would lead them out via a secret road through the peet bogs that the German’s didn’t know about.”
“A boy on a bike?!” why not I was thinking. Bikes seem to be integral to this story, not to mention The Netherlands. “So, that could make a lot sense because there is a family story about Grandpa getting cut off with his men in battle, and leading them out. They gave him a battlefield promotion and a Bronze star for this.”
“That was probably right here.” Bob said, and Niek and Luke nodded.
In this lonely stretch of pine trees, on this little rise, my Grandpa retreated with his men into pre-prepared fallback positions. From here, they were out of options. They had given ground, but they hadn’t surrendered, or let the Germans get onto any major roads leading north. They had bent, but not broken. A boy on a bike came up and showed them a way out through the peet bogs. Even the Germans wouldn’t go into these bogs.

Part Three: Niek’s Library

After we had said goodbye to Bob back in Severun, with a promise to meet him tomorrow at the American Cemetery at Margraten, Niek took me to visit a special place.
“I will show a place that no one ever sees!” he exclaimed over and over again as we barreled down the road with my now seemingly forgotten bike bouncing up and down on the trailer at each road crossing. This guy was more American than a lot of Americans I know. Soon, we turned onto a dirt path along one of the Canals.
“This is the Noord-Wessen Canal.” Niek stated while lining up his arm in front of him and gesturing toward the horizon. “Along here, on your right, the Americans were holding a line 23 miles long. To your left, the Germans. The Americans were told to come up here by General Bradley so support the British who needed help in this area. The front was originally supposed to be held by the 7th Armored and the 29th Infantry Divisions. Somewhere along the way, 1rst Army decided that they needed the 29th somewhere else, and the 7th was left to defend this whole area. An armored division doing the job of an infantry division. That’s not what armor is for. Armor is for making quick and strong attacks into the enemy lines, not sitting and holding ground.”
Neik was talking about a long stretch of ground, 23 miles long in fact, on the north side of the canal. They had 1200 men to guard this area from the Germans.
“1200 men?!, that’s a joke! 1200 men for 23 miles? Come on man, you kidding me? They had foxholes 800 yards apart! I mean, the Germans used to walk through the line all the time. Like, every night. They could walk through, and no one knew how they were getting through! They’d blow something up, kill a few guys, and disappear back across the canal.” Niek was getting more excited as we slowly drove along the canal. Finally, he stopped the car and turned off the ignition.
“I don’t know man, some people say that I try to do too much. I mean, I’ve got 4 monuments up for the 7th Armored. No one here believes me that they did what they did. Everyone just wants to forget about it. The British. That’s all you ever here, the British. It was Americans that liberated my town, Ospel. And it was 50 Americans who got killed doing it, not British. Where is their monument? Where is their story being told? There is no 7th Armored museum here!”
“Ok, what are we going to see here?” I questioned just as soon as I could get a word in edgewise.
“Ok, come with me.” Said Niek as we rolled out of the jeep and walked down the canal a bit before turning and walking down into what looked like a ditch, but actually turned out to be a murky green circular pond. He led the way down to a concrete sluice gate platform with a metal railing.
“Ok,” he said, “to see it, you have to get out on the ledge over the pond and lean back as far as you can. Don’t worry, I’ll hold onto you. Just grab the railing, and lean back.”
“Ok,” I said trying not to sound too excited. I grabbed the railing, and stepped out to the ledge which was about 5 feet over the surface.
“Ok, Gavin, you see that little hole way over there in the right side of that duct?”
I saw a brick wall covered with slime, and two little holes above the top of a larger water duct, the top of which was sticking above the water.
“Yes I do!” this I exclaimed while step back over to the living side of the railing. “What is it Niek?” I breathed a little easier.
“That’s the tunnel the Germans used to sneak across the canal! Their HQ was in a Nunnery down the canal; over there behind these trees. It’s gone. It was shelled during the war. The tunnel is very large, and they would sneak 100’s of guys across at a time. The Americans never figured it out! I mean, a tunnel under a canal?! Come on man! That is a very Dutch thing you know!”

As we pulled into Niek’s driveway, I saw that he lived in a very large, by Dutch standards, house complete with an automatic street gate, three car garage, and huge back yard incorporating some acreage. He had definitely done well for himself in the genetics business.
His two boys ages 11 and 14 were in their computer room playing some sort of first person shooter. It was bloody, and engrossing. They both said “hi” to me when I walked in, and got right back to killing online.
“Gavin, come here I want to show you something.” Niek said, glass of soda in hand. “You want something to drink? Coffee, soda, we have cola light?” Before I could respond, Nike was turning a key in the lock of door which stood off the proper Dutch hallway. I could see through the glass panes that it contained a great many books on a huge double height bookcase complete with rolling ladder.
“Here is where I keep the good stuff man!” Niek was grinning like a kid at getting to show off his baseball card collection to someone who would appreciate it as much as I would.
Inside, I found a series of two rooms arranged like a miniature museum with the words “we will always remember” written above the archway of the French doors separating them. There were several glass cases filled with objects.
“All of these are authentic 100% from the period. Most are from the battlefield, and were actually carried into combat. There are many fakes on the market today, but it’s easy when you know what you are looking for. I only collect original stuff. Look at this!” he opened one of the cases and removed a tattered Nazi flag on a broken wooden post.
“That looks like something that a general would have on the hood of his car?” I queried.
“Yeah probably”, Niek said matter of factly “But look at the holes in it. You see these?” He was pointing at several small holes in the middle of the flag which looked like shrapnel damage. “It was probably in a house or on a car, and a bomb or something went off next to it.”
I said wow, looked at it for a second, but was really working my way over to the weapons display. I should mention that all of the items I am about to mention are legal to own in the Netherlands when the firing mechanism has been disabled, which it has in all cases.
“Ok, look at this!” Niek saw me edging toward the weapons rack, and he removed a Tommy Gun complete with 20 round clip. As he handed it to me, I was surprised by its weight. All wood and steel, but it did have a removable stock.
“That was found in Russia, it was probably given as part of American aid to the Soviets. It’s 100% complete and original. The stock can be removed, that made it an idea weapon for tankers.” He showed my by pulling out the dark wood stock and holding the shortened gun in a bear hug firing position. “You know, because there isn’t any room inside a tank.”
During battle, it was common for the tank commander to ride on top with the hatch open so he could see. Only when they came into close contact with other tanks or infantry did they “button up”. Because of this, the tank commander needed a light enough, but powerful enough hand weapon while he was exposed out the top of the tank. The .45 caliber Thompson Submachine Gun had been a favorite of bank robbers and gangsters throughout the 1930’s. If it was good enough for them, it was good enough for the army.
Also, it was a standard issue weapon for officers. I knew Grandpa had one. He writes many times about needing cigarettes so be sent from home. In one of his letters he says he’s convinced that the cigarettes that are supposed to be issued from the Army are being “snatched up by the rear echelon” before they get to the front line troops. “One of these days I’m going to take my tommy gun back and get some of them.” I’m not sure if he meant cigarettes or rear echelon guys. Grandpa evidently had a sense of humor.
In addition to the Thompson, Neik had an M1 rifle; a standard issue semi-automatic infantry rifle, an M1 Garrand; a shortened and much lighter version of the M1 preferred my most ground troops for it’s weight and accuracy, and an original Colt 1911 .45 Automatic pistol; the standard sidearm of any officer in the Army at that time.
Of course, the rooms also contained a million other items of interest. There were banners celebrating the 7th Armored Division and pictures and medals lining the walls like barnacles. The cases were full of old pins, medals, small items like binoculars, trench knives, bayonets, empty grenade shells, spent shell casings from .40 British Boffers anti-aircraft guns to 155 Howitzer, little sweetheart pins that the girls back home would where for their man in the service, as well as a curious olive drab canvas bivvy sack which Niek procured from the case.
“This is called the GI Housewife, and it’s complete.” It actually was called that because the words were printed on the side of the bag which contained pins, buttons, needle and thread, in short all of the things a GI may need to repair a uniform torn in the field.
“I don’t think many women in America would get the joke.” I said, as Niek laughed.
I was beginning to realize that this guy wasn’t crazy. He just cared very much about the war, specifically about the 7th Armored. He cared in a way that few people in this world can. He lived in the same town that was delivered from the Nazi’s by my grandpa and his men in the 7th. Neik’s own father had suffered and been liberated by them. I don’t think I realized the depth to which the war still scarred this area, and these people. It happened here, not in some far distant location over the ocean, but right here. Literally in Neik’s front yard.

Part Four: The Battle

Everywhere we drove together during the next two days, Niek pointed out crossroads, church towers, random looking houses and streets, and told me stories.
“Here is where the resistance shot two Germans in broad daylight!” he exclaimed while we drove past the church in Ospel in the morning. We were on our way to meet Bob and his friend at the American Cemetery in Margraten.
“How did they do that without getting killed?”
“Well, I tell you. They knew that the Americans were close. This is after the German counter attack on 27 Oct. 1944. They could see the 7th Armored Division coming up the road, so they stole German truck and painted it red! Bloody red! Then they drove around town shooting any Germans they saw. They shot up a lot of the town, and killed a lot of Germans before the Americans got here.”
There were several stories that he told me about the actual battle. In one story, a group of men from the 87th Recon are trapped under withering small arms and artillery fire by the Germans in a patch of woods near Meijel. They call for help, and an officer with the 48th Armored Infantry Battalion (not my grandpa) says, “Hang on, I’m coming!”
So he loaded up in a convoy of 7 or 8 Sherman tanks and headed up the road from Ospel as fast as he could. They reached the woods, and pulled behind a farmhouse to load two or three Americans in each tank under fire. By this time, the Germans knew what was happening, and they had lined the ditches on each side of the road with Infantry carrying Panzerfausts.
A Panzerfaust is similar to a Bazooka, except that it is much more powerful, lighter and easier to use. It could blow a hole in a Sherman killing everyone inside with one shot. To put that into context, the American Bazooka could not penetrate a German tank.
So, under threat of deadly fire from either side, the row of tanks hauled ass back to Ospel under fire, with the last tank in the column staying behind so the tank commander could spray the sides of the ditch with his .50 Machine Gun. This he did until all but one of the tanks were clear, then he buttoned up and headed for Ospel. He lived and was rewarded the silver star for bravery.

Part Five: The Remains

Most of the men who did things like that ended up in the ground. We were pulling up to the American Cemetery at Margraten just as Niek was finishing this story. “This is the best cemetery in all of Netherlands. All Americans who died here are buried up there.” He was pointing to the marble and limestone gates which led to a broad walkway up a hill.
“Remember that buddy of Bob’s who was missing? I found him.” Niek smiling and grabbing some papers before we got out of the car.
“You found him?” I asked.
“Yes, and he is here.”
We walked up the steps and into the courtyard. On one wall, there was a huge mural called “The Big Picture” which depicted the entire land war in Europe through a series of red and black arrows next to unit patches superimposed on a map of the continent. The 7th armored was only on there once, in Holland.
Across the courtyard from this, stood an office, which we entered and saw Bob, standing in his US Army Air Corp uniform smiling and ticking his watch indicating that we were a few minutes late, which we were.
“Bob”, Neik said after we had said hi, “I found him. Your buddy, I found him. Here is the paperwork.”
Neik handed Bob a bunch of sheets printed off the web as they compared details like the correct name spelling, the correct serial number, the correct unit and location. The only detail that was wrong is the date of death in 1945. Bob knew for a fact where and when his buddy had been killed. He had seen him blow up. That was Sept 17th 1944.
As Neik and Bob went to talk to the head officer in charge of the cemetery, I wandered around the room. It was well finished, and new smelling. There were pictures of all the curators of the American Monument Association all the way back to General Pershing. Over these was a picture of Barack Obama, President of the United States. How glad I felt knowing that Obama’s picture had replaced that of the previous inhabitant.
The head curator, a large bald man who had obviously been military all of his life until mandatory retirement, was talking to Bob. Neik motioned for me to come forward and meet him. I did, and we shook hands, but the guy was busy, and neither of use really knew why we were meeting. I wasn’t looking for anyone in the cemetery, and Bob was trying to get the Army to update and change his buddy’s date of death.
When the hurried meeting was over, Bob, Bob’s friend Jaque, Niek and I walked out into the misty day and proceeded toward the large obelisk that served as a chapel at the far end of the courtyard. On either side of this were steps leading to the rows and rows of white crosses now visible on the hill above.
At the first step, Bob stopped and looked down with tears in his eyes as he glimpsed the thousands of marble grave markers.
“I don’t want to go, I’ve seen enough. This is fine with me.” He turned around and stopped for a second looking the opposite way out over the courtyard, and beyond to the rolling green countryside.
“Ok, let’s go.” he said after a few moments. He was ready.
We slowly walked up the steps, and onto the white pavement adjacent to the chapel. Neik and Jaque compared notes while Bob and I stood there in awkward silence. When the location had been found out, we walked to our left, all the way over to the edge of the graves, thousands and thousands of white graves, each one arranged in an ark on the hillside. As I walked past each one, I read the names and units. They read like a slice of America. Franks, Walker, Stephano, Diez, Espozito.
Finally, we came to the location. Phillepson, Lt. Mark S. Illinois 1945. Bob, tears in his eyes, stood for a second staring at the stone. Then, snapped to attention and brought up his hand in a slow salute. Then, his shoulders dropped and he edges closer to the stone, finally resting his hand on the top of the white cross. He didn’t say a word.
Jaque and Niek asked is Bob wanted a picture. He did, and turned around slightly red in the face at being caught so emotional in public. He grinned through the pain, like so many of his generation before him, and stood at attention, but kept his hand on the grave marker, while pictures were taken. Neik snapped one with him alone and none with him and Jaque.
Later, over lunch in Maastricht, I asked Bob if he was expecting anything like this when he came to Holland.
“No, I didn’t. This is the first time back for me. Its 65 years after Market Garden. I’m going up to Arnheim to be there for the anniversary.” He didn’t want to talk about it. It was obvious that this episode had brought back all the pain from loosing his buddy as if it were fresh again. “I don’t know what they buried there; I mean it couldn’t have been much more than an arm or leg.”
As we strolled down to the central square of the ancient city, Niek was acting as tour guide. “This is the oldest city in Europe, the Romans came here, and there are roman walls left all around the city. Also, it has the oldest bar in Europe. We walked past this place, called “The Old Ostrich” with the date 1730 next to the sign. The same family had evidently been serving the same beer from this same place since then.
Bob was silent, walking around the city in his old Army uniform. People were staring at him. A few came up to talk to him every now and then. Some kids wanted a picture of the weird old guy in the uniform. I got a few last words with him when Niek went to grab the paper to see if Bob’s article was in it.
“Well Bob, did you ever make it here during the war?”
“No, we went to Brussels to hang out a few times. Never here. You know, I’ll tell you one thing.”
“What’s that?” I leaned in.
“They sure make some pretty girls here in Holland, you ever notice that?”
I laughed, “Yes they do Bob! Yes they do.”


Part Six: The Witnesses

Niek is a family man. His wife, Mariane, gets up and makes a breakfast of toast and coffee for us every day. She did my laundry, and folded it. She made us a delicious dinner of noodles with brown sauce. I asked her what special Dutch dish this was, and she replied “Thai noodles in curry sauce.” When asked if she needs help, she smiles and says no.
Niek’s father joined us for dinner that night. He had actually been there, seen the 7th Armored come into town. The first thing he told me was that he remembered them all coming into his house, and making eggs in their helmets. They were dirty, tired and all had beards. They ransacked the place for food. He got them eggs and fruit for them.
“That could have been your grandpa!” Niek said.
“Maybe”
Later, I sat and went through Neik’s extensive photo and paper collection hoping to get a glimpse of Grandpa in one of them. As I was paging through the 15th binder, I was stopped by a piece of printed paper on which was a story written by a Captain named Phillip Burnham. It was about arriving in combat on his first day as a replacement. In the second paragraph he wrote “I was greeted by Lt. Bob Wells, who was A Company’s CO after the previous Lt. had been wounded at Meijel. He led me down to the Company CP, which was in a hole below a house. There was a catholic priest asleep against one of the sides, and I was greeted by a Sergeant who grabbed my hand and said “Welcome to A Company, you are my 9th CO, you think you’ll last?”
I felt a jolt of electricity in my spine! Here he was. I had found him. I told Niek, and he immediately dropped what he was doing and we got out the directory for the 7th Armored. Burnham was still alive and living in Villanova! We called him, but he was too tired to come to the phone. He is 95. But, there he is! A 2 hour drive from New York lives a guy who knew Grandpa!
When we finally did get him on the phone the next night, his slow but steady voice came across time as he lit up when Niek mentioned Lt. Bob Wells.
“Oh yes, I remember Bob! He was my favorite!”
Through the directory, I was able to locate several other people from A company still alive. I will be calling them all when I get home. One of them lives on Christopher Street in NYC. That’s a 20 minute bike ride from my apartment in Brooklyn!
Neik and I stayed up late talking. “You know that story about the priest in the letter?”
“Yeah”
“That was probably my uncle. He was studying to be a minister when the Germans came. He used to tend to the sick and smuggle supplies to the 7th Armored during the battles. That means that your grandpa was probably sitting in the basement of my father’s house. He still lives there. I put the first monument there. He was definitely one of the men that my father saw cooking eggs that day.”
Niek had arranged to visit a man the next day, a witness, who lived with his wife in Ospel. He had been in the Dutch Army and fought the Germans during the 1940 invasion of Holland. Subsequent to this, he was probably in the underground, but no one really ever knew. He was over 90 and had spent most of his life stuck in those times, according t Niek.
When we entered his house, his much younger wife answered the door. She was friendly and smiled a lot while Neik explained who I was and what I was doing there. She led us to a large shop with a tall ceiling. It was filled with old tools and various war related items including a wall of German helmets, uniforms, various knives and radio components, ect.
Hunched over a wide wooden work bench was a frail looking gentlemen in a blue workmen’s coat. He looked up, and smiled at me as Neik explained who I was. He was a little hard of hearing and didn’t speak very much English. He walked over to me holding a long green cylinder in his hands and gesturing with his arms as if you say poof poof.
“It’s a panzerfaust”, Niek explained.” He is working on it, of course it’s missing the warhead, but the stock is complete. It was found around here and he is restoring it for his collection.”
I looked over the long wooden cylinder in the old man’s hands. It was old and covered with faded army green paint and German writing in black letters. It resembled a straight baseball bat, but it was hollow. It was easy to see why this weapon was much feared by the allies. It was simplicity itself. A rocket attached to one end, and a guy held the stick in a bear hug or over his shoulder. He pulled a release pin which activated the rocket and away it went. A child could do it. Indeed, toward the end of the war, children were doing it.
“The biggest problem with these is that they are hollow you know?” Niek said this while aiming it in a bear hug with the back end of the tube braced against his ribcage. “The blast from the rocket killed more men operating it than did tanks during the war.”
During Neik’s entire explanation, the old guy was puttering around showing me things and speaking in Dutch. He would hand me a helmet, and talk for a second. Then his trembling hands would grasp for a knife, he would hand it to me and talk more. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying, but I didn’t have to. I understood his story completely.
After the Germans took over The Netherlands, he had lived in occupied Ospel along with Niek’s father. He had a brother who was killed during the initial attack in 1940. His family was probably killed when he went into hiding. I never did get that straight, but it was implied pretty heavily.
“Come here” were the only two words he seemed to speak in English. He puttered over to a case with some radio equipment in it. Smiling, he plugged the old German radio in, struggled to flip a switch on the wall, and low and behold, the old thing worked! I watched as he dialed in a German station on the huge black dials. “German!” He said as he patted the huge radio.
He then proceeded to explain to me in a series of Dutch with a few English words punctuated by hand gestures how he had got the radio. “Hey you, go over there!” he said as if to the German’s back in 1943. He had apparently gotten a group of Germans to leave their radio car long enough for him to steal the radio. “I got it!” he said with a sly grin accompanied by his arm reaching out and grabbing the air in front of him.
“Ok, it’s time to leave!” Niek said to anyone who would listen, in the same tone that my parent’s used to take with my great grandmother during a visit. Pulling away slowly but firmly from the old guy, I tried to follow Niek out the door of the garage. A slow whimper pulled me back inside.
He was crying. He removed his glasses, and pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his eyes. In a trembling voice he said “Der Kinder… Germans.” He made his hands into a machine gun and said “rattatatatat” in a slow arc about him. “They killed them.” I said thank you to him. Thank you for all that he did for us. He smiled weakly, replaced his glasses, and shuffled back into the shop to go back to working on his Panzerfaust.
“He never got over it. He lives it everyday this guy. You can only take so much. He’s had to put up with the whole village thinking he is crazy because he saw the 7th Armored come and liberate Ospel, but no one believed him. For 40 years he fought with the people here trying to get a monument for the 7th. They all thought he was just a nut, and he is obviously affected by the war even today. He was one of the reasons why I got my monuments up.”
Niek has been one of the real power brokers behind the erection of 4 monuments around this area for the 7th Armored. The official museum at Overloon still doesn’t recognize the contribution of the 7th to the war. It is a matter of controversy here because the people in these towns don’t like being told that the British saved them. They also don’t like having Americans being told something that isn’t true about the war. It’s easy to see that without Niek and his passion for the 7th Armored, there would be no monuments today. The last one is set to be opened on Oct. 27th in Meijel on the 65th anniversary of the German attack.
After our brief but powerful meeting with the survivor, Niek and I headed over to the German War Cemetary at Eiselstien. It’s just inside The Netherlands, and is four times the size of the American Cemetery.
“You are the only American from New York to see this place.” He said. “no one comes here, not even the Germans.”
Neat but forelorn rows of slate grey German Crosses dotted the fields. Far into the horizon they vanished. There were over 100,000 of them, all in straight little rows of grey under the shade of several pines. Here there was no office with a curator making updates for family members. There was no parking area for tour buses filled with Veterans and baby boomers eager to see the graves. Here there was now chapel, no bells tolling the hours, and no fastidious crew of groundskeepers forever tidying the grounds.
Cross after cross only said “Ein Deutcher Soldat”. One German Soldier. Over and over again. Here is where it struck me. This war was just as senseless as all the others to these guys. So many came here on both sides and never left. So many more Germans than Americans.