Finding Grandpa

for the lawyers

2009-12-03T12:54:00.000-08:00

All materials presented on this blog are the sole property of Gavin Wells. Copywrite Gavin Wells 2009

I'm Coming Home!

2009-11-03T08:16:00.000-08:00

Route: Alexander Platz to Bed on Farina’s Kitchen Floor.

Distance: About 5 beers and 1 km.

Last night while sleeping, my mind stayed active. I was dreaming of all I’d been through in the past five weeks to lead me here to Berlin, the city where Grandpa spent almost a year after the war. Finally, this morning after waking up on Farina’s kitchen floor not feeling refreshed, it occurred to me that I had come full circle. It was here where Grandpa wrote the bulk of his letters home to grandma Vernice. He was thinking of her hoping to get home and start a future. I was thinking of her hoping to get home to be there at the end.
Strange universal chance had provided me with a friend who happened to live exactly where I needed to be, at the exact time I needed to be here. Farina’s apartment was at the center of Belin around 4 blocks from the train station. It’s is close to everything that I need in order to get ready to head home. At the moment where I lost grandpas trail in the forests of West Germany, something cleared a path to this great city, and the end of my story.
Sitting in a beirgarten, adjacent to a graffiti covered wall against which my trusty boxed up Long Haul Trucker rested, I watched the endless parade of hip young people moving past on foot, on bikes, on buses and streetcars. They all seem so effortless, and purposefully on their movements, as if they are all sure of where they are going and where they have been. They don’t seem to notice that they move through a city that, with one or two notable exceptions, was a wasteland after World War Two. Wasted living, wasted dead, wasted buildings and the crashed dreams of a demented madman.
The Berlin that grandpa came to in the summer of 1945, just after the end of hostilities, was this void into which would be pumped the life blood of two aspiring empires over the next 45 years. It’s plain to see, cycling through this morning to find a bike shop, that the city was completely and systematically destroyed. In a place with over 1500 years of human history, I have seen only a few buildings older than about 60 years. Certainly not more than I can count on both hands. Everything else in the center of the city is new. Everything.
Can you imagine New York City simply wiped away by fire and replaced with an unfortunate combination of western Modernism and eastern Soviet Bloc housing projects? Grandpa was here during those pivitol few moments when the war against the Nazi’s came to an end, and the one against Communism began. He would have seen the barbed wire being put up to mark the boundaries that would later be rendered in the concrete and machine gun towers of the Berlin Wall.
Back during April and May of 1945, when the Ruhr Pocket was split in two by the 7th Armored Division, the remainder of German Army in the west surrendered. They came in droves. The 7th Armored alone captured over 113,000 prisoners. While there were definitely holdouts who fought on for months, effectively the war was over by late April of 1945. VE day, the official end of hostilities was May 8th 1945.
The 48th, after being a spearhead unit during this final offensive of the war, was ordered to attack north and secure the area around the city of Hamburg, and it’s port on the Baltic Sea. At the same time the Soviet Army was racing west and was given about to sack Berlin.
When I say “Sack” I mean in the medeivel sense of the term. By agreement of the Allies earlier that year at Yalta, the American and British advance was to stop approximately 40 miles West of Berlin, while the Russians where to be given the city as a sort of prize of war in retribution for the horrible and protracted acts of brutality the Nazi’s had committed on the USSR.
Accordingly, as soon as they were able, the Soviet army moved into the city and fought a bitter and bloody battle put up by the last defenders, some of which were well trained and equipped SS troops who knew what the Russians would do to their homes and families. Once the inevitable victory had been won, The Soviets laid waste to the city. Massive and indiscriminate bombing, burning, mass rape and murder of German women, pillaging of cultural and monetary treasures, and untold millions of individual acts of violence were done over a two week period starting in late April and lasting until VE Day on May 8, 1945. This left a city already destroyed by allied bombing into a moonscape of smoldering death and violence.
As the war ended, grandpa was transferred from the 48 Armored Infantry to the 41rst Armored Infantry Regiment of 2nd Armored Division as a platoon leader. He went from Badow near the Baltic, straight down to Berlin and was charged with occupation of the city during the period directly following it’s fall under the Soviets usually referred to optimistically as when “order” was re-established. The transition from combat commander to occupation duty must have been tough because it closely mirrored the transition from unchecked violence to civilization that all of Germany was going through.
He mentions in his letters that it is hard to leave behind all of the friends, and the people he had come to know during his months in combat. By this time he was a twice- decorated officer holding the battlefield rank of 1rst Lt. He would later be promoted again and eventually return home holding the rank of Captain. I wonder at his thoughts as he left behind the family of his unit, all of whom he wouldn’t see again, and drove slowly into this destroyed and still burning city. How far from home did he feel at this moment? How would he deal with the fact that it would be a year until he finally saw home again?
This was the real end of the war in Europe. The Russians held a line with the Allies to the west of Berlin that, in time and with a few minor adjustments, would become the border of West and East Germany. West Germany grew to become a great nation with the help of the Allies and the support of the Marshal Plan. East Germany twisted in the breeze and became a political pawn of the USSR during the cold war, which some people say started as soon as the guns fell silent on the Western Front.
I’m writing this in the center of the old East Berlin. It’s right around the 20th Anniversery of the Fall of the Berlin Wall, which took place on October 1rst, 1989. 44 years after grandpa came to the conquered Nazi capital, those wartime decisions which became physical and cultural boundaries were finally rescinded. Germany was one nation again, and a people could finally shed the spectre of the war.
All throughout this trip, as I passed battlefields both ancient and modern, I’m reminded that bad events in time are always related and always lead to other bad events; wars always lead to other wars. I’m reminded of something Neik said; that everything, every event and every person in the world, is connected like a huge circle of humanity. I wonder now if the same idea could be applied in reverse. Can good events on a mass scale lead to other good events?
Certainly, on this trip, I’ve been universally rewarded at most points by random acts of kindness and the essential good in humanity. This is not to say that there haven’t been challenges. I simply mean that whenever I travel like this, and let go of some of my need to always feel as if I’m in control of the situation, I always find that the world has a way of providing what is needed.
Grandpa certainly would have felt that he was swept up in larger events. He couldn’t wait to get home and his letters are numerous and filled with expressions of love and loneliness for home, for his wife, and for his future. He can’t wait to have kids, mentioning in one letter the name of my dad, John, as being reserved for his oldest son.
Grandpa finally came home in 1946 to Grandma, had six children, and became a successful lawyer in Seattle. Although he never talked about he war, and to my knowledge never met any of the friends he had made in the 7th Armored again, I am able through his letters to get a sense of the man he was. He passed suddenly in 1962 of a heart attack.
In a sense, I too am swept away in larger events by grandma’s passing. Because of this, the real end of my story has me sitting here in Berlin after a great journey, waiting to return home to my family, to grandpa’s family, just as he did 65 years ago. Everything is connected.

The Battle of Berlin

2009-11-03T08:14:00.000-08:00

Route: Arrendorf to Finnentrop by bike. Finnentrop to Berlin by train via Dortmund, Essen, Hannover.

Distance: about 560 km.

Camped once again in the frozen drip of the Western German forests, I awoke to the chime of a text message on my phone. I knew she was gone.
When the light finally broke through the mist, I shuddered awake to my last day on the bike. Going through the usual routine of trying in vain to dry my damp clothes under the blower in the bathroom I realized that I was dog tired. Tired of living on the ground in a foreign country, tired of sharing dirty campsite bathrooms with weird middle aged people, tired of getting lost in cities with road nets resembling spaghetti, and tired of following grandpa’s path when it was obviously leading back home.
Rousting out, I slowly packed up the bike for the last time. The rear wheel was shot, it’s bearings loose and its rim bent hopelessly out of round. I threw away a lot of the useless junk I’d managed to acquire on my journey from Normandy; tourist maps, sales slips, plastic bags and silverware. Even with the bad rear wheel, I noticed that the bike was much lighter for the first time in ages as I pedaled down the steep hill leading down into Attendorn.
After aimlessly riding around the small town seeking a train station with a person in it who may be able to explain the intricate German rail system, I elected to bike to Finnentrop, the town I had been through twice the day before and the local rail hub. Besides, it would be a great little spin through the forest past a majestic castle in the trees and through a little valley covered with ponds and rivers; a fitting final trek through the past before rejoining the 21rst century.
When I got to the river under the castle, I had a strange feeling that I was leaving home for the last time. My thoughts turned to Grandma as I rolled a fast downhill and pondered what would happen if I hit a transition from pavement to gravel at 45 kph. Nothing did. I wondered if she was with me.
I continued slowly through the woods, savoring these last moments of freedom in the wilderness. Once I arrived in Finnentrop, I knew that my path would be dictated by train schedules, money, and civilization. The 15 kilometers of dirt, rock and paved trail passed all too quickly underneath my tires and I soon found myself boarding a train to Hagen.
Once you figure it out, the German rail system is truly a marvel. Beyond the usual items of praise like trains running exactly on time, and stations generally being clean and safe, I was blown away by the special cycle car! It’s a whole car on the train with the usual passenger seats removed and fitted out with wheel cages for stowing your bike safely and easily. Small folding jump seats line the opposite side of the car for those riders, like me, who don’t want to leave their bikes and sit with the civilians.
In any case, once your bike is secure, you are free to go anywhere on the train you want. More importantly, you can get anywhere you want in Germany with a bike and a train ticket. I had just boarded in a true backwater the likes of which would not have seen regular rail service in America since the McKinley Administration, and I was headed for Berlin. Imagine trying to New York with a bike from Montana.
The landscape flashed by the window. Soon the forest was replaced with grassy hills, then by cement smoke stacks and graffiti covered walls. It was time to change trains in Hagen. I wrestled the bike down the stairs, through the little corridor, and back up to the platform on track 6.
Once aboard my first transfer, a much bigger and nicer train than the little red regional I just debarked, I stood along with my bike and saw the urban decay of the Ruhr Industrial area replaced by grassy hills once again. Rolling plains soon replaced the hills with little farms settled on them like tiny blankets on an ocean of green grass. All too soon however the smokestacks of Hannover replaced the farms of the Central German Plain, and it was time to change trains once again.
The final train to Berlin had a much bigger and more spacious bicycle car complete with a row of larger folding seats where I could lay back and watch the pictures flash by the window frame. Hannover receded into memory as the flat plains became the dominant terrain feature, only broken here and there by stands of young cedar forest. In the distance, in almost every direction, were tall pole-mounted windmill generators lazily spinning in the breeze like patches of metallic dandelions.
Minus the windmills, all of this would have looked familiar to Grandpa as he speed northeast in his jeep from town to town, city to city, and finally in leaps covering distances of hundreds of miles in a day. After the splitting of the last German resistance in the west with the collapse of the Ruhr Pocket in April 1945, the 7th Armored took in over 113,000 prisoners of war. In a lot of cases, the Germans raced west to get away from the advancing Soviet army, so they could surrender to us. They knew as American POW’s they would be treated fed, housed, processed and treated according to the Geneva Conventions.
As Grandpa continued north toward the Baltic Sea coast near Hamburg, the war for us became a race toward the Soviets. We were trying to get to the sea before them, and secure as much of Western Germany as possible before the end of hostilities. One of the notable missions run during this period was a dash of over 40 miles into German territory made by the 87th Cavalry Recon Squadron, another unit in the 7th Armored. This was the fastest way to contact the Soviets, the thus keep them on the east bank of the Elbe.
Finally, in early May 1945, the main body of the 7th Armored contacted the bulk of the Soviet army northeast of Hamburg. Grandpa spent VE day in Badow, a little town in that area just about 30 miles from the coast. In his letters, he writes that “the Russians seem a gay, childish bunch”, but that they “must also be ferocious fighters” to have “whipped” the Germans like they did. He doesn’t write about any impending sense of confrontation with them, everyone was simply happy that the war was over.
As I stood watching the scenery, a plump German man in a suit came into the car and said hello. I said hi back and we stood awkwardly in silence for a while as we contemplated how to bridge the language barrier. In very broken German I asked him where he was from. In just as broken English, he said “The most beautiful City in Germany! And, the oldest!” He pointed ahead indicating the next stop on a sign over the door which read something like Hoogeburg.
“All of this was British”, he told me in a booming voice while sweeping his arms about him in an arc around the train car. I looked confused. “In the war.” He said by way of explanation. He must have assumed that it was the only reason why an American would be on this train to Berlin.
“Of course,” he smiled, “I wasn’t there.” Just then, the brakes hit and the train came to a squealing stop. He said goodbye, and squeezed through the door ending the odd encounter. He was right of course because the whole section north of Dusseldorf was occupied by the British after the war, but it was the troops of the 7th Armored that had spearheaded the advance and taken it from the Germans. It was paid for with American blood.
Coming into Berlin, the trees were again replaced by pole-mounted lights; the flat countryside by flat rectangular buildings. The Teutonic computer voice rendered in female came over the intercom announcing stations in German and broken English. “Berlin Spandau.”, “Berlin HBF”. It was time to get off. Wrenching the bike from it’s home in the cycle car, I lowered in onto the platform and was soon standing in a dazzling contemporary train station four levels above the street. I was surrounded by grey concrete with polished metal hardware, and a huge metal-framed glass enclosure covering the entire four levels. It began far below me on the cobblestone street and extended in a gigantic arch over the mega-station. It was like standing in a 21rst century cathedral.
Having no idea where to go, and surrounded by rushing people for the first time since leaving New York, I stood dumbfounded by civilization. Mom was calling me about flight details to Seattle and my contact lenses were glazed over and sticky from 12 hours of struggle to get here. I suddenly felt guilty for not biking here and I wanted to take it all back. All the kilometers, all the hours, and all of the days, all of the way, back to the beginning in Cherbourg where I started out with wide dreams and a living Grandmother. But I couldn’t. It was done. I was in Berlin.

Farina and Inez

I was met by Farina at Alexanderplatz Station in Central Berlin. She walked up, hugged me as a long lost friend, and introduced me to the petite blonde standing beside her.
“This is Inez, she is my best friend from Duesberg.”
“Actually, I am hers but she isn’t mine.” Inez said with a wry grin while Farina pretended to pout.
“So, you guys are roommates I take it?” I chimed in. They both sighed and looked at each other like a middle-aged married couple.
“Yes” they toned in unison.
“We are the coolest bitches in Berlin ya?” Inez said finally.
“Ya.” Agreed Farina matter of factly.
Farina, the 22 year old event coordinator of Sleeze Magazine whom I had met while camping at Attendorn, was wearing a white t-shirt and nylons. That is to say, she was san-pants and it wasn’t that long of a t-shirt. While we walked across the square toward their apartment, I noticed that this wasn’t an unusual style among the hip and hot young women of Berlin. Farina also sported a labret piercing and a series of tattoos starting at her neck, disappearing down her back behind her shirt, and reappearing briefly on her upper arms. “That’s Farina.” Inez said to me while pointing at Farina’s backside as she bent over the sink doing dishes in their tiny post-soviet block apartment.
Sleeze Magazine appears to be a fashion rag generally extolling the virtues of topless and otherwise nearly nude women drinking cheap booze, getting massive tattoos, and generally excreting various bodily substances and fluids in and around a brown 1968 Ford Mustang parked in the woods. “It’s called Trash With Substance”, Farina said.
As we sat in the even tinier little kitchen of their punk rock flat, torn pages from Sleeze, an Ozzy Ozborn circa 1981 trading card, and acres of leopard print covering evcerything from the beds to the microwave, Inez explained Farina’s obsession with sales on vintage shoes.
“She’s always looking at ze sales on ze shoes ya?” As if to punctuate this point, Farina produced a high-lift pair of wooden clogs out of a white and black plastic bag that she had bought for 8 Euro earlier in the day. “Come here bitch and take of my shoes” Farina said to Inez while staring at her with a mock-sultry expression.
“She always makes me help her with her shoes.” Inez sighed while putting out her cigarette in the tuna can atop the tiny plastic table.
“So, that makes you the dominant one?” I snapped at Farina.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You see what I have to live with? Quipped Inez. Also 22, she works at a local pop station in Berlin. She is an aspiring DJ, but like many people in show biz has found herself mostly doing programming. “She never does anything around here, she never cleans, she never cooks and she talks back all of the time. Fuck it.”
“Yeah, fuck it.” I laughed, wondering to myself just what kind of scene I had managed to stumble upon. It was if they were both trying so hard to be shocking. Even with all of this apparent rebellion, back talk, and fake punk-rock attitude, they both still found time to prepare me an evening meal of toast, cheese and tea. After all, I was the guest.
About the first thing the girls pointed out to me when I entered the trash-flat was that none of doors worked, or in most cases, were missing. What this meant quickly became apparent when I got up to go to the bathroom and found that the “door” consisted of a broken piece of wood with a boot-sized whole in the middle of it leaning against the wall. It seemed to have been relieved from its former duty on the hinges by violent force as significant pieces of it remained attached to the hinges on the frame.
Every door, except for the front door and the one to leading into Farina’s room, was in a similar state of rapid mis-use and tenuous balance at various points in the apartment.
“That’s just my crazy ex-boyfriend.” Farina said. “He lives here.”
“He lives here?!” I exclaimed.
“Oh wait” she thought a moment, “he lived here, no more. He’s crazy.”
“I don’t like him.” Inez announced while nodding.
“oh, ok.” I said.
“NO, he’s coming back tonight!” Farina laughed.
“Ya!” Inez chimed in like a wolf pouncing on a lamb, “he’s going to kill you tonight!” They both laughed maniacally, and starting uttering German phrases through the guffaws.
“Ya” Inez finally said, “have another beer, it makes our job easier.” They both laughed watching my expression change from sedate to curious to, likely, serious contemplation of jumping out the window.
“Yeah, well, “ I laughed nervously, “I’m a pretty big dude, so you’ll have your work cut out for ya.”
“We are joking.” Farina said very seriously as they both stopped laughing indicating that the humor was over.
“Ya, joking.” Inez followed, “I’m going to the shop, you want some gummy bears?”
“Yeah sure.” I said.
“If you kill her while I’m out, just let me back in when I buzz the door ok?” Inez announced over her shoulder as she flitted through the door. I guessed that it was normal for Germans to joke about sudden violent death. I had heard a few great one-liners earlier including a kindergarten song involving children falling from horses and being crushed under their hooves.
In any case, I decided that two little girls would have a tough time getting one up on me. I wasn’t too threatened. Well, that and I didn’t drink the tea.

A Sad Note

2009-10-06T00:10:00.000-07:00

Route: Attendorn to Schmallenberg via Lennestadt, Graftshaft, Oberkirchen, Obringhausen back to Attendorn

Distance: about 65 km

Today was completely overshadowed by thoughts of grandma. I felt her presence with me, waking up, as I biked through the cold forest, and all throughout the day. Since talking with dad last night, I got the sense that things are really not good; that she will most likely be “checking out” as we like to say in our family. We don’t like to talk about death.
Since finding out that it would cost more than I can mortgage myself for at the moment to get home now, I decided to go to Schmallenberg, the scene of one of grandpa’s battles during the Ruhr Envelopment. This decision was based on the fact that my map said there was a train station there. I figured, I could ride over, see the place, and catch a train as planned to Hamburg. Once in Hamburg, I would await word from home and figure out my next move.
Well, when I got there, no station; of course. Apparently there hadn’t been a station there for some time because people acted like I was asking for fresh squeezed orange juice, an internet connection and a manicure.
Riding out of Attedorn, a blue collar town tucked between the high forested hills in this part of Germany, I found a nice little bike path following the rail line. Interchanging between pockmarked asphalt and red rocky gravel, it led through the little valley over tiny mirrored ponds and stands of young firs. Soon, the pointed spires of a castle jutted from the trees unobtrusively. It’s as if the architecture of this place blends into the forest.
I was making a run to one of the places where grandpa had fought during the last months of the war. In March 1945, the 48th had crossed the Rhine, and assisted with the breakout from the Remagen Bridgehead. As part of this action, they were called on to take numerous small but strategically important towns in this part Germany. This was all part of a larger effort to encircle the remainder of the German Army in what became called the Ruhr Pocket.
Basically, after the failed offensive during the Battle of Bulge, the remainder of the German Army gathered in the major industrial area of the Ruhr Valley. This was where most of Germany’s weaponry, fuel and general supplied were manufactured. Hitler knew that if they lost the Ruhr, the war was over, so he reinforced it with fresh divisions from Norway and Denmark, in addition to the so called Volks-Grenediers, the “peoples army”; a force mainly consisting of boys, old men and culls from the navy and Luftwaffe.
These men could, none the less, still pull a trigger, and thus were a force to be reckoned with. In every little town, every little valley or hill, the men of the 48th encountered some resistance. While it wasn’t nearly a major obstacle to overall victory, it still bled the unit. Men still got killed and wounded taking these small areas trying to build a wall of Americans around the Ruhr. It must have been extremely hard to know that the war was all but over, we would win, but you could still be killed.
As previously mentioned, to visit every specific location where Grandpa fought during this rapidly developing phase of the war would be out of the scope of this trip. Because of this I chose one particular area around Schmallenberg to represent this stage of the fighting. It was characterized my many small units like the 48th AIB driving up highways until fired on, dismounting from their vehicles and figuring out the best way to move forward.
By the time the 48th got to Schmallenberg, the Germans had been surrounded in the Ruhr. Little towns like these, when taken, would open up a road for the attack into the center of the trapped German Army. The final stage of the war was about to begin and grandpa and his men were among those leading the way.
Riding up the narrow river valley of rugged forest coated hills, I could picture the line of artillery, olive drab tanks dug in just behind the tree line, and men in steel helmets crouching in foxholes. They were just up there, at the edges of the trees above me to either side, waiting for the order the move out.
Upon reaching Schmallenburg, I realized that it wasn’t simply one town, but a series of towns centered around one area. Once, this place had been a nation of its own, a little kingdom up in the hilly forestlands of Germany. Now, it was just another little state.
Each town, Grafshaft, Oberkirchen, Schmallenburg, was a arranged in a road loop surrounded a large hill. This hill dominates the territory in the valley, and thus would have been the focus of any attack or defense. Each little town was situated around this high ground at strategic points where roads or streams intersected, sort of like towers in a medieval castle. If you captured one of these towns, the whole area defense was threatened.
One of the “minor” actions was at a town called Grafshaft, then a small hamlet still surrounded in its medieval walls, but controlling access to the road net and the hill beyond. Company C was sent attack and hold the hill while Company B was sent to attack and take Grafshaft. The Germans weren’t about to let this little key to the ring defenses go without a fight, so once pushed off the hill by Co. C, they counterattacked.
Co. C was pulled back about 1000 yards down the hill. Meanwhile, because of this, Co. B was stalled in the attack on the town. The Germans had the initiative for the moment, and were bleeding B and C companies. Grandpa, along with Co. A was ordered to move into the dense woods on the high ground the south of Grafshaft without being noticed by the Germans.
Riding up this little valley, I was breathing hard, and seeing a lot of hills. It was plain to see that any well organized defense here would have been very hard to break. This was probably why the town had been founded where it had, I thought as I passed a sign which read “Grafshaft 1072-1972”. A light rain was falling from a grey sky.
Grandpa and his men hiked on foot north along a ridge overlooking the town at night, making no sound, and probably carrying nothing but their rifles, extra ammo and grenades. A 20 minute artillery preparation fired into Grafshaft, and then they were off, running down the hill out of the trees trying to cover the 200 yards to the town before the Germans had a chance to pull their heads out.
As I rode past the stone walls, filled with building from the 17th century I thought that this must have been the center of resistance. Other houses were built to the left of highway, downhill, but they looked generally modern. Then, I noticed a peculiar custom of this part of Germany; the builder of a house carves his name and date into the main crossbeam over the front door. In the case of most, the dates on these stucco and wood frame houses are no earlier than 1700 and no later than 1830. Some of these houses where here in 1944.
It must have been something to run headlong down these grass fields toward the town below, loaded gun in hand, knowing that Germans were waiting for you; bullets whipping the ground, mortars exploding around your feet, and men getting hit and falling. How difficult it must have been for these guys to push into this type of frontal attack this late in the game, knowing that the end of the war was but months away.
Grafshaft fell to A Co. that morning. Afterwards, Co. B came through to “mop up” stragglers and snipers. Co. C took the high ground because the Germans had lost their base of supply and the stage was set for a later, and larger, attack on Schmallenburg itself. Once these towns had been taken, the way was open for the attack to continue north and west all the way to Dortmond, Dusseldorf and Essen, three large industrial centers and home to the remainder of German military resistance in the west.
Riding back to Schmallenberg via the little highway to Oberskirchen, I was winded. The entire route today had taken me up a river valley into the hills. In short coming here was a ride 40km uphill with me thinking that I would get on a train to Hamburg at the end.
The real fun began when I had trouble locating the train station in Schmallenberg. The map I had just bought a few days before said there was one here. But where? After riding around the perimeter a few times, I asked a youngish looking woman and her boyfriend who were waiting for a table at a café in this mostly tourist oriented town of grey stone houses and tall hills.
“Ya, the next station is in Neuestaadt” The guy said, “it’s about 18km back, enjoy your ride.”
An 18 km backtrack is not the best outcome in any days ride. I mean, 18km is probably 10 minutes in the car. On a bike with gear, that more like 25-30 minutes. And it was getting dark. Does that seem to be happening sooner every day?
Luckily, turning back and riding the entire route had its advantages. For one thing, I wouldn’t be getting lost. For another, it was pretty much all downhill. However, I never like to backtrack. Whenever possible, I would rather take an unknown road and risk getting lost then have to go back the way I came. Something about it always feels like I lost.
But, in this case, I really had no choice. I was between camping areas by about 45km, according to my now suspect map. This meant that if I continued east to the camping, I would just have to ride back down west the next day to get to the train station. Given this, I elected to go back. Luckily, it only took me 15 minutes of getting lost in Schmallenburg to figure out how to go back down the road I’d come in on. By this time it was gloomy, raining, and around 6 pm.
I put on some Dethklok and hauled as much as possible back down the 18km to Neustaadt. Once there, I found no train station. Asking the locals provided me with a host of different German to try and decipher. Eventually I gleaned that I had to go further back toward where I had camped the night before.
I finally found a station at Alundrumen. I walked by bike past a group of drunk teens out for a Saturday night. Sometimes I forget the day of the week here. This, of course, was very special Oktoberfest weekend for many Germans, which I think explained the plethora of drunken teens hanging out by the local train station, which was so far from open that it made riding back to Attendorn seem like a good idea.
So, backtracking all the way to the place where I had just camped became my plan. If I had only known this would happen, I would obviously not have hauled my gear which today made my rear wheel bearing howl with protest. I later found out that it had come loose about 1/8th of an inch. That’s big in bearing world!
The sun set behind a veil of low hanging clouds as I pedaled as fast as possible back to Attendorn. I knew that a massive hill climb up to the camping area awaited me at the very end of the run. It was dark, raining and cold.
After cresting the hill at the campsite with The Roots nudging me up the last 200 Meters to the camp area, I called Becky. She listened to me rant about not being able to figure out the trains and how everything is shut down because of Oktoberfest. When I was done, she suggested that if I was stuck here anyway, I may as well try to go have some fun. Maybe go to a bar or something? I was skeptical as I don’t speak a word of German, I was camped in a forest surrounded by trailer homes, and everyone seems to know everyone else here. Frankly, I was just tired and cold and I planned on getting in the tent and drifting off.
No sooner had I hung up the phone, when a girl from the camp across the way came over, cigarette in hand, and asked if she could help me set up my tent. She, and her entire family in the RV, had been watching me stand around the flattened tent on the ground talking on the phone and probably thought I was in need of help in more ways than one.
This quickly turned into a beer and full introductions with her family back at the set of RV’s parked in there space. As the night progressed, and it got very cold and windy, we sat in one of the RV’s drinking wine and talking along with her little sister and tiny poodle.
Farina was from Deusburg originally, but was currently working as an event planner in Berlin. Her sister, Mariana, was a student hoping to come to New York for a year of student exchange. Neither of the sisters was too thrilled about being stuck in an RV with their entire extended families for the weekend. It was their grandfather’s birthday and he had wanted to go camping. I sensed that they weren’t as bored as they let on, although they did gravitate toward the strange American in there midst.
While we talked about the differences between Germans and Americans in one trailer, the parent and grandparents were getting stomping drunk in the other.
“She doesn’t do this that often, so when she does, she really let’s loose.” Farina said about her mother by way of explanation.
Eventually, the conversation got to down to stereotypes.
“What do Americans think of Germans?” asked Farina’s little sister, “it seems like all they think about is Hitler, like he’s still in charge of us or something!”
I asked where she got that idea, and she said something about an encounter in Italy before Farina chimed in with, “I think Americans are stupid.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Most of them don’t know where Canada is on the map.” She dryly replied.
“Yes, that’s true a lot of Americans are dumb. It’s not necessarily their fault, but it partly is. I mean, “ I tried to explain to these middle class college girls who come from a culture of where achievement is prized above all else, “In America, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, like no one is holding an axe to your head saying you will finish school and become a doctor you know?”
They looked at me funny, and I could tell that they had absolutely no idea what an axe had to do with it.
“What I mean is”, I continued, “if you want to be dumb, and live your life that way, we say that’s ok you know?. But we also say, you’ll be dumb and treated like you are.”
It’s hard to explain away something that is plainly true. We are a nation becoming dumber. Our country really is, in some ways, filled with people who choose to be ignorant. Our educational system rewards blind obedience and strict adherence to mediocre performance. Our government is clearly interested in maintaining that status quo through the reforms of the past decade.
Once people are not taught how to think for themselves, they become easier to fit into the broad fabric of C+ performance that our country is becoming. Let’s face it, our life expectancy is declining, we are not teaching our children how to think, we are working harder and more than ever before (more hours than Japan now), and we are simply becoming more and more unhappy as people. We are clearly not the same country that came here and won this war.
Faced with all of this, I had to acknowledge that yes, there are some really dumb people in America, but there are also dumb people everywhere. In addition, there are some very smart people in America as well.
“Do you like Obama?” Farina asked.
“Yes, I really like him. I voted for him.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Well, I really wanted him to change things, like really change things. No more war on terror, nor more war on drugs, you know; Real change.”
“Why do Americans say “you know” all the time? You do say it all the time.” Mariana asked.
“ummm, I don’t know, ya know?”

Throughout the blustery night, the mother, father, and grandmother made silly appearances at the door of the RV with flasks, cigarettes and beer. I’m pretty sure it was a way of checking in on this weird guy with their daughters at first, but soon it became a little party between the trailers.
We laughed, and sang “Hey Baby” over and over again because I think it was the only song in English that Farina’s mother knew. I felt accepted for a time by good people just when I needed it. I managed to forget about the things I can’t change like where I am right now in relation to home, and how much money (that I don’t have) it would take to affect that.
Soon, the parents, being the drunkest of the bunch, needed to go to bed, and it was out with the American and in with the pass outs who owned the place. Farina and I said a quick goodbye, and I went off to my tent with the sounds of a happy family echoing through the night beyond.
Tomorrow I think I will attempt to get to Berlin for at least one night. Grandpa spent nearly a year there after the war. He describes the devastation, hunger and malice of the city at that pivotal moment in time when we stopped hugging the Soviets and started staring across the invisible barrier between east and west.
From there, I will go as planned to Hamburg and visit Badow, a little town to the northeast where Grandpa spent VE day. In his letters, he talks about how the 48th took over a landed estate complete with golf links, hunting grounds and a mansion that made his chateau on the Rhine look like a “shack”.
He also talks about how the landed gentry who owned the place were “die hard Nazis”, and they weren’t allowed back into their home by the men of the 48th, not even to collect bed sheets and clothing. When they protested that they owned the estate grandpa said, “This place is now owned by Uncle Sam.” He had to explain what that meant to them. He said he felt “very proud”.

After going to bed that night, watching the clouds roll over the deepening gloom of the tree coated hills, I couldn’t escape the irony of my situation. I was here, where he had been 65 years ago, overshadowed by thoughts of the same person. Grandma Vernice. Vernice Munsey. Vernice Wells. Vernice Brown. She was dying in Seattle. Just as he was here at the beginning of their lives together, I was here at the end of hers. Like him, I wanted nothing more than to return home and be with the family.

How I Almost Went to Oktoberfest...but didn´t

2009-10-06T00:05:00.000-07:00

Route: Bonn to Hartegasse via Cologne
Distance: about 100 km

Well, wow. Today was a mindblower! Waking up in my plush hotel room in Bonn. I showered for the first time (it’s a real luxury when your camping) and headed down for my included breakfast. Thank God the German don’t mess around with the kind of make your own Bisquick waffle “continental breakfast” that you get in the states. In a huge buffet was served, among other things, a huge pot full of scrambled and eggs along with pretty much any possible meat product that you could desire.
I know I’ve made this point many times, but food is fuel on a bike trip, so I helped myself. I also brought my backpack down with me to see if I couldn’t take a few pastry- like things with me. I managed two full plates of breakfast, and several sweet roles. This is amazingly good because the roles will last, and I don’t have to stop and pay for more for a few days. I ignored the stares of the perfectionist staff and the business people getting ready for their morning meetings. Are any of them going to get on a bike loaded with 60 pounds and ride 100 km up and down hills all day?
I left armed with a street map of Bonn given to me by the incredibly helpful dude at the front desk. He was really fishing for a tip! Anyway, I ended up finding Ippendof no problem. It makes sense that every place where grandpa fought is basically at the top of a hill. This suburb of Bonn is no exception. I went from river level up to about 250 meters in 2 km. Riding up and up into a section of hill overlooking, and thus commanding, the city. Here, the Germans put up a fight in a vane effort to hold the city west of the Rhine.
Today, it looks just like an urban neighborhood. Bonn is a large city, some 3 million people, so anywhere this close to the center is basically just another city pocket. An old church, and two old looking wood and stucco buildings are all that remain of the old town center. Perhaps grandpa walked past these very buildings. Everything else is new, not just since the war, but new since I would say the 1990’s.
From this now nondescript location, it was on to Kessinich, another suburb of Bonn. Here Grandpa had what he called in his letters “a chateau on the Rhine”, now it’s what looks like a former well to do place filled with older somewhat rundown houses. Also, the former West German government buildings seem to have been placed pretty much right in the middle of the neighborhood.
While waiting for a train to pass, along with 10 or so other people on cycles in the rain, we were all treated to a half musical, half drunk speak soliloquy given by a very intoxicated gentlemen astride a Pugeot ten speed complete with front string basket. He went on and on while those around me looked away in discust. I couldn’t help laughing quietly to myself as he tried to talk to the unfortunate truck driver next to him. I didn’t have to speak German to understand his main points.
“Allas Kaput, allas shizza!” he toned on and on standing in the rain at the train crossing at 9 in the morning on a Thursday. I thought to myself, I know man, I know. There really is nothing I like better than a good “yeller” as I call them.
Rolling across the Rhine was the start of my real km today. After I got across the third great water barrier on this trip, I realized that I had no idea where I was going on the other side. Originally, I had thought that I would role south back down to Remagen, only on the east bank, but once there, I was only going to turn right around and head back north to Cologne. So, I decided, given the time I have left, to simply head upriver to that great ancient city Koln, and go east to Schmallenburg from there. In that sense, today was another day where I had a lot of road to burn.
Riding up the river, I found the usual perfectly paved bike path running down stream and flirting with the vestigial stands of oak forest on the banks. Really, the entire length of the river from Bonn to Cologne is one large suburb. What I mean is that, in stark contrast to the forests and mountains of the past two weeks, today was primarily an urban ride. I had to dust off the riding in city skills which definitely become a little rusty, especially as the Germans seem to hate it as much as us Americans when you get on their highways with a bike.
As I approached Cologne, the first thing I could see, towering above the city, was the great Cathedral. I had hoped that this famous building would not appear small or in some other way be a let down. It did not disappoint at all. As someone who has practiced architecture for 10 years, I truly am boggled by how they built something so tall out of stone without any steel reinforcement. The towers of the cathedral have to be easily over 300 feet tall. Maybe more like 350 or 400. That is a roughly equivalent to a 25 story building! To say that this great edifice dominates the skyline of this ancient, and yet very modern city, is an understatement.
Cologne is perhaps the oldest continuously occupied city in Western Europe. It began under the reign of Octavian Ceasar as the major shipping and commercial center on the Rhine. The great cathedral, having been composed of several buildings built on top of one another, was founded at the end of the Roman Empire during the era when Christianity became the official state religion. During late antiquity and the early middle ages the city served as one of the great centers of western thought at a time when the light of civilization was dimmed in Europe.
All of this history was nearly destroyed during the battle for Cologne during World War Two. The Nazis had made a practice of blowing up all church towers in every city as they retreated because they made perfect observation posts.
Rolling on the cobblestone rail switchyard on the East bank of the river, the city lazily sliding by on left side, it occurred to me that I had no idea how to get out east to where I planned on camping that night near Lindlar. It is a big city, and it seemed that I had spend the better part of the day getting to it, getting lost in it, and trying to find my way out.
Soon my journey upriver came to the point where I had to turn east. The usual bike signage was nowhere to be seen, and the rail yards I had been riding up the east bank were ending. I had to do something, so I picked a street and turned east on it. In a matter of minutes I was lost in a maze of urban decay, graffiti and broken glass. It can’t be that bad, I thought to myself, there are still cyclists on the road, windows in the buildings, and people walking on the streets. Then it got bad, real bad.
Certainly when living in New York, you sometimes find yourself in these types of neighborhoods. The ones where all the windows are gone from the buildings, long ago replaced boards or simply never replaced. You can always tell a really bad neighborhood because no one is walking around, and generally the only people you see are hanging out in windows, or in doorways staring at you.
In situations like these, I often find that discretion is the better part of valor, by which I mean, I put my head down and get through it as fast as possible. This is no problem when your on a bike, you just keep going. Don’t stop for signs or lights, just keep up a steady pace that doesn’t betray any fear, but yet gets you out of the bad part fast.
Well, in doing this in Cologne, I ended up in a not so terrible suburb which was anybodies guess on the map because it didn’t appear. I knew kind of where I was supposed to be, and kind of where I was. As I sat studying my map over and over again trying to will street names to appear that simply weren’t there, a smiling very German looking dude rolled up on a touring bike. It was as if he appeared from a crack in the universe just when I needed a guide.
Christian had long silver hair, a full white beard, and large smiling countenance set behind plastic prescription sports goggles. He asked, in extremely accented English where I was going. After a long, and somewhat difficult conversation I gathered that Christian rode his bike everyday to work in Cologne, that rode over 1000 km per year on holiday alone, and he thought I was nuts for trying to camp where I had planned. Later events surprisingly proved him correct, but we’ll get there.
Soon we were pedaling through the forest, in the middle of the city, on a “short cut” he knew. Granted, I had just met the guy, so I at first used the pretext that I was carrying a lot of weight to keep him in front of me. Of course, he actually was a lot faster than me, and I ended up having to really pull on those pedals to keep him in site on muddy curvy trail.
We soon popped out into another suburb which looked exactly like one I was lost in, and my fears of being mugged by some gang of Christians buddies in the trees proved ridiculously wrong headed. He turned out to be just another in a long line of very well meaning people on bikes who’ve helped me along the way when I needed it.
At a roundabout, he stopped and directed me the rest of the way out of the city via a series of hand signals and landmark phrases like “big hill” and “shopping place” as indicators of where I was turn either left or right. There are so many damn little roads here. To be honest, I’m really starting to question whether I know what left and right mean any longer. With a wave and “good luck” shouted back over his left shoulder, Christian the Bike Viking disappeared around a corner and back in whatever dimension he is from.
I actually managed to follow his directions, and ended up out of town and headed on the right road. Truly a case of symbiotic minds working together, because anyone will tell you that back at home I have trouble remembering where I put my shoes, phone and wallet, let alone some geometrically complicated set of directions in a foreign country.
Once I made it out of Cologne, finally, it was getting dark and I had at least 30 km to go to what my map indicated was a set of two camp areas near the town of Lindlar. I can smoke 30k if I need to in an hour. This is no problem, if I knew which way to go. I figured, I have about an hour and a half till dark, I’ll just hammer down, follow the signs and get there.
Follow the signs.
Well, the signs seemed to lead me in circles for 30 minutes or so. I seriously went over the same river 4 times, up and down what looked like different places on the same hill, and through around 45 identical looking little towns before I found the signs for Lindlar. It was darker and starting to rain.
The signs directed me onto highways filled with rush hour traffic from Cologne just now getting out to the country. When Germans get out of the city on the roads after work, its game day; I mean, there is no speed limit, and everyone drives a BMW or a Mercedes. In short, I had my life flash before my eyes more times getting to Lindlar then I’ve ever had riding to work in Manhattan. These guys haul ass, and they don’t care that you’re on the road.
Finally arriving at the vaunted metropolis of Lindlar, I stocked up on dinner foods per normal, grabbed some cash for the campsite, and headed out of town in the dusky rain. 15 minutes later when my third attempt to find the right road to the campsite failed, I asked a very nice woman who spoke a little English. What followed were another set of arcane directions involving taking three lefts and two rights, then your first exit from the first roundabout, the third from the second one, and riding up a huge hill. Of course, by the time I actually found the hill, it was fully dark and freezing cold.
If course when I actually got to the town where the camping was supposed to be, it wasn’t. So, I did what anyone in my situation would do. I purchased half a chicken from the lone street vendor figuring that I’d at least have something warm to eat whenever I got to wherever I was going. She explained, through her large drunk friend who supposedly spoke English that the camping was actually in the next town, which just happened to be down the other side of the hill I’d just spent 15 minutes climbing up.
When I descended the hill into the spooky darkness of the German forest below, the wind froze my hands and face. I needed to find a place to get warm. Finding no camping in the next town, I knocked on a door and was greeted by a well meaning housewife who indicated that the camping was in the next town. I felt like Cortez on his quest for Eldorado talking to the Indians. “Oh you mean THAT golden city. Yeah, that’s in the next town man, just keep walking that way. Thanks for the horses and smallpox!”
Finally, it was really and truly night. I was in a town that looked just like every other town I’d seen before, and figured I’d at least go get warm and grab a beer or something. Maybe someone at the bar would know a place to camp.
Walking in, I was greeted by a middle aged guy who looked like he knew how to drink beer, a charming older bar maid in glasses, and a blonde girl about my age who spoke perfect English. Thank God! She, I think, was looking for an excuse to get away from Johny von Grabby hands at the bar, and offered right away to drive me around looking for camping at all the surrounding towns.
Stefi was a graphic designer in Cologne who literally jumped up and down with excitement when she heard I was from New York. In our brief acquaintance, she drove me all over the area and translated for me in three separate bars. No luck. Finally, she talked to the owner of a local hotel about a block from the bar where we met, and I ended up with a great room, with private bathroom, for 30 Euro! Breakfast included! That is hands down the best deal I’ve yet found. Those little hotels man!
Of course, just like ordering drinks at a club, it helps when you show up with a very attractive blonde girl. As we returned to the bar where we met, I offered to buy her a few beers for helping me. I ended up discovering that the local brew was very good, and only .90 cents a glass. This coupled with the warm cozy bar and the German conversation made for a very good ending to what could have been a very crappy night of poaching a camping spot somewhere in the forest.
She came with me back to the hotel when I got tired to make sure that I got breakfast included with my room. On the way over, she talked about how she was going to New York for Revit training soon. I mentioned that I’d be happy to show her and her friend around the city. Then, she mentioned that she and that same friend were going to Oktoberfest in Munich the next day, and that she could arrange for me to come with.
I feel the need to paraphrase Ghostbusters here again; when the blond girl asks you to go to Oktoberfest in Munich with her and her girlfriend “you say YES!” Of course, it didn’t work out with the friend. Stefi texted me later that night with “bad news”, there was no room at the place they were staying. I’m sure the conversation with her friend actually went something like this: “You want to bring a smelly homeless biker that you just met at a bar with us to Munich for 4 days? ahhhhh..and I can’t believe I have to say this to you…no.”

Heimbach to Altenahr

2009-10-01T07:13:00.000-07:00

Route: Heimbach to Altenahr via Mechernich, Euskirchen and Bad Munstereifel
Distance: about 70 km

So, breaking spokes is just a normal part of life now. I woke up to a cloud covered morning sky next to my little meandering river. The clouds had held in the heat of the day, and I overslept comfy and warm in the sleeping bag for a change. Getting up, I just didn’t want to leave, but I knew I had to. A rest is fine, three days in one place isn’t a rest, its lack of motivation.
Somberly putting my gear into the bags, and checking over the bike I noticed that another spoke had gone sometime during my wandering around Heimbach and associated trails. That was two new spokes that I needed to replace. I was going to have to find a bike shop, and this meant going to a city. Also, while shaking out the tent, one of the main poles snapped. Duct tape to the rescue again, I hope. Once the pole breaks, it’s kind of hard to set up the tent!
I’m know that grandpa wanted to come home the entire war, based on his letters, but his prose definitely became more terse and to the point after the Battle of the Bulge. He is no longer full of boyish sayings like “in the last fracas the old boy got the silver star”. I’ll find some better quotes, but he is very tired of being in the war at this point. I think all the men were to some extent.
I am tired of being on the road and that is certain. Tomorrow marks my one month anniversary since leaving New York. That’s four long weeks away from Becky and home, three on the bike, and I’ve got two more ahead of me. She joked about me coming home early and Lord knows I would love to. I can’t help but feel, however, that if I did that, the story would only ¾ done, and I will have missed the end. So, just as the war wasn’t over in March 1945, I’m not done here and I will see it through.
Even though it was apparent that Germany was going to loose after the Bulge, they didn’t give up, and the war dragged on for three more months. They fought a defensive holding action all the way back to the Rhine River, and grandpas unit, after resting and training new replacements, went into the attack south of Bonn centered around a town called Ippendorf.
The Germans were trying desperately to maintain a bridgehead on the west side of the Rhine as an escape route for troops left behind after the Bulge, and as a jumping off point for another offensive that Hitler was planning. Contrary to popular belief, a large German army remained in the Ruhr Pocket, and they were a force to be reckoned with.
Meanwhile, the Allies were trying staging troops and equipment for an assault across the Rhine to the north of the Ruhr. This was to be the final offensive of the war. If they could get across the river, only the smaller Elbe River stood between them and Berlin. The end was in sight, but it wasn’t done yet.
While grandpa was busy fighting to take Ippendorf and close the German salient west of the river, a sudden breakthrough came to the south. Elements of the 3rd Armored Division, under standing orders to take any intact bridge they could across the river, found one by shear luck at Remagen. The now famous Luddendorf Railway Bridge was taken intact by a platoon of Armored Infantry on the run. During the assault, the frantic Germans blew explosives which had been mounted to the bridge in an attempt to destroy it, and as many Americans with it as they could.
As soon as the Americans had crossed the bridge however, teams of combat engineers had gone to work disarming the explosives to the effect that, when they were detonated, they failed to fully destroy the bridge. While the engineers started to reinforce the damaged bridge, under a hail of machine gun, mortar, artillery, and last ditch Luftwaffe air raids, the 3rd Armored moved all of their heavy armor across as fast as possible, and a small, but defensible bridgehead on the east of Rhine had been established.
Upon hearing this news, the US 1rst Army starting putting as many units as they could across the damaged bridge while engineers built pontoon bridges to the north and south of the Luddendorf. All of this was done under heavy enemy fire, and some artillery units from the 7th armored were called into action defending the airspace around the bridge. Finally, the bridge collapsed, taking a lot of American lives with it. By then, however, the damage was done, and we were firmly across the Rhine.
Grandpas unit was called south to cross during the mad rush to get a bridgehead established, and breakout of the geographic confines around the east bank at Remagen. The 48th crossed the Rhine on March 24, 1945. I’m not as yet sure exactly how, but most likely on a Baily pontoon bridge. They then attacked east through the bridgehead, and spearheaded the allied advance into the heart of Germany.
My route will actually be the reverse due to the fact there are no bridges left at Remagen. I’ll go to Remagen, and work my way north up to Bonn, cross there and come back down south to visit some of the towns that the 48th took on their advance. I may let myself have the luxury of a hotel room in Bonn, we’ll see! Internet, showers, and clean clothes. Hmm.
And now for something completely different: I was sitting in my tent last night, contentedly feeding my nerdery by designing the perfect touring bike on some graph paper I had acquired at the market, when my reverie was disturbed by a very loud helicopter flying over. Being an aviation enthusiast to the most embarrassing degree, I find it impossible to not look up at the sky whenever some form of flying machine is present. It’s a conditioned response.
So, I stuck my head out of the tent, and saw a red and yellow painted Bell of some type I didn’t recognize flying directly over the field I was camped at. The site, I should mention, was completely surrounded by forested hills. He was flying over, and getting lower by the minute. Interesting, I thought, as I continued to watch from the apparent safety of my tent.
Suddenly, the whirlybird swung a hard left, and came around on a tight 180 directly over my tent. The pilot popped the door open, and looked down at me. I looked up at him. The whine of the engines, and the downwash from the rotor made me instinctively jump up out of the tent and stare up at this object as it continued to descend rapidly.
It took a while for it to occur to me that I was probably watching an emergency landing in progress. As the helicopter got down to treetop level, it swung out over the little stream in front of my site. With the pilot looking down from the open door like one does when backing up into a tight parking spot, he quickly brought the helicopter down gain to land perfectly in a soccer field filled with children directly across the stream.
I saw a mob of them run screaming from the chopper as the pilot powered down the aircraft. The engine exhaust finally subsided enough for me to hear the sirens of the approaching emergency vehicles. That was some damn good flying!
An ambulance came, along with some other vehicles. I couldn’t quite see because the helicopter was blocked from my view by some trees where it had come down. After about 20 minutes, the ambulance drove away, and the chopper powered up and took off, flying along over the hills as if nothing had happened.
After last night’s excitement, the route today, like the weather, was kind of a let down. I thought it was going to rain pretty much all day, I could see the low hanging grey clouds coming from the north. It never did, but as soon as I climbed out of the valley around Heimbach, bidding the amazing castle and little town goodbye on my way, the air turned damp and cold. October is almost here, and the weather is definably changing. The leaves are starting to be blown off the trees, and the farmers of all burning the fields, getting ready for winter.
The increasingly pained sounds coming from the back wheel, along with a noticeable shutter on the rotation told me that I had to get the wheel fixed, and fast, or I would be buying another one. I looked at the map and figured that a town the size of Mechernich should have a bike shop.
Passing from the tall hills covered with trees into the rolling farm land east of the Ruhr, I saw more cows than cyclists and, sure enough, when I arrived in the dumpy looking, graffiti coated town of my hopes, I was told that the only bike shop was in Euskirchen, some 15 km to the north.
I was again not sure if the wheel could make it that far. Well, that and it was 15 km out of the way to the north. That would mean a 30km detour in the middle of the day. Damn. Looking at the wheel, and weighing my options, I could see that going to Euskirchen was my only option.
Grandpa must have suffered from equipment failure all the time. An armored unit was always working its gear to the breaking point. The maintenance crews attacked to each armored division worked around the clock, under combat conditions, to make sure that they tanks and halftracks moved when they were supposed to. Theirs was truly a thankless job, toiling away in a muddy field in the middle of winter to change an engine in a tank. That was real work, but it had to be done. It was just as important as firing a rifle.
Euskirchen, I had been warned by the cute waitress from the café two days ago, was not a place I should go. I think she said, “It is bad there, don’t go.” Now, I live in New York City. I am used to some questionable neighborhoods, but the last thing I want to do is get stuck for a night in some messed up German ghetto.
True to her word, on arrival into this thriving metropolis filled with angry looking men in their 40’s staring at the streets from windows, and graffiti encrusted everything, I felt a little unwelcome in this stronghold. Taking a wrong turn on the bike path, and ending up in a not so great looking patch of woods from which I had to extricate myself by cutting a trail to the nearby highway, I came across a concrete overpass with a swastika spray painted on it.
This symbol, as with all other sayings, songs, related artwork, etc., is forbidden in Germany today. I’ve seen that emblem of hate painted on a thousand walls and in a thousand stalls all over the US, but there is something more palpable and potent about seeing it splattered roughly on a concrete wall under the highway here in the country of its misuse. It is as if the reason for the symbol lays dormant under this veneer of civilization. I turned away from it, and went the other way.
Finding a bike shop, in a crappy part of town, I met Jurgen, a friendly bike guy about my age. He took one look at my wheel, and quickly got to work replacing all my spokes. While he was in the shop, people kept coming into the shop and asking me for help. I felt like I was back at work in New York, and the only reason why I didn’t help out was the language barrier.
I get the sense that the stereotype of all German school kids learning English is really only true in the richer cities. Here in this working class, mostly Turkish, city the kids that came in did not speak a word of English, and to compound this, their parents spoke only Turkish.
Jurgen was running back and forth trying to explain to this one kid over and over again why a used bike was priced the way it was. When the kid bought the bike, and instantly brought it back to complain about the brake lines getting caught on the front reflector, I felt like I was in some German alternate bike universe with Jurgen playing my role. I’m not sure about all of what he said, but their conversation ended with Jurgen pointing to the reflector and saying “Shiza” repeatedly.
After a while, a friend of the shop came in and we chatted for a bit. Then I told them I was from New York, and worked in a shop there. Both of them looked at me funny and asked, “New York and you’re here? Why?” I explained the project and the book.
“Let me show you my bike!” Jurgen’s friend interrupted me. “It’s from New York too! You see?” He pulled out a German made dual suspension mountain bike roughly equivalent to a Specialized Epic.
“Yeah, nice wheels man!” I exclaimed, while Jurgen slowly tightened the new spokes. I was happy to get the service, but I also wanted to get back on the road.
After a few minutes of broken English discussion about Jurgen’s and his buddy’s bikes, the buddy pedaled out of the shop, and Jurgen presented me with a newly spoked rear wheel. I checked the bearings, and had him reset them. I think with all the commotion he just forgot to do it.
With more customers coming in, I told him to go ahead and try to sell some stuff while I set the brakes, and generally checked over the work. I noticed that he tightened the cassette down way too much, and I wanted to see what else he did. I mean, he was a really nice guy, but some mechanics just feel the need to tighten everything down like it had to hold back the vacuum of space.
Back on the road and running as fast as I could, I followed the signs for Bad Munsterereifel, a town surrounding a castle, still surrounded by its ancient walls. Germany has a great bike trail system. It’s not as extensive as The Netherlands, but you can still generally count on bike paths and trails to every major destination. Usually, the main highways ill also have corresponding paved bike paths running alongside them.
They are surprisingly not well marked, however, and more than once I had to double back or run around a little village asking for directions. I do feel now that I’m starting to get the logic behind these little medieval towns. There is, or was once, always a castle or church smack in the center. If the original town wall still exists, there is usually a park around these with a road built into it. If the walls are gone, they are the road. Either way, there is a serpentine road which runs around the center of town. If you get lost, just find the main orbiting road. Pretty easy.
Off of this road, there are several branches which lead in all directions. They are usually marked with the names of the large cities that they run towards. Sometimes, the streets are actually named for the cities that they lead to. In this case, it’s just a matter of riding the orbital road enough times to get used to the signs, and then pick the one with the name that most closely approximates your destination. So far this method has served me pretty well. That and a compass.
Pulling out of Bad Munstereifel, while feeling a pang of guilt for not stopping to check out the intact medieval castle and town, I soon found myself in the longest uphill I’ve yet had. 4 km straight up and gaining probably close to 300 meters. I glanced at my contourless map and surmised that I would be going over a pass at around 540 meters. That’s over 1500 feet up a rock pathway through the woods at the end of the day.
It took all the strength I could muster not to simply pull off to the side and camp in the trees. Back home, that just camping, but here you would get a sizable ticket. The Germans love their forests, and they love them untouched, which is great, but it also means that you end up camping in trailer parks with crappy bathrooms in less than desirable parts of whatever town you’re staying in. Currently, I’m adjacent to a heavily used railroad track and there is a bum rustling in the bushes behind my tent. Charming.
All of my effort was rewarded when I crossed out of the woods, and back onto the open road. Soon a long series of downhill switchbacks opened up before me, and I felt like James Bond swooshing down the narrow windy roads of Europe to the canyon below. My Surly with the bum rear wheel is a far cry from an Austin Martin, but what the hell.
At the bottom, I heard the sweet sound of yet another spoke breaking. Yes! Luckily, before I left Jurgen’s shop, I had him cut 10 extras for me!

German Beer Is Stronger than American Beer.

2009-10-01T07:05:00.000-07:00

Route: To the bathroom 47 times last night
Distance: About 100 m each way

You know when 30 beers are just not enough? Also, don’t you hate having to keep getting up and opening another normal sized can of beer every two seconds?
Well, the Germans, with typical efficiency, have solved this problem by making small kegs available for sale at practically every store, gas station, and vending machine that you see. While I definitely was tempted to go the “large” on beer with dinner last night, I knew that purchasing said keg was a commitment that this author was just not willing to make. Well, that and I couldn’t fit it into my backpack.
While speaking English with a wonderfully charming woman I met at the gas station named Mirium, I was running around the inside of the shop grabbing what few items one could term as food. This state of affairs for the evening meal came about because Germany, like France, closes down on Sundays as well. This was the only store in town that was open, and more importantly, took visa.
Mirium could sense that I wasn’t from Germany, and began our conversation by asking what I was doing in town, and if I had a place to stay. She quickly followed this up by saying that she had a husband and three boys, and I was welcome to sleep in the garage. Her husband is a cyclist from Wales, and they offer the garage to other cyclists who come through town.
I was, however, camped in the nicest spot I’ve had yet. It’s in an open grass field surrounded by steep forested hills, and right next to a fresh sounding river. I really wanted to stay where I was, plus I had already paid, so I regretfully turned down her generous offer knowing that I would probably get a lot of stories out of it.
Instead what I did was buy some cheese, salami and beer for dinner. I chose the smaller cousin of the pony keg, which I will term a goat keg. It was a large black can of beer, big enough to keep me happy, but small enough not to affect my performance the next day. This is, of course, before I got half way through it and realized that it was 10%, and by then the damage was already done.
Needless to say, this morning I awoke to the sunlight streaming through the tent, a headache the likes of which I haven’t had since college, and knew that I wasn’t going anywhere today. It was hard even pedaling down the hill to the only open café in town on Monday morning, where I wolfed a breakfast of coffee, various bread product, and cheese. I guess you can’t get omelets in Germany?
Oh well, I needed a rest, and now I’ve got one in the most beautiful little town I’ve yet found. After eating, I walked up to the castle, and climbed the great round watchtower to the top to get the view. The three gorges that this castle commands come together at the point of rock upon which it is perched. From the top of the tower, the little houses, streets and open spaces of the town below clung below the castle like barnacles on a rock at sea. The whole town is organic.
The other great thing about this part of Germany is that it was left pretty much intact by the war. By the time the Allies got this far, the Germans had pretty much all retreated back to the Rhine, which is around 40 km to the east of here. Thank God at least some of these towns and their history were preserved because it is amazingly gorgeous.
As I descended the tower, and rode back through the meandering cobble stones to the camp ground, bleary eyed locals were starting to stir and move about. Yesterday was Sunday, and the town had been filled with motorcyclists and tourists buzzing around, drinking beer, and hanging out at the outdoor cafes. This morning I felt like I was the only one left at the party.
I returned the café where I’d eaten because the locals all seem friendly, and they have power. For the price of a cup of coffee, I get to sit, relax and write to my hearts content. Not bad! Tonight, I will sleep soundly next to the river, the sound of the water running into my dreams, and tomorrow I will make the Rhine.

Woffelbach to Heimbach

2009-10-01T07:03:00.001-07:00

Route: Woffelbach to Heimbach via Schmidt
Distance: about 15 km

Ok, so you all can make fun if you want! I only made it 15 km today, yay! But, you guys should see this place. Steep hills covered with a green carpet of firs, bursting with bike trails, castles, Roman ruins, and really cool little towns every few km. I am in the Eifel Naturpark in Western Germany, so I never touched a highway today on my router here. Instead, I rode mountain bike trails all the way!
The only time I touched pavement was the lung pounding set of switchbacks I rode, up what was easily a 10% grade, to arrive at the village of Schmidt. This little eagles nest of a town is perched on the heights overlooking the Ruhrsee, a man-made lake that formed by the Ruhr River Dam. I camped on the lake last night, and today I was cycling its perimeter.
The reason why Schmidt was this important for me to see was that it was at the center of the Battle of Hurtgen Forest, which was the woods I was now riding through. While climbing the road into the uncut wilderness, it’s easy to see that having to fight here would have been a brutally horrific experience.
When Grandpa’s unit came here to rest and take on replacements after the Bulge, he was have been able to see the flashes of artillery and here the cracking of small arms echoing from the steep hills above his camp. For him and his men, the war was never far, even during a rest period.
Today for me, however, the war was the farthest thing from mind as I pedaled uphill out of Woffelbach. I was anxious to leave the sketchy “campground” that was really just a trailer park filled with goth kids and wasted looking dudes in their 40’s. Sometimes, I sleep with my bike inside the tent due to the rain, or neighborhood. In this case it was to present the endless parade of drunks walking through my site with slightly less of a target. One small problem that spoiled my quick getaway plans this morning, however, was that I discovered two broken spokes on my new rear wheel while pulling the bike inside the tent.
Fortunately, the Surly Long Haul Trucker comes with 2 replacement spokes cleverly attached to the rear wheel stays. It’s as if the designers at Surly are saying, “We know the wheels we spec’d on this bike are crap, so we’re going to attach the parts to build new ones on the bike for you!” Needless to say, I will be purchasing a quality set of wheels when I return to New York.
So, instead of leaving first thing this morning, I got to rebuild my wheel. Now, replacing a spoke isn’t the most difficult thing to do on a bike, but it does require you to tear down the rear wheel somewhat. This means, removing the tire and tube, the rim strip, and the rear cassette to allow for enough clearance to install the new spoke.
Whoever told me (Phil) that I didn’t need to bring cone wrenches, a hub tool and chain whip with me is going to get a strongly worded email whenever I can find another McDonalds! Just kidding dude, you rock. Point being, I have none of the proper tools to service my wheels, so I had to get creative with the spokes and it took a while.
The church bells rang 9am before I had my bike reassembled and ready to go. I should also point out that I noticed the bearings are already worn, and will need servicing very soon. I need to find a bike shop again! Thank you Shimano, I’m buying Phil hubs.
After monkeying around with maps, and two or three false starts, I found the right road out of town as the church bell toned 10. This is way too late to make real distance. Soon, the nice paved road I was riding turned into a rocky hiking trail, which was obviously going to follow the edge of the entire lake. The going was beautiful, but slow, and again not good for making distance.
When I realized that I wasn’t getting very far today, I finally adjusted my sight to the scenery. The virgin forest closed in around the trail. Huge stands of old growth timber stood up the steep hillside to my left, smaller scrub pine to my right running all the way to the waters edge. This was easily the most backcountry area I had yet found in Europe, and I rode my full packs and tenuous bearings down single-track, mountain biking my way around the lake.
Soon, I came to a quick uphill which was obviously joining a road grade coming down the hill from my left. With all of my muscle, I pulled the pedals and road the bike up out of the trees and into a paved parking lot with a signpost that read Schmidt in it. More uphill, but one of my major trip goals lay at the top.
On the top, in a field of well manicured grass, I sat on a bench and ate breakfast consisting of a pear while watching a grey cat that I had kicked out from over the bench, orbit me waiting for its home back.
Soon an old woman whom I had passed on the rail above came walking over to me and said hi.
“Nein Schprekin Duetsch”, I replied. “English?”
“Oh, nein.” She said, “Habla Espaniol?”
“Nein”
“Espaniol…” then started speaking German, but the gist of it was that I should at least learn Spanish because it’s one of the most international languages of the world.
I decide right then and there that my kids, if and when any arrive, will grow up speaking two languages. Maybe I could learn with them. If I didn’t, they would probably just make of me to my face in Spanish or German while they were growing up.
Not being bilingual, however, is one of the great regrets I have. This entire trip experience would have been so much richer if I knew French or German; thank you Central High School for tempting me with a live on TV Japanese course complete with a hot Japanese woman leading the class.
On the way back down the road, the dug-in defenses and earthworks were plainly evident. At every switchback on this narrow draw up the hill, a ditch was dug across. I imagined machine gun and mortar emplacements across the entire width. This combined with mines and barbed wire obstacles and supported with artillery, would have covered the very small and steep draw in a murderous field of fire. Attempting a ground assault up the hill would have been nothing short of suicide. That’s what the battle of Hurtgen Forest was like. By the time they got to Schmidt, four months of fighting, bombing and artillery had wiped the town off the face of the earth. The village today is brand new.
Soon, I rejoined the little rocky bike path through the woods. Luckily, it was all downhill through the woods. Coming around a corner, I head an ominous “twang” come from my back wheel. I knew instantly that I had just popped another spoke. Upon inspection, I found the two that I had just replaced this morning intact. Need a bike shop.
The rocks on the trail soon became sand. The sand became pavement. Then the pavement became filled with tourists taking pictures, and lazily blocking the bike path. I knew I was getting close to civilization. A quick hop across the highway, and down the backside of the huge earthen dam, and I was spinning along at the base of a steep canyon. The sun barely touches this little part of the world due to the steep hills on either side. The path was slick, and the air was cold.
While riding along the little river at the base of the canyon, I rounded a corner and saw a red stone fortress growing out of a rock outcropping above me. By the straight up and down round tower filled with arrow slits surrounded by the high palisades, I could tell that this castle was the real thing, probably dating from around 1000 a.d. Once I circled the base of the structure, I could tell that the keep and tower were strategically located to command the approaches of three similar gorges which converge at this point.
What were once peasant’s fields, and no doubt, battlegrounds, were now filled with children playing on swing sets and riding bikes next to the river while parents strolled in the sunlight. As I took in this scene, I realized that I was in Germany without a map, I had no cash, I was hungry, and my bike was breaking. Maybe it was time to stop, stay at this town, and plan my German strategy.
The town surrounding this castle was a perfect study in medieval mazes. Old wood frame and stucco houses, beer gardens, and shops arrayed on streets which radiated like the points of a star from the battlements above. I swung around the corner below the castle, and found street cafes filled with motorcyclists out from Aachen for a Sunday beer. Turning right and heading uphill, I fell in behind a young couple on bikes. They were slow, but passing was not an option due to the constant stream of motorcycles and sports cars screaming by. It was evident that we three cyclists were all heading to the castle.
We soon approached a very steep cobblestone pathway leading directly up to the portcullis, which was intact and was flanked by two round defensive towers. The girl in front of me hesitated, and stopped at the bottom while her boyfriend continued up the path. Instantly reverting to a 12 year old, I low geared past the stalled girl who was still straddling her bike and trying to get her boyfriends attention, and pro-rolled the whole grade up through the gates, through the outer keep, and into the castle itself!
What stopped me were two things: 1. I was being ridiculous. 2. I had just actually pedaled into an outdoor café filled people enjoying their lunch who all stopped and stared at the lost biker in their midst. Turning around as quickly as I could, and actually saying “I’m sorry” in English, I rode back down through the keep and out of the front gate while the blond couple with bikes smiled at me. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. At least I didn’t fall.
But, who knew that the castle was a restaurant? I guess there are so many of these things kicking around this part of Germany that I won’t be surprised if the next one I come across is a transmission repair shop or something.
What finally put the nail into the distance coffin today was stopping for the first hot meal I’ve had since Holland. Lunch at a sit down actual café, with real food, and real waitresses, what a treat! Not knowing what to order, I first got a beer (mistake) and next asked the cute English speaking waitress what I should order.
Two beers and some sort of bacon and cheese covered pancake later, it finally became apparent that I wasn’t going anywhere today. This wasn’t out of any lack of trying. After eating, I got on my bike and climbed off along a road leading out of town thinking that I would give it a try at least. I ended up on a very busy and narrow mountain highway, headed the wrong direction.
Descending back into town, and passing the café where I had just eaten again, the waitress smiled when she saw struggling. She came over and helped me with directions to the camping area, which upon first inspection looked very much like the one I had just left. Trailers, white trash, lots of empty wine and beer bottles collected in the recycling bin.
Only when I road downhill, and waded through this disappointing muck, did I find the most amazing spot I’ve had yet in Europe! Imagine the smile on my face when I found this open field surrounded by high hills next to the river. I’m writing now with the sun shining down, my trusty Surly leaned against an oak tree and the sound of the river and wind as my only two muses.
This is without a doubt, the best spot I’ve found yet. I may have to stay another night here. Hell, even Grandpa took a rest during the war, and it is Sunday after all.

St. Vith to Woffelsbach

2009-10-01T06:51:00.000-07:00

Route: St. Vith to Woffelsbach, Germany via Waimes, Butgenbach, Monschau, Simmerath and Steckenborn

Distance: about 80 km

I am leaving St. Vith today! I’m headed north into Western Germany to a town called Steckenborn. The chances of me making it there today are slim because the country I’m coming into now becomes more mountainous.
Ok, did I say it was “all down hill from here” at one point? It most certainly was mostly uphill today. I gained about 500 meters coming into Monschau. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
It was great to be able to leave St. Vith today. After dropping of a couple of post cards at the post, and thanking Christine one more time for her help with my credit card problems, I was off!
The first 12 km were a breeze up the old railroad grade bike path to Waimes. Grandpa had come back and staged at Waimes before retaking St. Vith in Jan. 1945, so I wanted to see it. It looked like every other little town in this part of Belgium, church in the middle, houses around the church, countryside around the houses. Forgive me if I’m getting a little flippant with this paradigm, but can you tell that I’m ready for a change?
Enter Germany. I knew that I stood a good chance of making it to Germany today, I just wasn’t sure of the grades. Riding off of the bike path back onto highways after Waimes was a bit of a let down, but I knew that the German frontier wasn’t far. It was, however, pretty much all uphill.
As I ran uphill, ipod playing a great mix of ACDC, Hi Tek and The Roots into my ears, I gradually became aware that I had left the valleys below, and was surrounded by fir trees once again. The signs all warned of death and had a skull depicted on them to either side of the road. Others read “zone militarie”. It was apparent that I wasn’t supposed to go into the woods. Maybe there were still mines from the war?
It was actually the German frontier, now demilitarized, but a few years ago filled with troops, army bases and border police. No one knows border security better than the Germans! Now with the EU, all such frivolities are a thing of the past. I got the sense that I was riding through a layer cake of fear; first with Hitler’s West Wall defense, then with the cold war borders.
Coming down from the tree coated highlands which separate the two countries, the only indicator that I had passed the border was that everyone was out mowing their well maintained lawns, in their well maintained suburbs, on their perfectly maintained streets complete with paved bike lanes. How can I complain about separate paved bikes lanes? Sure, the people are a little stiff, and the drivers are crazier than New York, but the bike lanes are great!
I was riding toward several towns whose names held a meaning to me. Simmerath, Steckenborn, and Monschau. All of these towns had played a major role in the Battle of Hurtgen Forest. This lesser known battle of the war is lesser known because it was a needless bloodbath, perpetuated once begun, by imbecilic officers who did not know how to stop it once it started. There was no stated tactical objective except to “kill Germans” the hills surrounding the Ruhr River Valley. What started in September 1944 as a small mission to clear a section of woods threatening the allied southern flank, turned into a 5 month extravaganza, completely separate from the Battle of the Bulge, which killed over 50,000 Americans and God knows how many Germans.
The fighting centered around a forested area near, but not directly adjacent to, the Ruhr River, which ha hydroelectric dams at a few points, creating lakes like the one I’m camped at now. The Germans held the total advantage during this fight. They were snug in well prepared defensive positions, in possession of the high ground in all case, with pre sited artillery a phone call away. In short, they slaughtered over 7 American infantry and 3 armored divisions in the months around the Battle of the Bulge.
Why don’t we hear about this battle? Because it was a huge mistake. There was never any need to send so many American’s to die in this forest. It wasn’t until Feb. 1945 that the dams over the Ruhr River were identified as military objectives (4 months into the battle), and in the end, the Germans opened the floodgates on these, and slowed the Allied advance to the Rhine by weeks. In this light, it was a German victory through and through.
Anyway, when Grandpa was posted here after the bulge, his unit had suffered over 50% casualties. They needed a quiet place to rest and train, before heading back into the fray. The town of Steckenborn was quiet only because it was 4 miles from the front. No doubt during this entire period of rest, grandpa could here the guns fringing the distance.
I came across a pack of middle aged German cyclists today. They were all clustered around a series of signs at a node in the cycling trails in the town of Born, Belgium. I needed directions, and as soon as I opened my mouth indicating that I spoke English, a series of people shouted back, in a European game of telephone, calling for “Suzette!” Suzette evidently was the only one who spoke English.
Now, I really like the Belgian bike trails. They really are top notch, except of course Holland’s but that’s another story. The only thing is the navigation system. It is confusing as all hell. Each little piece of trail seems to have a random number associated with it.

St. Vith to Recht

2009-10-01T06:48:00.000-07:00

Route: St. Vith to Recht via bike trails, looped return to St. Vith via Neder-Emmels
Distance: about 20 km

You can tell when you’ve been someplace for too long. For me it’s a strange combination of being annoyed with things that become routine, contrasted with an unforeseen nostalgia about things that I know I will miss.
Case in point: A very loud middle aged couple moved into the campsite across the way. I should say, they came to their private vacation mobile home. The woman, a small shrewish looking creature, is constantly babbling on and on while the man simply says “ya” every now and then. I can even here her at night from inside their camper. Their entire relationship seems to be a series of arguments, some loud, some slightly quieter, but always fighting. As I write this, the man is mowing the lawn of the place about 5 feet from my tent. It’s time to leave.
Thank whatever God or spirit you believe in, because today I went to see Christine, and (light shining down from heaven) my credit card arrived! Finally! I can leave!
When I do leave, though, I leave behind a few people with whom I feel like I’ve formed friendships; Andrea and her brother Freddy to name a couple. Christine at the post office sort of too, as well as Stephen at the computer store who I have seen around town a few times and had a few words with. He’s really curious about New York. I really got along with Freddy though, and I had a blast riding trails with him.
It’s strange, of course I never intended to stay for 5 days, but after this time I do know this place very well. I’m familiar with all the bike paths and the side streets. I know the history, and some of the local culture. This little town reminds me, in a way, of the place where I grew up in the Willamette Valley. It’s about the same size, and the same age oddly, and is beginning to exert the same repulsive force. Maybe that’s why there is no one between the ages of 17 and 40 in town.
Most of all, I do think it’s an interesting point that I had to stay here for the same length of time as grandpa; 5 days. His coming here was definitely not by choice, but he certainly couldn’t leave until someone said ok. In a way, my credit card showing up now is like receiving the order to move out.
The overall conclusion based on my time here is that this trip has now passed a marker of sorts. It is past the midway point. I’ve got less than 3 weeks left, and the rest of my time will be spent visiting simple areas for one night and moving on, as grandpa did during the spring of 1945 when the war was winding down.
In a sense, for him, the war was far from over after the Bulge, he went on to fight for 6 more months, but there was no longer any uncertainty over who would win. In that same vein, I know now that I’m heading into Germany and that once I do, it will be seen in a quick succession of cities, towns and other locations that Grandpa fought through on his way to the Baltic.
None will likely hold me as long as St. Vith, or remain as fixed in my memory as being in the place where the whole tide of the war hinged and turned in favor of the Allies. Certainly, for me, this place will always be the location that was a high point of this trip.
Today’s ride took me back up into the forest trails above Poteau and Recht in the general location where I know grandpa’s unit was during the opening days of the battle. I was hoping to find something more tangible like a sign saying “48th AIB Fought Here” with an arrow pointing to a line of trenches.
Yesterday, while riding with Freddy, he mentioned that he has always wanted to see the great American Civil War battlefields like Gettysburg and Manassas. I told him that they were very different for a number of reasons, but I think the most striking one is that every little action is marked by a sign, or a gravestone, or a line of cannon standing as if ready to fire. We love to celebrate our battles in America. Every American battlefield of this scale is marked, sometimes costs a fee to enter, and has everything from a snack bar to a self-guided kiosk where you pick up and drop off your digital players.
Riding through the pock marked forest again today, and seeing the shell holes, trenches and fragments of shrapnel lying around, I thought it was fitting, maybe even better, not to have turned this battlefield into an amusement park. Battles have been fought on these hills since the times of the Romans, and maybe will be fought here again. Better to forget about it, and go on with life as St. Vith has done; a town literally built on the ruins of its former self.
As I reached the northern edge of the woods, I saw a very intact line of trenches running alongside the road. At first, I thought they were simply drainage ditches, but when it continued for at least a mile and had branch trenches running off at all major crossroads, I realized that I was staring at the front line defenses of CCA. These must have been the trenches near where grandpa was.
It’s exactly the location on the maps, and the spacing of the foxholes and alignment with the forest edge is correct for a defensive line of the period. Every so often, there was a larger open space surrounded by ditches like a mini castle with a moat. These would have been field guns like 105 field guns and 155 howitzers. In between, men would have lined these trenches and laid in the dirt throwing off attack after attack from the Germans trying to come up the hill from the North, and into these trees.
I looked for some shrapnel, or other paraphernalia of war, but these trenches have been here on this main bike trail for 65 years. They are picked clean, overgrown with tall trees, and full of underbrush. To get the good stuff, you have to go way up on the hills east of here, and walk into the woods off the trails. It’s a little nerve-wracking because you never know if there’s a bomb or a mine or something left buried.
As I mentioned in my last posting, Freddy laughed at me when I asked him about this as we were traipsing about the forest. Never mind that every single guide book states not to do this in very bold print. He’s been at it most of his life. Still, on my hike this evening to the top of the ridge overlooking the campground, I was a little scared to go off trail and follow the trenches I found the other night. I supposed that’s a testament to the power of war.
Don’t worry parents I still have all of my limbs.

2009-10-01T06:32:00.000-07:00

Location: St. Vith
Weather: Rainy
Trip Status: Credit Card Crisis Day 19

I received a text message from my sister, Mary. She is a new mother, and Mom visits her a lot. It said simply “Mom wants to know if your still alive.” This also represents the first communication from Mary on this trip. Dryness runs in the family, and it made me miss her.
No card today. I went to the post office first thing and was confronted with a completely new set of people at the windows than on the previous two days. They had no idea what I was talking about when I went to the window and asked about my letter from Holland. They also both didn’t speak a word of English. It was just like going to the post office in New York.
After a very frustrating 10 minutes trying to explain what it was I was looking for in very limited French, a woman who spoke English finally came to the window. Jennifer was a kind looking blond haired German in her mid-40’s. She asked about my trip, what I was doing, what it was about. She seemed to care about who I was and why I was trying so hard to get this package. She will check for me in the mail bags first thing tomorrow morning and, with some luck, it will be there. She stressed being patient with the Belgian mail system. I can’t really explain to anyone just how patient I’ve been. It’s been fully three weeks since I ordered the new card. I probably could have crossed the ocean in a rowboat by now.
Oh well, I have to think positively. That will give me ample time to check out everything around here in detail, and then some. Due to the rainy cold weather, I’ve made another comb through on the reports, so I have a very detailed idea of grandpa’s locations during the whole battle. It’s amazing that so many men died fighting over this little town in the forest. It’s a small town today so in 1944 it must have been a tiny village.
All in all, today was kind of disappointing. I was expecting the card to arrive at the post, it didn’t and then it rained. Camping in the rain has never been very much fun, although I do retain many fond memories from doing just that as a kid with the family. I remember for a while there, it seemed like we picked the rainy weekends to go camping on purpose. I guess a fringe benefit is that only a select group of people (crazy) go camping in the rain, so you have the forest to yourself.
The day wasn’t a total waste, however. I went to meet Freddy at the family hotel at 3pm as planned. The building itself sits on a long private driveway leading into a ring of fir trees surrounding a pond. There are classical statues of women in various states of undress around the pond. The hotel is an older-looking building probably salvaged from the war because it had been slightly out of town at that time.
I was a little early, and I waited inside the dining room. It was such formal German hunting lodge atmosphere complete with ticking clock, dark wood paneling festooned with ancient looking tapestries and paintings of men from the 1830’s riding horses and blowing bugles while dogs did most of the work.
A woman of about 28 was busy setting the tables for the dinner hour, 3 glasses, 5 forks, seventeen knives and thirty seven bowls to a setting. A glance at the menu let me know the type of clientele the place serves; $400 a plate for a full dinner. Yeah. The amazing thing is that people actually fill this place every night. It’s well known locally, and the chef is excellent.
The chef is, in fact, Freddy who was walking through the door precisely at 3pm excusing himself for being late, and offering me a cup of fresh coffee while he changed into his bike gear. I didn’t really want one, but it quickly became apparent that I was having a coffee and that was that. He snapped his fingers, and the woman who was setting the table went to the bar and starting making me a strong Belgian coffee.
“She will make your coffee, and I will change ok?” Freddy said.
“Ok”
Freddy is a fit man in his 40’s. He rides a German custom built hard tail mountain bike with a Fox fork, some very nice looking hydraulic disk brakes of a type new to me, full Shimano XT and XTR components and Rovell wheels. The bike is about as good a hardtail as money can buy. And, I could tell by the mud splotches it gets used.
The clock continued to tick inside the cavernous wooden hall while my coffee was presented, in correct serving manner, in a small mug and saucer set with Belgium sweet cream, a sugar cube with the hotel’s name on it, and a cookie.
“Danke.” I said to the woman, feeling a little guilty that she had to make this and serve me like some feudal lord.
“No problem.” She replied.
“Oh, English! Thanks so much for the coffee. My name is Gavin.” I held out my hand.
“Rosanna.” She said, while eying my outstretched hand for a second before quickly shaking it and returning to setting the tables.
The clock ticked some more while I loudly sipped my coffee. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a chicken clucking and rattling its cage emanating from the kitchen.
“Do you guys have a chicken in there?” I asked Rosanna.
She looked at me funny.
“A chicken?” I asked again?
“I’m sorry, my English is …”
“Oh” I got why she was so quiet now.
This study in awkwardness ended when Freddy returned to find me mimicking a chicken with my arms and pointing at the kitchen while repeating the words “chicken” and “egg” over and over again with Rosanna staring at me with a slight grin on her face. I think she thought I was mentally handicapped.
As we pedaled down the tree lined driveway out to the mean streets of St. Vith, we came to the base of a rise on the western edge of the old town. It is a man-made hill which the locals call “billion dollar hill”. According to Freddy, when the army pulled back the Air Corps bombed St. Vith, back into the Stone Age on Christmas day. When the 48th retook the “town” in January, there were two buildings left standing; the train station and railroad workers housing. They were in the train yard protected from the bombardment by a lucky hill between them and the rest of the town.
It was so bad, that the army simply declared it “liberated”, bulldozed the entire town, and pushed the refuse over to the side of the old town walls. This created the new hill. It got its name because into it went all of the possessions, valuables, and infrastructure of the town that had been. No doubt, there are also people buried in the rubble as well.
We made a right at the main traffic hub and soon were pedaling down a rolling country lane surrounded by fields full of sanguine cows.
“Here” he pointed to his left, “was a German roadblock. The Americans never got past this point to the south. Up in the trees beyond, there are many foxholes and trenches. Also, there was an artillery gun mounted in that flat pond there to the right of the crossroads.”
As I looked, I could see all of the depressions in the earth that he mentioned. To the casual passerby, it would look no different than any other crossroads. Here men died. We continued down the road.
Suddenly, we were passed by three minivans marked “Polizie”. One stopped. The window rolled down, and Freddy went up to the driver, a blond haired blue eyed German man in his early 20’s. They exchange a few hurried words, after which the policeman rolled up the window and took off like a shot back towards town.
“They are looking for a couple of kids.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, they said if we see them to call.” Freddy looked at me with a smile that indicated that he wasn’t about to rat anyone out.
“Is there a lot of that around here?”
“Yes, well there is now a lot of foreigners here; Russians mostly, and former Soviets. And, they are isolated. They don’t speak the language, so they are completely isolated. There is nothing to do for them.”
The road we were following came to a dead end.
“Here, this was the road straight to Prum in the south. Now there is the freeway that cut through it, but right on the other side of the freeway there.” He pointed across the now visible superhighway cut to a small grove of trees with a single house under them. “There was the German CP in this area south of St. Vith until they came and took the town from the Americans.” A freeway cut had done what no American or German road block could achieve, and we weren’t able to get to the CP.
We swung to the left and followed the road as it curved downhill. We passed a log truck sitting astride the entire width of the road and hit a little bike trail to the right. I soon found myself in very familiar surroundings because we were cycling past my campsite all of a sudden.
“In those above,” Freddy pointed to the hills that I had climbed a few nights ago finding a trench line, “That was the last ditch defense line for the Americans. They put everyone up there to hold back the Germans. Cooks, Clerks, Staff Officers, Shoe Shiners, Truck Drivers, anyone who could hold a rifle and throw a grenade was on that hill in trenches pointing to the East.”
“They must have been slaughtered.”
“Yes, well a lot of them were captured. Many died, but many also lived.”
At the junction of the trail system, and the forest service road net, we swung our bikes uphill and rode to the crest of the hill. The forest closed in around us, and the trees stood tall on either side of the road, which was becoming more like a paved trail.
“Here, on either side, you will see foxholes.”
I looked. On the mossy covered ground were tons of them; shallow depressions, now melted into the forest floor with six decades of time, but visible in rows, lines and some even connected with trenches. There were also larger pads carved out of the forest floor.
“Those are for artillery or anti-aircraft guns.” Freddy said as we dismounted and walked into the forest battlefield. Within three steps into the trees, he reached down and flung something back at me saying “Here you go.”
It was a twisted metal remnant of what looked like a mortar shell. Rusted, and deformed from sitting in a foxhole for 65 years along with several other undefined pieces of metal laying all about the area.
“When I was young, you used to find ammunition clips, canteens, mess kits, boots, and sometimes helmets. But that was 35 years ago man. Now you find some things, but you need a metal detector.”
“Wow. Are there any live things here? Like mines or grenades and stuff that we have to worry about?”
Freddy laughed and said, “Oh no, they made the Germans clean it all up right after the war.”
I remembered the story that Neik told me about how they did that. They would make the German POW’s comb through an area and pull all the mines out. Then they would make all of them turn around and march through the area that they had just “cleared”. Insurance.
Like a tourist stealing a rock from Mesa Verde, I slipped the twisted piece of rust into my pack; intended use: paperweight.
As we wound down the other side of the hill, down from the battle area, we came to a road and headed toward Mayerode. Halfway to the town, log trucks and sports cars whipping past us on this major highway, we made a quick left up another non-descript looking forest service trail.
“These woods are where some Americans held out after the Germans came through. One of them was found up here by the farmers and there is a memorial to him. As you can see though,” he pointed around us to the thick woods coated with underbrush and little streams, “This is a perfect area for a guerilla war. These woods were very hard for the Germans to clean out.”
We wheezed up the steep trail and finally came to a little grove of apple and pear trees arranged in a semi-circle around a dark marble cross which read:
“Capt. Eric Fisher Wood U.S. Army - January 1945.”
The story of Capt. Wood is famous to those of who are nutty enough to have studied the Battle of the Bulge. Like many others in the 106th Infantry Division, he was cut off behind the Germans when they advanced. As his convoy was coming down the road to Mayerode, the very highway we had just left, it was ambushed. He was the only one who got away and he ran into the hills where we now stood.
With the help of the local farmers, who took a great personal risk by feeding him, he swore to keep fighting his own little war in these hills. Over the course of the next month, German supply convoys were repeatedly ambushed. German railway and bridge construction was blown up. Random outposts were attacked, and the men found there killed. He had gathered a few men with him at this point and they were fighting their own private war.
When Wood didn’t return to his usual farm for food one week in January, the farmers went up into the forest. At the very spot I was standing with Freddy, they found his body, surrounded by 7 dead Germans. Since he had money, his photos and most of his personal belongings on him, it was assumed that he had died last.
I thought about Grandpa, cut off with his men in much the same circumstances as Capt. Wood. What thoughts and fears must have raced through his mind?
We got lost on the ride back, and had to ask directions from a French kid who was getting stoned in his car. He looked more than a little surprised to see two guys on bikes coming up on his car, and asking him stuff in German. Needless to say, I can relate, and of course, he had no idea where he was.
So, Freddy picked a direction, and we headed that way until we came to the main highway, a concrete military road built by the US Army in 1945. It was flowing with traffic because it was now 5:30, rush hour. We hauled ass back south to the turn off for the railroad trail leading to St. Vith. Once on it, Freddy told me that before World War One, the railroads here had been huge, employing well over 1000 people in St. Vith. This didn’t include the Russain slave labor that had been brought here to actually build the things during WW1. This whole area had been part of Germany until 1922, as stipulated in the Treaty of Versailles.
“There are Russian mass graves here,” Freddy continued “one here and one at Eupen. They are marked, 200 Russians Here, that sort of thing.”
Jeez, I thought, what is it with the Germans and Russians? It seems like one country is always enslaving half of the other. Then, I remembered that our own railroads in the US were built primarily by Chinese labor. They did receive wages for the work, but they were treated like slaves, and buried in mass graves as well all along the way. Ours are unmarked.
The ride ended back in town next to the train station, where Freddy’s own grandfather had worked during the occupation.
“He was sent away to the East in the army by the Germans, but he ran away, and came back here hiding in town until the Americans came in September 1944. He then came out of hiding, and went back to work at the railroad. But, when the Germans came back in December, well. It was hard times.” Freddy made a gun out of right hand, pointed it to his head and made a sound resembling a bullet impacting flesh and bone.
“Oh my God,” said, “really? I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well he was a German deserter you know. He was to be shot.”

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

2009-09-25T02:57:00.000-07:00

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.

The Trails Here Rock!

2009-09-23T02:55:00.000-07:00

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 café 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

2009-09-23T02:53:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-23T02:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-23T02:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Bedlam in Belgium!

2009-09-16T23:50:00.000-07:00

Route: Antwerp to Lommel. Distance about 50km

Well, I’m out! That’s right kids I packed up and headed out by train yesterday from Calais to Antwerp. By the time I got to Antwerp, it was dark, so I hoteled it. I can’t tell you how lame I felt for sleeping in a bed and taking a shower. Now I’m cleaner than all of my gear! No worries though because I rode out to Lommel, Belgium today, so I’m back on the bike and back in the tent, only this time the camping is way better!
I wanted to relate, before I forget, a couple of folks who I met on the train yesterday. It was good to get on, and find out that other people shared a lot of the same frustrations in France as I did. Let me just say that when I wrote that last entry, I was tired, very tired. In fact, that kind of treatment, on top of sleeping in a tent in the cold, wore me down to the point where I was falling asleep standing up almost.
I have heard veterans describe similar experiences during combat. You are so tired all of the time and you are having to make quick, and often life and death, decisions all of the time on the edge of exhaustion. You sack out whenever and wherever you can. Once you hit the ground, you are lights out.
This kind of tired, although it in no way compares to being in a war, is what I was starting to feel like during my last couple of days in France. It was an ordeal rather than a vacation. In retrospect, that’s what I wanted it to be. I wanted to put myself through something hard like that so see if I could make it. I feel like I did, but time will tell.
When I pushed through the drizzled headwind and finally entered Calais, my heart rose to find a Holiday Inn right downtown. I entered, and asked if the counter woman spoke English, in English, because I had had it by then. She said yes very politely. I almost felt bad. Then, she directed me to the train station and let me use the toilet without paying. This is a big deal in France.
The train station was just up the street, across from a huge clock tower from around the early 1800’s attached to a much older nave from a now missing cathedral. It was early middle ages, and the stone was blackened by centuries of sea weather. I wondered whether it was English because for a long time they had claimed, and actually ruled Calais.
The train station was definitely French. Amongst all the craziness of getting my ticket and getting them to explain what the ticket meant (a process that took an hour and three turns in the line) I met another fellow on the Giant touring bike with front and rear panniers, a sleeping bag and a towel perched on the rear rack for drying in the sun. This is the same basic setup I have, minus the front panniers. We saw each other in the line, and I gave a thumbs up. The guy looked at me funny, so I put my head down and moved on. I’ve been awkward moments like this possible for the viewing public since 1977, but this one was some of my best work.
Later, as I was rearranging my stuff and watching for the supposed number of my train that would appear 20 minutes before my train left, he came up and said hello. He was asian, spoke very little English, but kept saying “Demo” between his phrasing. I asked if he was Japanese, in Nihongo, as somehow it’s the one language I’ve managed to pick up along the way.
His eyes lit up and he opened up a flood of Japanese that I hadn’t the slightest chance of following. He probably hadn’t spoken to anyone in Japanese for God knows how long. He laughed when I asked where he was from in Japan, what his name was and if he was healthy in that order. These are the first phrases they teach you in Japanese 101. After that he slowed his role enough for me to follow, and we had a conversation in half-japanese/half-english for an hour.
He felt the weight of my bike, I tested his. The front panniers definitely balance the bike better, but I’ve always liked having the majority of the weight behind me, with enough weight up front to keep the bike from tipping over backwards. This way, you are pulling the gear uphill on fixed rear frame mount, rather than a steerable front fork mount. On these steep grades in Europe, I’ve really appreciated not having to worry about too much weight on my steering.
Anyway, we discussed the finer points of bikes, and touring. It turns out that he has been on the road for 2 months already, sleeping under the awnings of grocery stores, and living off of food in dumpsters. Some people would call that being homeless, but somehow when you add a bike into the mix it’s not. He was heading back to Nagasaki, his hometown which he described by making a big explosion sound and puffing out his arms from his body in the motion of a mushroom cloud. I felt guilty somehow.
His manner was jovial, and he was smiling and laughing a lot. He told me he wanted to go to Britain next, but he had to return to Japan or they wouldn’t let him back in because he overstayed his visa. Either that or they wouldn’t let him into Britain because of something having to do with his fingerprints, which I never really got a real explanation for.
Never the less, he was happy to be there, and I thought if he’s happy after two months of living like a bum, what do I have to complain about? I’ve at least been getting showers. Also, I thought about how isolated he must feel. He spoke absolutely no French or German, and he spoke only very broken English. I can only wonder how he stayed sane. Or maybe, he wasn’t that sane. That would certainly explain the random laughter. Never did get his name.
On the train, in between wrestling my huge bike between loads of students returning to school, I got to talking with a couple from Austria on their way back home from London. Maximilian and Anna. Anna had some sort of eye infection that she had acquired in the UK, so they were going back home early and going to the doctor. I backed away slowly as much as I could over the course of our conversation. I don’t think they noticed.
We talked for most of the ride to Lille about World War Two. Max is very interested in this history as both of his Grandfather’s were in the war. Of course, they were Nazi’s, but as he pointed out “so was every educated German at that time.”, by which I think he meant, anyone who wanted to make a living doing anything other than digging ditches had to be a member of the party.
One of his Grandfathers had disappeared on the Eastern Front, and the other had been a General in charge of Odessa, which was a super-secret German spy ring akin to Mi6 or the CIA at the time. He survived the war, only to die under somewhat “mysterious” circumstances of an apparent suicide only a day after writing a letter to his wife saying that he couldn’t wait to return home and be done with whatever it was he was doing. It sounds like a perfect Ian Fleming setup to me.
As I talked about my trip and my journey to find the places where my Grandad had fought, he brightened up s we discussed the places where our grandparents had been. He knew of the Ardennes Forest campaign, which we call the Battle of the Bulge. He knew how rough it was during that battle, and he was impressed that Grandpa had lived through it.
Of course, very few Germans who went into that meat grinder ever came out. They were all told that this was the climactic battle between good and evil, evil of course being the Americans. There would be no surrender. In fact, the standing orders for any German soldier surrendering to the Americans, or Ami’s as they called us, was that he would be shot on site. If they couldn’t find him, they would shoot his family back home for being traitors. There is evidence that this was actually carried out on a number of occasions. It’s a miracle that any Germans surrendered at all given this.
I thought about the difference between this time and 65 years ago. How much things had changed. There we were talking casually on a train about a war in which we were enemies. We talked frankly about decisions made like the Warsaw Pact and how that affected Europe so badly for so long. We discussed how it must have felt to be a Nazi after the war. He mentioned how horrible most of those people felt for having been part of something so tragic.
65 years ago we would have shot each other on site. Failing that, maybe we would have pulled knives and gone hand to hand. Ultimately, one of us would have killed the other. There would have been no talking, no discussing the finer points of world politics. It would simply have been death in its purest form. I wonder, did Grandpa ever have to do something like that? Is that one of the reasons why he never talked about the war?
As I approach the area where he went under his first fire, I notice how beautiful a landscape it is. It’s covered with deciduous forests alive with deer and horse farms. The people have re-built a new country after the devastation passed through. They thought about things like integrated traffic patterns, and sustainable housing before any of those were terms on some architects desk under the “memorize what this means” file.
I cycled through this land alive with ripe apples, pears, fruitstands, cute girls riding bikes, and beer gardens seemingly on every corner. It’s hard to imagine what it must have looked like at this time of year in 1944. The easiest thing for me to do is track the destruction through reverse logic, i.e. everything new is built after the war. That means it’s either a suburb built on what used to be farmland, or new buildings in ancient towns that were flattened.
The later is most usually the case. Baring a few notable exceptions like churches, some pubic buildings and ancient structures like old city gates, everything that it is in these little towns is post-war. Roscoe Blunt in his memoir “Foot Soldier”, talks about hiking through these towns one after the other, and not knowing you are in a town because everything is rubble. The street patterns that I cycled through today no doubt match those of the original villages, but the built work is as new as America.
It’s eerie in a way to see this in a land as ancient as Central Europe. After all, it was here that Caesar’s army defeated the Germanic Tribes and settled for good and all who held over the land west of the Rhine. Here Charlemagne rode his cavalry to victory over the former Viking settlements, reclaiming the land for Christendom before being crowned Holy Roman Emperor in 800CE. Here the mighty war of 1914-1918 was fought to the tune of over 3 million soldiers bled out in these trees and fields. It’s as if all of that is wiped clean by the total destruction of World War Two.
Tomorrow I will finally meet up with Niek Hendrix. His father is from in Ospel, Holland, when my Grandpa’s unit liberated the place as part of an offensive action against a German counter attack in an area called the Peel Marshes. It’s a flat land in Limberge Province, Holland about 30 km to the NW of where I am now. It’s crisscrossed with levies and canals, and is windswept but fertile farm country. A lot of the cheese that we eat owes it’s origins to this part of the world, including Cheddar. No it wasn’t invented in California in the 1970’s.
I’m anxious to see the places where Grandpa first joined his unit as a replacement. I really hope that I feel something standing there. Grandpa always used phrases like “fracas” and “little dust up” in his letters home when he talked about the battles he had been in. Here in the Peel Marshes, his division was ordered to clear a section of land west of Meuse River. When he joined the 48th AIB, he was assigned to CCA (Combat Command A) as a 2nd Lt. They had just been involved in a horribly misguided attack on the city of Overloon, Holland during which most of the guys in charge of the unit were killed or wounded, including the Lt.
Literally two days after this massive blowout, Grandpa comes in to try and “lead” these guys who have just all seen their buddies get there faces blown off. The men all new and trusted eachother, and they didn’t know this new shavetail Lt. He would have had to earn their trust and respect. This is one of the hardest things to do in life.
Grandpa didn’t have to wait long, because the Germans launched a counterattack across their lines within 10 days of him taking over the platoon. In some ways this was the best thing that could have happened because he didn’t have to wait around in some rear area drilling his troops and fighting boredom. He was thrown right into the thick of some of the worst fighting in the ETO. He didn’t have to think about how to earn the respect of his unit, he had to think more about how to survive himself, as well as, how to get his men through in one piece.
Sitting here in my cozy tent with my wine, cheese and computer, it’s hard to imagine what that must have been like. It was this time of year, and the reports do say it was rainy, just like now. The land couldn’t have been much different then, except that now where burning and destroyed buildings were, now stand clean new ones.
He would probably have had a tent as well, but he makes several references in his letters about being in foxholes when they are in the line. There is no quicker way to earn the respect of those you are expected to lead than to share in their burdens, and partake of their suffering. This, and never ask anyone to do something that you wouldn’t do yourself. He would have been thinking about these things, as well as his new wife and his future waiting for him back in Seattle, as he shivered in his foxhole on a rainy fall night in Belgium like this one.
In one letter, he tells the story of him and one of his sergeants sitting in a foxhole trying to remember a psalm but not being able to. He tells grandma that he asked for a new prayer book from the chaplain because his, along with all of his gear, dress uniforms, winter clothing, and (most importantly) pictures of grandma, have been “lost” to the Germans.
There is only one reason why two men in their 20’s would sit in a foxhole and try to remember a psalm. They were probably under shell fire from German artillery. It was a well known fact that the Germans had the absolute best artillery in the world at that time. Their 88mm field gun, which could also be used as an antiaircraft weapon simply by pointing it up, was a very powerful and accurate weapon. The saying of the day that the Germans could put an 88 “in your back pocket”
Roscoe Blunt talks about this as well in his book. He discusses how the muzzle velocity of the shell was so fast that by the time you heard it, it was already over you head, unless you are standing right in it’s path. This is because you can hear the sonic boom ahead of the shell as it approaches, hence the expression “you always here the one with your number on it.”
One of the favorite things for the Germans to do was sight in a bunch of artillery onto a concentrated spot on the American lines and fire a short sharp barrage lasting anywhere from 5-10 minutes. This would definitely do some damage. Then they would wait 20 minutes, or just long enough for us to get out of our holes and start trying to deal with wounded, before unleashing a much longer barrage hoping to catch people out in the open where their shells would have more effect.
Blunt talks about what it is like to be in one of these. The “soul consuming noise” of such an attack is more than a lot of men could deal with. Blunt himself had to be removed from the line on two occasions for shell shock, the standard treatment of which was a shower and some food for 2 days.
Can you imagine that moment when the shelling stops, and you’ve made it through somehow, but the guy in the next hole has had a leg blown off and is screaming for his mom. You can’t go and help him because you know the Germans are going to start shelling as soon as they see someone, anyone, move from their foxhole. Still, they guy is dying, and if you don’t get over there, tie off his leg, and give him some morphine, he will die screaming over the course of several minutes while being completely lucid the entire time.
This was what was meant by holding the line. You sat there, usually in plain site of the Germans, and got killed. When a certain number of men died, they sent up new ones to take there place. When those died, they sent new ones in a seemingly never-ending loop.
When Grandpa says that he wants a prayer book because of a moment in a foxhole with his Sergeant, I picture the two of them huddled together in the very bottom of a muddy hole getting shelled for days at a time while their men all around them are having there guts blown out. The noise, the sights, and the confusion must have been enough to make anyone religious.
Ok, well, that’s all for tonight. I hope the end wasn’t too depressing there… It is partly about the war, and that is mostly what I’m here to see. I can’t wait to get into that Jeep tomorrow! It will at least be a welcome change to the bike.
Thanks once again for the kind words, and the comments. Keep ‘em coming man! I do read them, and I am now in a land of more frequent internet! Thank God for Belgium!
Peace.

2009-09-14T08:40:00.013-07:00

Location: St. Vith
Weather: Rainy
Trip Status: Credit Card Crisis Day 19

I received a text message from my sister. She is a new mother, and Mom visits her a lot. It said simply “Mom wants to know if your still alive.” This also represents the first communication from Mary on this trip. Dryness runs in the family, and it made me miss her.
No card today. I went to the post office first thing and was confronted with a completely new set of people at the windows than on the previous two days. They had no idea what I was talking about when I went to the window and asked about my letter from Holland. They also both didn’t speak a word of English. It was just like going to the post office in New York.
After a very frustrating 10 minutes trying to explain what it was I was looking for in very limited French, a woman who spoke English finally came to the window. Jennifer was a kind looking blond haired German in her mid-40’s. She asked about my trip, what I was doing, what it was about. She seemed to care about who I was and why I was trying so hard to get this package. She will check for me in the mail bags first thing tomorrow morning and, with some luck, it will be there. She stressed being patient with the Belgian mail system. I can’t really explain to anyone just how patient I’ve been. It’s been fully three weeks since I ordered the new card. I probably could have crossed the ocean in a rowboat by now.
Oh well, I have to think positively. That will give me ample time to check out everything around here in detail, and then some. Due to the rainy cold weather, I’ve made another comb through on the reports, so I have a very detailed idea of grandpa’s locations during the whole battle. It’s amazing that so many men died fighting over this little town in the forest. It’s a small town today so in 1944 it must have been a tiny village.
All in all, today was kind of disappointing. I was expecting the card to arrive at the post, it didn’t and then it rained. Camping in the rain has never been very much fun, although I do retain many fond memories from doing just that as a kid with the family. I remember for a while there, it seemed like we picked the rainy weekends to go camping on purpose. I guess a fringe benefit is that only a select group of people (crazy) go camping in the rain, so you have the forest to yourself.
The day wasn’t a total waste, however. I went to meet Freddy at the family hotel at 3pm as planned. The building itself sits on a long private driveway leading into a ring of fir trees surrounding a pond. There are classical statues of women in various states of undress around the pond. The hotel is an older-looking building probably salvaged from the war because it had been slightly out of town at that time.
I was a little early, and I waited inside the dining room. It was such formal German hunting lodge atmosphere complete with ticking clock, dark wood paneling festooned with ancient looking tapestries and paintings of men from the 1830’s riding horses and blowing bugles while dogs did most of the work.
A woman of about 28 was busy setting the tables for the dinner hour, 3 glasses, 5 forks, seventeen knives and thirty seven bowls to a setting. A glance at the menu let me know the type of clientele the place serves; $400 a plate for a full dinner. Yeah. The amazing thing is that people actually fill this place every night. It’s well known locally, and the chef is excellent.
The chef is, in fact, Freddy who was walking through the door precisely at 3pm excusing himself for being late, and offering me a cup of fresh coffee while he changed into his bike gear. I didn’t really want one, but it quickly became apparent that I was having a coffee and that was that. He snapped his fingers, and the woman who was setting the table went to the bar and starting making me a strong Belgian coffee.
“She will make your coffee, and I will change ok?” Freddy said.
“Ok”
Freddy is a fit man in his 40’s. He rides a German custom built hard tail mountain bike with a Fox fork, some very nice looking hydraulic disk brakes of a type new to me, full Shimano XT and XTR components and Rovell wheels. The bike is about as good a hardtail as money can buy. And, I could tell by the mud splotches it gets used.
The clock continued to tick inside the cavernous wooden hall while my coffee was presented, in correct serving manner, in a small mug and saucer set with Belgium sweet cream, a sugar cube with the hotel’s name on it, and a cookie.
“Danke.” I said to the woman, feeling a little guilty that she had to make this and serve me like some feudal lord.
“No problem.” She replied.
“Oh, English! Thanks so much for the coffee. My name is Gavin.” I held out my hand.
“Rosanna.” She said, while eying my outstretched hand for a second before quickly shaking it and returning to setting the tables.
The clock ticked some more while I loudly sipped my coffee. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a chicken clucking and rattling its cage emanating from the kitchen.
“Do you guys have a chicken in there?” I asked Rosanna.
She looked at me funny.
“A chicken?” I asked again?
“I’m sorry, my English is …”
“Oh” I got why she was so quiet now.
This study in awkwardness ended when Freddy returned to fund me mimicking a chicken with my arms and pointing at the kitchen while repeating the words “chicken” and “egg” over and over again with Rosanna staring at me with a slight grin on her face. I think she thought I was mentally handicapped.
As we pedaled down the tree lined driveway out to the mean streets of St. Vith, we came to the base of a rise on the western edge of the old town. It is a man-made hill which the locals call “billion dollar hill”. According to Freddy, when the army pulled back the Air Corps bombed St. Vith, back into the Stone Age on Christmas day. When the 48th retook the “town” in January, there were two buildings left standing; the train station and railroad workers housing. They were in the train yard protected from the bombardment by a lucky hill between them and the rest of the town.
It was so bad, that the army simply declared it “liberated”, bulldozed the entire town, and pushed the refuse over to the side of the old town walls. This created the new hill. It got its name because into it went all of the possessions, valuables, and infrastructure of the town that had been. No doubt, there are also people buried in the rubble as well.
We made a right at the main traffic hub and soon were pedaling down a rolling country lane surrounded by fields full of sanguine cows.
“Here” he pointed to his left, “was a German roadblock. The Americans never got past this point to the south. Up in the trees beyond, there are many foxholes and trenches. Also, there was an artillery gun mounted in that flat pond there to the right of the crossroads.”
As I looked, I could see all of the depressions in the earth that he mentioned. To the casual passerby, it would look no different than any other crossroads. Here men died. We continued down the road.
Suddenly, we were passed by three minivans marked “Polizie”. One stopped. The window rolled down, and Freddy went up to the driver, a blond haired blue eyed German man in his early 20’s. They exchange a few hurried words, after which the policeman rolled up the window and took off like a shot back towards town.
“They are looking for a couple of kids.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, they said if we see them to call.” Freddy looked at me with a smile that indicated that he wasn’t about to rat anyone out.
“Is there a lot of that around here?”
“Yes, well there is now a lot of foreigners here; Russians mostly, and former Soviets. And, they are isolated. They don’t speak the language, so they are completely isolated. There is nothing to do for them.”
The road we were following came to a dead end.
“Here, this was the road straight to Prum in the south. Now there is the freeway that cut through it, but right on the other side of the freeway there.” He pointed across the now visible superhighway cut to a small grove of trees with a single house under them. “There was the German CP in this area south of St. Vith until they came and took the town from the Americans.” A freeway cut had done what no American or German road block could achieve, and we weren’t able to get to the CP.
We swung to the left and followed the road as it curved downhill. We passed a log truck sitting astride the entire width of the road and hit a little bike trail to the right. I soon found myself in very familiar surroundings because we were cycling past my campsite all of a sudden.
“In those above,” Freddy pointed to the hills that I had climbed a few nights ago finding a trench line, “That was the last ditch defense line for the Americans. They put everyone up there to hold back the Germans. Cooks, Clerks, Staff Officers, Shoe Shiners, Truck Drivers, anyone who could hold a rifle and throw a grenade was on that hill in trenches pointing to the East.”
“They must have been slaughtered.”
“Yes, well a lot of them were captured. Many died, but many also lived.”
At the junction of the trail system, and the forest service road net, we swung our bikes uphill and rode to the crest of the hill. The forest closed in around us, and the trees stood tall on either side of the road, which was becoming more like a paved trail.
“Here, on either side, you will see foxholes.”
I looked. On the mossy covered ground were tons of them; shallow depressions, now melted into the forest floor with six decades of time, but visible in rows, lines and some even connected with trenches. There were also larger pads carved out of the forest floor.
“Those are for artillery or anti-aircraft guns.” Freddy said as we dismounted and walked into the forest battlefield. Within three steps into the trees, he reached down and flung something back at me saying “Here you go.”
It was a twisted metal remnant of what looked like a mortar shell. Rusted, and deformed from sitting in a foxhole for 65 years along with several other undefined pieces of metal laying all about the area.
“When I was young, you used to find ammunition clips, canteens, mess kits, boots, and sometimes helmets. But that was 35 years ago man. Now you find some things, but you need a metal detector.”
“Wow. Are there any live things here? Like mines or grenades and stuff that we have to worry about?”
Freddy laughed and said, “Oh no, they made the Germans clean it all up right after the war.”
I remembered the story that Neik told me about how they did that. They would make the German POW’s comb through an area and pull all the mines out. Then they would make all of them turn around and march through the area that they had just “cleared”. Insurance.
Like a tourist stealing a rock from Mesa Verde, I slipped the twisted piece of rust into my pack; intended use: paperweight.
As we wound down the other side of the hill, down from the battle area, we came to a road and headed toward Mayerode. Halfway to the town, log trucks and sports cars whipping past us on this major highway, we made a quick left up another non-descript looking forest service trail.
“These woods are where some Americans held out after the Germans came through. One of them was found up here by the farmers and there is a memorial to him. As you can see though,” he pointed around us to the thick woods coated with underbrush and little streams, “This is a perfect area for a guerilla war. These woods were very hard for the Germans to clean out.”
We wheezed up the steep trail and finally came to a little grove of apple and pear trees arranged in a semi-circle around a dark marble cross which read:
“Capt. Eric Fisher Wood U.S. Army - January 1945.”
The story of Capt. Wood is famous to those of who are nutty enough to have studied the Battle of the Bulge. Like many others in the 106th Infantry Division, he was cut off behind the Germans when they advanced. As his convoy was coming down the road to Mayerode, the very highway we had just left, it was ambushed. He was the only one who got away and he ran into the hills where we now stood.
With the help of the local farmers, who took a great personal risk by feeding him, he swore to keep fighting his own little war in these hills. Over the course of the next month, German supply convoys were repeatedly ambushed. German railway and bridge construction was blown up. Random outposts were attacked, and the men found there killed. He had gathered a few men with him at this point and they were fighting their own private war.
When Wood didn’t return to his usual farm for food one week in January, the farmers went up into the forest. At the very spot I was standing with Freddy, they found his body, surrounded by 7 dead Germans. Since he had money, his photos and most of his personal belongings on him, it was assumed that he had died last.
I thought about Grandpa, cut off with his men in much the same circumstances as Capt. Wood. What thoughts and fears must have raced through his mind?
We got lost on the ride back, and had to ask directions from a French kid who was getting stoned in his car. He looked more than a little surprised to see two guys on bikes coming up on his car, and asking him stuff in German. Needless to say, I can relate, and of course, he had no idea where he was.
So, Freddy picked a direction, and we headed that way until we came to the main highway, a concrete military road built by the US Army in 1945. It was flowing with traffic because it was now 5:30, rush hour. We hauled ass back south to the turn off for the railroad trail leading to St. Vith. Once on it, Freddy told me that before World War One, the railroads here had been huge, employing well over 1000 people in St. Vith. This didn’t include the Russain slave labor that had been brought here to actually build the things during WW1. This whole area had been part of Germany until 1922, as stipulated in the Treaty of Versailles.
“There are Russian mass graves here,” Freddy continued “one here and one at Eupen. They are marked, 200 Russians Here, that sort of thing.”
Jeez, I thought, what is it with the Germans and Russians? It seems like one country is always enslaving half of the other. Then, I remembered that our own railroads in the US were built primarily by Chinese labor. They did receive wages for the work, but they were treated like slaves, and buried in mass graves as well all along the way. Ours are unmarked.
The ride ended back in town next to the train station, where Freddy’s own grandfather had worked during the occupation.
“He was sent away to the East in the army by the Germans, but he ran away, and came back here hiding in town until the Americans came in September 1944. He then came out of hiding, and went back to work at the railroad. But, when the Germans came back in December, well. It was hard times.” Freddy made a gun out of right hand, pointed it to his head and made a sound resembling a bullet impacting flesh and bone.
“Oh my God,” said, “really? I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well he was a German deserter you know. He was to be shot.”

The Tough Days at St. Vith

2009-09-14T08:40:00.012-07:00

2009-09-14T08:40:00.011-07:00

Route: To the bathroom 47 times last night
Distance: About 100 m each way

German Beer Is Stronger than American Beer.

You know when 30 beers is just not enough? Also, don’t you hate having to keep getting up and opening another normal sized can of beer every two seconds?
Well, the Germans, with typical efficiency, have solved this problem by making small kegs available for sale at practically every store, gas station, and vending machine that you see. While I definitely was tempted to go the “large” on beer with dinner last night, I knew that purchasing said keg was a commitment that this author was just not willing to make. Well, that and I couldn’t fit it into my backpack.
While speaking English with a wonderfully charming woman I met at the gas station named Mirium, I was running around the inside of the shop grabbing what few items one could term as food. This state of affairs for the evening meal came about because Germany, like France, closes down on Sundays as well. This was the only store in town that was open, and more importantly, took visa.
Mirium could sense that I wasn’t from Germany, and began our conversation by asking what I was doing in town, and if I had a place to stay. She quickly followed this up by saying that she had a husband and three boys, and I was welcome to sleep in the garage. Her husband is a cyclist from Wales, and they offer the garage to other cyclists who come through town.
I was, however, camped in the nicest spot I’ve had yet. It’s in an open grass field surrounded by steep forested hills, and right next to a fresh sounding river. I really wanted to stay where I was, plus I had already paid, so I regretfully turned down her generous offer knowing that I would probably get a lot of stories out of it.
Instead what I did was buy some cheese, salami and beer for dinner. I chose the smaller cousin of the pony keg, which I will term a goat keg. It was a large black can of beer, big enough to keep me happy, but small enough not to affect my performance the next day. This is, of course, before I got half way through it and realized that it was 10%, and by then the damage was already done.
Needless to say, this morning I awoke to the sunlight streaming through the tent, a headache the likes of which I haven’t had since college, and knew that I wasn’t going anywhere today. It was hard even pedaling down the hill to the only open café in town on Monday morning, where I wolfed a breakfast of coffee, various bread product, and cheese. I guess you can’t get omelets in Germany?
Oh well, I needed a rest, and now I’ve got one in the most beautiful little town I’ve yet found. After eating, I walked up to the castle, and climbed the great round watchtower to the top to get the view. The three gorges that this castle commands come together at the point of rock upon which it is perched. From the top of the tower, the little houses, streets and open spaces of the town below clung below the castle like barnacles on a rock at sea. The whole town is organic.
The other great thing about this part of Germany is that it was left pretty much intact by the war. By the time the Allies got this far, the Germans had pretty much all retreated back to the Rhine, which is around 40 km to the east of here. Thank God at least some of these towns and their history were preserved because it is amazingly gorgeous.
As I descended the tower, and rode back through the meandering cobble stones to the camp ground, bleary eyed locals were starting to stir and move about. Yesterday was Sunday, and the town had been filled with motorcyclists and tourists buzzing around, drinking beer, and hanging out at the outdoor cafes. This morning I felt like I was the only one left at the party.
I returned the café where I’d eaten because the locals all seem friendly, and they have power. For the price of a cup of coffee, I get to sit, relax and write to my hearts content. Not bad! Tonight, I will sleep soundly next to the river, the sound of the water running into my dreams, and tomorrow I will make the Rhine.

2009-09-14T08:40:00.010-07:00

Route: Woffelbach to Heimbach via Schmidt
Distance: about 15 km

Ok, so you all can make fun if you want! I only made it 15 km today, yay! But, you guys should see this place. Steep hills covered with a green carpet of firs, bursting with bike trails, castles, Roman ruins, and really cool little towns every few km. I am in the Eifel Naturpark in Western Germany, so I never touched a highway today on my router here. Instead, I rode mountain bike trails all the way!
The only time I touched pavement was the lung pounding set of switchbacks I rode, up what was easily a 10% grade, to arrive at the village of Schmidt. This little eagles nest of a town is perched on the heights overlooking the Ruhrsee, a man-made lake that formed by the Ruhr River Dam. I camped on the lake last night, and today I was cycling its perimeter.
The reason why Schmidt was this important for me to see was that it was at the center of the Battle of Hurtgen Forest, which was the woods I was now riding through. While climbing the road into the uncut wilderness, it’s easy to see that having to fight here would have been a brutally horrific experience.
When Grandpa’s unit came here to rest and take on replacements after the Bulge, he was have been able to see the flashes of artillery and here the cracking of small arms echoing from the steep hills above his camp. For him and his men, the war was never far, even during a rest period.
Today for me, however, the war was the farthest thing from mind as I pedaled uphill out of Woffelbach. I was anxious to leave the sketchy “campground” that was really just a trailer park filled with goth kids and wasted looking dudes in their 40’s. Sometimes, I sleep with my bike inside the tent due to the rain, or neighborhood. In this case it was to present the endless parade of drunks walking through my site with slightly less of a target. One small problem that spoiled my quick getaway plans this morning, however, was that I discovered two broken spokes on my new rear wheel while pulling the bike inside the tent.
Fortunately, the Surly Long Haul Trucker comes with 2 replacement spokes cleverly attached to the rear wheel stays. It’s as if the designers at Surly are saying, “We know the wheels we spec’d on this bike are crap, so we’re going to attach the parts to build new ones on the bike for you!” Needless to say, I will be purchasing a quality set of wheels when I return to New York.
So, instead of leaving first thing this morning, I got to rebuild my wheel. Now, replacing a spoke isn’t the most difficult thing to do on a bike, but it does require you to tear down the rear wheel somewhat. This means, removing the tire and tube, the rim strip, and the rear cassette to allow for enough clearance to install the new spoke.
Whoever told me (Phil) that I didn’t need to bring cone wrenches, a hub tool and chain whip with me is going to get a strongly worded email whenever I can find another McDonalds! Just kidding dude, you rock. Point being, I have none of the proper tools to service my wheels, so I had to get creative with the spokes and it took a while.
The church bells rang 9am before I had my bike reassembled and ready to go. I should also point out that I noticed the bearings are already worn, and will need servicing very soon. I need to find a bike shop again! Thank you Shimano, I’m buying Phil hubs.
After monkeying around with maps, and two or three false starts, I found the right road out of town as the church bell toned 10. This is way too late to make real distance. Soon, the nice paved road I was riding turned into a rocky hiking trail, which was obviously going to follow the edge of the entire lake. The going was beautiful, but slow, and again not good for making distance.
When I realized that I wasn’t getting very far today, I finally adjusted my sight to the scenery. The virgin forest closed in around the trail. Huge stands of old growth timber stood up the steep hillside to my left, smaller scrub pine to my right running all the way to the waters edge. This was easily the most backcountry area I had yet found in Europe, and I rode my full packs and tenuous bearings down single-track, mountain biking my way around the lake.
Soon, I came to a quick uphill which was obviously joining a road grade coming down the hill from my left. With all of my muscle, I pulled the pedals, and road the bike up out of the trees and into a paved parking lot with a signpost that read Schmidt in it. More uphill, but one of my major trip goals lay at the top.
On the top, in a field of well manicured grass, I sat on a bench and ate breakfast consisting of a pear while watching a grey cat that I had kicked out from over the bench, orbit me waiting for its home back.
Soon an old woman whom I had passed on the rail above came walking over to me and said hi.
“Nein Schprekin Duetsch”, I replied. “English?”
“Oh, nein.” She said, “Habla Espaniol?”
“Nein”
“Espaniol…” then started speaking German, but the jist of it was that I should at least learn Spanish because it’s one of the most international languages of the world.
I decide right then and there that my kids, if and when any arrive, will grow up speaking two languages. Maybe I could learn with them. If I didn’t, they would probably just make of me to my face in Spanish or German while they were growing up.
Not being bilingual, however, is one of the great regrets I have. This entire trip experience would have been so much more rich if I knew French or German; thank you Central High School for tempting me with a live on TV Japanese course complete with a hot Japanese woman leading the class.
On the way back down the road, the dug-in defenses and earthworks were plainly evident. At every switchback on this narrow draw up the hill, a ditch was dug across. I imagined machine gun and mortar emplacements across the entire width. This combined with mines and barbed wire obstacles and supported with artillery, would have covered the very small and steep draw in a murderous field of fire. Attempting an ground assault up the hill would have been nothing short of suicide. That’s what the battle of Hurtgen Forest was like. By the time they got to Schmidt, four months of fighting, bombing and artillery had wiped the town off the face of the earth. The village today is brand new.
Soon, I rejoined the little rocky bike path through the woods. Luckily, it was all downhill through the woods. Coming around a corner, I head an ominous “twang” come from my back wheel. I knew instantly that I had just popped another spoke. Upon inspection, I found the two that I had just replaced this morning intact. Need a bike shop.
The rocks on the trail soon became sand. The sand became pavement. Then the pavement became filled with tourists taking pictures, and lazily blocking the bike path. I knew I was getting close to civilization. A quick hop across the highway, and down the backside of the huge earthen dam, and I was spinning along at the base of a steep canyon. The sun barely touches this little part of the world due to the steep hills on either side. The path was slick, and the air was cold.
While riding along the little river at the base of the canyon, I rounded a corner and saw a red stone fortress growing out of a rock outcropping above me. By the straight up and down round tower filled with arrow slits surrounded by the high palisades, I could tell that this castle was the real thing, probably dating from around 1000 a.d. Once I circled the base of the structure, I could tell that the keep and tower were strategically located to command the approaches of three similar gorges which converge at this point.
What were once peasant’s fields, and no doubt, battlegrounds, were now filled with children playing on swing sets and riding bikes next to the river while parents strolled in the sunlight. As I took in this scene, I realized that I was in Germany without a map, I had no cash, I was hungry, and my bike was breaking. Maybe it was time to stop, stay at this town, and plan my German strategy.
The town surrounding this castle was a perfect study in medieval mazes. Old wood frame and stucco houses, beer gardens, and shops arrayed on streets which radiated like the points of a star from the battlements above. I swung around the corner below the castle, and found street cafes filled with motorcyclists out from Aachen for a Sunday beer. Turning right, and heading uphill, I fell in behind a young couple on bikes. They were slow, but passing was not an option due to the constant stream of motorcycles and sports cars screaming by. It was evident that we three cyclists were all heading to the castle.
We soon approached a very steep cobblestone pathway leading directly up to the portcullis, which was intact and was flanked by two round defensive towers. The girl in front of me hestitated, and stopped at the bottom while her boyfriend continued up the path. Instantly reverting to a 12 year old, I low geared past the stalled girl who was still straddling her bike and trying to get her boyfriends attention, and pro-rolled the whole grade up through the gates, through the outer keep, and into the castle itself!
What stopped me were two things: 1. I was being ridiculous. 2. I had just actually pedaled into an outdoor café filled people enjoying their lunch who all stopped and stared at the lost biker in their midst. Turning around as quickly as I could, and actually saying “I’m sorry” in English, I rode back down through the keep, and out of the front gate while the blond couple with bikes smiled at me. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. At least I didn’t fall.
But, who knew that the castle was a restaurant? I guess there are so many of these things kicking around this part of Germany that I won’t be surprised if the next one I come across is a transmission repair shop or something.
What finally put the nail into the distance coffin today was stopping for the first hot meal I’ve had since Holland. Lunch at a sit down actual café, with real food, and real waitresses, what a treat! Not knowing what to order, I first got a beer (mistake) and next asked the cute English speaking waitress what I should order.
Two beers and some sort of bacon and cheese covered pancake later, it finally became apparent that I wasn’t going anywhere today. This wasn’t out of any lack of trying. After eating, I got on my bike and climbed off along a road leading out of town thinking that I would give it a try at least. I ended up on a very busy and narrow mountain highway, headed the wrong direction.
Descending back into town, and passing the café where I had just eaten again, the waitress smiled when she saw struggling. She came over and helped me with directions to the camping area, which upon first inspection looked very much like the one I had just left. Trailers, white trash, lots of empty wine and beer bottles collected in the recycling bin.
Only when I road downhill, and waded through this disappointing muck, did I find the most amazing spot I’ve had yet in Europe! Imagine the smile on my face when I found this open field surrounded by high hills next to the river. I’m writing now with the sun shining down, my trusty Surly leaned against an oak tree, and the sound of the river and wind as my only two muses.
This is without a doubt, the best spot I’ve found yet. I may have to stay another night here. Hell, even Grandpa took a rest during the war, and it is Sunday after all.

2009-09-14T08:40:00.009-07:00

Route: St. Vith to Woffelsbach,Germany via Waimes, Butgenbach, Monschau, Simmerath and Steckenborn

Distance: about 80 km

I am leaving St. Vith today! I’m headed north into Western Germany to a town called Steckenborn. The chances of me making it there today are slim because the country I’m coming into now becomes more mountainous.
Ok, did I say it was “all down hill from here” at one point? It most certainly was mostly uphill today. I gained about 500 meters coming into Monschau. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
It was great to be able to leave St. Vith today. After dropping of a couple of post cards at the post, and thanking Christine one more time for her help with my credit card problems, I was off!
The first 12 km were a breeze up the old railroad grade bike path to Waimes. Grandpa had come back and staged at Waimes before retaking St. Vith in Jan. 1945, so I wanted to see it. It looked like every other little town in this part of Belgium, church in the middle, houses around the church, countryside around the houses. Forgive me if I’m getting a little flippant with this parydime, but can you tell that I’m ready for a change?
Enter Germany. I knew that I stood a good chance of making it to Germany today, I just wasn’t sure of the grades. Riding off of the bike path back onto highways after Waimes was a bit of a let down, but I knew that the German frontier wasn’t far. It was, however, pretty much all uphill.
As I ran uphill, ipod playing a great mix of ACDC, Hi Tek and The Roots into my ears, I gradually became aware that I had left the valleys below, and was surrounded by fir trees once again. The signs all warned of death and had a skull depicted on them to either side of the road. Others read “zone militarie”. It was apparent that I wasn’t supposed to go into the woods. Maybe there were still mines from the war?
It was actually the German frontier, now dimiliterized, but a few years ago filled with troops, army bases and border police. No one knows border security better than the Germans! Now with the EU, all such frivolities are a thing of the past. I got the sense that I was riding through a layer cake of fear; first with Hitler’s West Wall defense, then with the cold war borders.
Coming down from the tree coated highlands which separate the two countries, the only indicator that I had passed the border was that everyone was out mowing their well maintained lawns, in their well maintained suburbs, on their perfectly maintained streets complete with paved bike lanes. How can I complain about separate paved bikes lanes? Sure, the people are a little stiff, and the drivers are crazier than New York, but the bike lanes are great!
I was riding toward several towns whose names held a meaning to me. Simmerath, Steckenborn, and Monschau. All of these towns had played a major role in the Battle of Hurtgen Forest. This lesser known battle of the war is lesser known because it was a needless bloodbath, perpetuated once begun, by imbecilic officers who did not know how to stop it once it started. There was no stated tactical objective except to “kill Germans” the hills surrounding the Ruhr River Valley. What started in September 1944 as a small mission to clear a section of woods threatening the allied southern flank, turned into a 5 month extravaganza, completely separate from the Battle of the Bulge, which killed over 50,000 Americans and God knows how many Germans.
The fighting centered around a forested area near, but not directly adjacent to, the Ruhr River, which ha hydroelectric dams at a few points, creating lakes like the one I’m camped at now. The Germans held the total advantage during this fight. They were snug in well prepared defensive positions, in possession of the high ground in all case, with pre sited artillery a phone call away. In short, they slaughtered over 7 American Infantry and 3 Armored divisions in the months around the Battle of the Bulge.
Why don’t we hear about this battle? Because it was a huge mistake. There was never any need to send so many American’s to die in this forest. It wasn’t until Feb. 1945 that the dams over the Ruhr River were identified as military objectives (4 months into the battle), and in the end, the Germans opened the floodgates on these, and slowed the Allied advance to the Rhine by weeks. In this light, it was a German victory through and through.
Anyway, when Grandpa was posted here after the bulge, his unit had suffered over 50% casualties. They needed a quiet place to rest and train, before heading backn into the fray. The town of Steckenborn was quiet only because it was 4 miles from the front. No doubt during this entire period of rest, grandpa could here the guns fringing the distance.
I came across a pack of middle aged German cyclists today. They were all clustered around a series of signs at a node in the cycling trails in the town of Born, Belgium. I needed directions, and as soon as I opened my mouth indicating that I spoke English, a series of people shouted back, in a European game of telephone, calling for “Suzette!” Suzette evidently was the only one who spoke English.
Now, I really like the Belgian bike trails. They really are top notch, except of course Holland’s but that’s another story. The only thing is the navigation system. It is confusing as all hell. Each little piece of trail seems to have a random number accosiated with it.

2009-09-14T08:40:00.008-07:00

Ardennes

2009-09-14T08:40:00.007-07:00

Waiting

2009-09-14T08:40:00.006-07:00

Holy Crap

2009-09-14T08:40:00.005-07:00

Of Castles and Idiots on Bikes

2009-09-14T08:40:00.004-07:00

Route: Woffelbach to Heimbach via Schmidt
Distance: about 15 km

Ok, so you all can make fun if you want! I only made it 15 km today, yay! But, you guys should see this place. Steep hills covered with a green carpet of firs, bursting with bike trails, castles, Roman ruins, and really cool little towns every few km. I am in the Eifel Naturpark in Western Germany, so I never touched a highway today on my router here. Instead, I rode mountain bike trails all the way!
The only time I touched pavement was the lung pounding set of switchbacks I rode, up what was easily a 10% grade, to arrive at the village of Schmidt. This little eagles nest of a town is perched on the heights overlooking the Ruhrsee, a man-made lake that formed by the Ruhr River Dam. I camped on the lake last night, and today I was cycling its perimeter.
The reason why Schmidt was this important for me to see was that it was at the center of the Battle of Hurtgen Forest, which was the woods I was now riding through. While climbing the road into the uncut wilderness, it’s easy to see that having to fight here would have been a brutally horrific experience.
When Grandpa’s unit came here to rest and take on replacements after the Bulge, he was have been able to see the flashes of artillery and here the cracking of small arms echoing from the steep hills above his camp. For him and his men, the war was never far, even during a rest period.
Today for me, however, the war was the farthest thing from mind as I pedaled uphill out of Woffelbach. I was anxious to leave the sketchy “campground” that was really just a trailer park filled with goth kids and wasted looking dudes in their 40’s. Sometimes, I sleep with my bike inside the tent due to the rain, or neighborhood. In this case it was to present the endless parade of drunks walking through my site with slightly less of a target. One small problem that spoiled my quick getaway plans this morning, however, was that I discovered two broken spokes on my new rear wheel while pulling the bike inside the tent.
Fortunately, the Surly Long Haul Trucker comes with 2 replacement spokes cleverly attached to the rear wheel stays. It’s as if the designers at Surly are saying, “We know the wheels we spec’d on this bike are crap, so we’re going to attach the parts to build new ones on the bike for you!” Needless to say, I will be purchasing a quality set of wheels when I return to New York.
So, instead of leaving first thing this morning, I got to rebuild my wheel. Now, replacing a spoke isn’t the most difficult thing to do on a bike, but it does require you to tear down the rear wheel somewhat. This means, removing the tire and tube, the rim strip, and the rear cassette to allow for enough clearance to install the new spoke.
Whoever told me (Phil) that I didn’t need to bring cone wrenches, a hub tool and chain whip with me is going to get a strongly worded email whenever I can find another McDonalds! Just kidding dude, you rock. Point being, I have none of the proper tools to service my wheels, so I had to get creative with the spokes and it took a while.
The church bells rang 9am before I had my bike reassembled and ready to go. I should also point out that I noticed the bearings are already worn, and will need servicing very soon. I need to find a bike shop again! Thank you Shimano, I’m buying Phil hubs.
After monkeying around with maps, and two or three false starts, I found the right road out of town as the church bell toned 10. This is way too late to make real distance. Soon, the nice paved road I was riding turned into a rocky hiking trail, which was obviously going to follow the edge of the entire lake. The going was beautiful, but slow, and again not good for making distance.
When I realized that I wasn’t getting very far today, I finally adjusted my sight to the scenery. The virgin forest closed in around the trail. Huge stands of old growth timber stood up the steep hillside to my left, smaller scrub pine to my right running all the way to the waters edge. This was easily the most backcountry area I had yet found in Europe, and I rode my full packs and tenuous bearings down single-track, mountain biking my way around the lake.
Soon, I came to a quick uphill which was obviously joining a road grade coming down the hill from my left. With all of my muscle, I pulled the pedals, and road the bike up out of the trees and into a paved parking lot with a signpost that read Schmidt in it. More uphill, but one of my major trip goals lay at the top.
On the top, in a field of well manicured grass, I sat on a bench and ate breakfast consisting of a pear while watching a grey cat that I had kicked out from over the bench, orbit me waiting for its home back.
Soon an old woman whom I had passed on the rail above came walking over to me and said hi.
“Nein Schprekin Duetsch”, I replied. “English?”
“Oh, nein.” She said, “Habla Espaniol?”
“Nein”
“Espaniol…” then started speaking German, but the jist of it was that I should at least learn Spanish because it’s one of the most international languages of the world.
I decide right then and there that my kids, if and when any arrive, will grow up speaking two languages. Maybe I could learn with them. If I didn’t, they would probably just make of me to my face in Spanish or German while they were growing up.
Not being bilingual, however, is one of the great regrets I have. This entire trip experience would have been so much more rich if I knew French or German; thank you Central High School for tempting me with a live on TV Japanese course complete with a hot Japanese woman leading the class.
On the way back down the road, the dug-in defenses and earthworks were plainly evident. At every switchback on this narrow draw up the hill, a ditch was dug across. I imagined machine gun and mortar emplacements across the entire width. This combined with mines and barbed wire obstacles and supported with artillery, would have covered the very small and steep draw in a murderous field of fire. Attempting an ground assault up the hill would have been nothing short of suicide. That’s what the battle of Hurtgen Forest was like. By the time they got to Schmidt, four months of fighting, bombing and artillery had wiped the town off the face of the earth. The village today is brand new.
Soon, I rejoined the little rocky bike path through the woods. Luckily, it was all downhill through the woods. Coming around a corner, I head an ominous “twang” come from my back wheel. I knew instantly that I had just popped another spoke. Upon inspection, I found the two that I had just replaced this morning intact. Need a bike shop.
The rocks on the trail soon became sand. The sand became pavement. Then the pavement became filled with tourists taking pictures, and lazily blocking the bike path. I knew I was getting close to civilization. A quick hop across the highway, and down the backside of the huge earthen dam, and I was spinning along at the base of a steep canyon. The sun barely touches this little part of the world due to the steep hills on either side. The path was slick, and the air was cold.
While riding along the little river at the base of the canyon, I rounded a corner and saw a red stone fortress growing out of a rock outcropping above me. By the straight up and down round tower filled with arrow slits surrounded by the high palisades, I could tell that this castle was the real thing, probably dating from around 1000 a.d. Once I circled the base of the structure, I could tell that the keep and tower were strategically located to command the approaches of three similar gorges which converge at this point.
What were once peasant’s fields, and no doubt, battlegrounds, were now filled with children playing on swing sets and riding bikes next to the river while parents strolled in the sunlight. As I took in this scene, I realized that I was in Germany without a map, I had no cash, I was hungry, and my bike was breaking. Maybe it was time to stop, stay at this town, and plan my German strategy.
The town surrounding this castle was a perfect study in medieval mazes. Old wood frame and stucco houses, beer gardens, and shops arrayed on streets which radiated like the points of a star from the battlements above. I swung around the corner below the castle, and found street cafes filled with motorcyclists out from Aachen for a Sunday beer. Turning right, and heading uphill, I fell in behind a young couple on bikes. They were slow, but passing was not an option due to the constant stream of motorcycles and sports cars screaming by. It was evident that we three cyclists were all heading to the castle.
We soon approached a very steep cobblestone pathway leading directly up to the portcullis, which was intact and was flanked by two round defensive towers. The girl in front of me hestitated, and stopped at the bottom while her boyfriend continued up the path. Instantly reverting to a 12 year old, I low geared past the stalled girl who was still straddling her bike and trying to get her boyfriends attention, and pro-rolled the whole grade up through the gates, through the outer keep, and into the castle itself!
What stopped me were two things: 1. I was being ridiculous. 2. I had just actually pedaled into an outdoor café filled people enjoying their lunch who all stopped and stared at the lost biker in their midst. Turning around as quickly as I could, and actually saying “I’m sorry” in English, I rode back down through the keep, and out of the front gate while the blond couple with bikes smiled at me. I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. At least I didn’t fall.
But, who knew that the castle was a restaurant? I guess there are so many of these things kicking around this part of Germany that I won’t be surprised if the next one I come across is a transmission repair shop or something.
What finally put the nail into the distance coffin today was stopping for the first hot meal I’ve had since Holland. Lunch at a sit down actual café, with real food, and real waitresses, what a treat! Not knowing what to order, I first got a beer (mistake) and next asked the cute English speaking waitress what I should order.
Two beers and some sort of bacon and cheese covered pancake later, it finally became apparent that I wasn’t going anywhere today. This wasn’t out of any lack of trying. After eating, I got on my bike and climbed off along a road leading out of town thinking that I would give it a try at least. I ended up on a very busy and narrow mountain highway, headed the wrong direction.
Descending back into town, and passing the café where I had just eaten again, the waitress smiled when she saw struggling. She came over and helped me with directions to the camping area, which upon first inspection looked very much like the one I had just left. Trailers, white trash, lots of empty wine and beer bottles collected in the recycling bin.
Only when I road downhill, and waded through this disappointing muck, did I find the most amazing spot I’ve had yet in Europe! Imagine the smile on my face when I found this open field surrounded by high hills next to the river. I’m writing now with the sun shining down, my trusty Surly leaned against an oak tree, and the sound of the river and wind as my only two muses.
This is without a doubt, the best spot I’ve found yet. I may have to stay another night here. Hell, even Grandpa took a rest during the war, and it is Sunday after all.

I can finally leave, but...

2009-09-14T08:40:00.003-07:00

Route: St. Vith to Woffelsbach,Germany via Waimes, Butgenbach, Monschau, Simmerath and Steckenborn

Distance: about 80 km

I am leaving St. Vith today! I’m headed north into Western Germany to a town called Steckenborn. The chances of me making it there today are slim because the country I’m coming into now becomes more mountainous.
Ok, did I say it was “all down hill from here” at one point? It most certainly was mostly uphill today. I gained about 500 meters coming into Monschau. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
It was great to be able to leave St. Vith today. After dropping of a couple of post cards at the post, and thanking Christine one more time for her help with my credit card problems, I was off!
The first 12 km were a breeze up the old railroad grade bike path to Waimes. Grandpa had come back and staged at Waimes before retaking St. Vith in Jan. 1945, so I wanted to see it. It looked like every other little town in this part of Belgium, church in the middle, houses around the church, countryside around the houses. Forgive me if I’m getting a little flippant with this parydime, but can you tell that I’m ready for a change?
Enter Germany. I knew that I stood a good chance of making it to Germany today, I just wasn’t sure of the grades. Riding off of the bike path back onto highways after Waimes was a bit of a let down, but I knew that the German frontier wasn’t far. It was, however, pretty much all uphill.
As I ran uphill, ipod playing a great mix of ACDC, Hi Tek and The Roots into my ears, I gradually became aware that I had left the valleys below, and was surrounded by fir trees once again. The signs all warned of death and had a skull depicted on them to either side of the road. Others read “zone militarie”. It was apparent that I wasn’t supposed to go into the woods. Maybe there were still mines from the war?
It was actually the German frontier, now dimiliterized, but a few years ago filled with troops, army bases and border police. No one knows border security better than the Germans! Now with the EU, all such frivolities are a thing of the past. I got the sense that I was riding through a layer cake of fear; first with Hitler’s West Wall defense, then with the cold war borders.
Coming down from the tree coated highlands which separate the two countries, the only indicator that I had passed the border was that everyone was out mowing their well maintained lawns, in their well maintained suburbs, on their perfectly maintained streets complete with paved bike lanes. How can I complain about separate paved bikes lanes? Sure, the people are a little stiff, and the drivers are crazier than New York, but the bike lanes are great!
I was riding toward several towns whose names held a meaning to me. Simmerath, Steckenborn, and Monschau. All of these towns had played a major role in the Battle of Hurtgen Forest. This lesser known battle of the war is lesser known because it was a needless bloodbath, perpetuated once begun, by imbecilic officers who did not know how to stop it once it started. There was no stated tactical objective except to “kill Germans” the hills surrounding the Ruhr River Valley. What started in September 1944 as a small mission to clear a section of woods threatening the allied southern flank, turned into a 5 month extravaganza, completely separate from the Battle of the Bulge, which killed over 50,000 Americans and God knows how many Germans.
The fighting centered around a forested area near, but not directly adjacent to, the Ruhr River, which ha hydroelectric dams at a few points, creating lakes like the one I’m camped at now. The Germans held the total advantage during this fight. They were snug in well prepared defensive positions, in possession of the high ground in all case, with pre sited artillery a phone call away. In short, they slaughtered over 7 American Infantry and 3 Armored divisions in the months around the Battle of the Bulge.
Why don’t we hear about this battle? Because it was a huge mistake. There was never any need to send so many American’s to die in this forest. It wasn’t until Feb. 1945 that the dams over the Ruhr River were identified as military objectives (4 months into the battle), and in the end, the Germans opened the floodgates on these, and slowed the Allied advance to the Rhine by weeks. In this light, it was a German victory through and through.
Anyway, when Grandpa was posted here after the bulge, his unit had suffered over 50% casualties. They needed a quiet place to rest and train, before heading backn into the fray. The town of Steckenborn was quiet only because it was 4 miles from the front. No doubt during this entire period of rest, grandpa could here the guns fringing the distance.
I came across a pack of middle aged German cyclists today. They were all clustered around a series of signs at a node in the cycling trails in the town of Born, Belgium. I needed directions, and as soon as I opened my mouth indicating that I spoke English, a series of people shouted back, in a European game of telephone, calling for “Suzette!” Suzette evidently was the only one who spoke English.
Now, I really like the Belgian bike trails. They really are top notch, except of course Holland’s but that’s another story. The only thing is the navigation system. It is confusing as all hell. Each little piece of trail seems to have a random number accosiated with it.

CREDIT CARD ARRIVES!!!!!

2009-09-14T08:40:00.002-07:00

Route: St. Vith to Recht via bike trails, looped return to St. Vith via Neder-Emmels
Distance: about 20 km
You can tell when you’ve been someplace for too long. For me it’s a strange combination of being annoyed with things that become routine, contrasted with an unforeseen nostalgia about things that I know I will miss.
Case in point: A very loud middle aged couple moved into the campsite across the way. I should say, they came to their private vacation mobile home. The woman, a small shrewish looking creature, is constantly babbling on and on while the man simply says “ya” every now and then. I can even here her at night from inside their camper. Their entire relationship seems to be a series of arguments, some loud, some slightly quieter, but always fighting. As I write this, the man is mowing the lawn of the place about 5 feet from my tent. It’s time to leave.
Thank whatever God or spirit you believe in, because today I went to see Christine, and (light shining down from heaven) my credit card arrived! Finally! I can leave!
When I do leave, though, I leave behind a few people with whom I feel like I’ve formed friendships; Andrea and her brother Freddy to name a couple. Christine at the post office sort of too, as well as Stephen at the computer store who I have seen around town a few times and had a few words with. He’s really curious about New York. I really got along with Freddy though, and I had a blast riding trails with him.
It’s strange, of course I never intended to stay for 5 days, but after this time I do know this place very well. I’m familiar with all the bike paths and the side streets. I know the history, and some of the local culture. This little town reminds me, in a way, of the place where I grew up in the Willamette Valley. It’s about the same size, and the same age oddly, and is beginning to exert the same repulsive force. Maybe that’s why there is no one between the ages of 17 and 40 in town.
Most of all, I do think it’s an interesting point that I had to stay here for the same length of time as grandpa; 5 days. His coming here was definitely not by choice, but he certainly couldn’t leave until someone said ok. In a way, my credit card showing up now is like receiving the order to move out.
The overall conclusion based on my time here is that this trip has now passed a marker of sorts. It is past the midway point. I’ve got less than 3 weeks left, and the rest of my time will be spent visiting simple areas for one night and moving on, as grandpa did during the spring of 1945 when the war was winding down.
In a sense, for him, the war was far from over after the Bulge, he went on to fight for 6 more months, but there was no longer any uncertainty over who would win. In that same vein, I know now that I’m heading into Germany and that once I do, it will be seen in a quick succession of cities, towns and other locations that Grandpa fought through on his way to the Baltic.
None will likely hold me as long as St. Vith, or remain as fixed in my memory as being in the place where the whole tide of the war hinged and turned in favor of the Allies. Certainly, for me, this place will always be the location that was a high point of this trip.
Today’s ride took me back up into the forest trails above Poteau and Recht in the general location where I know grandpa’s unit was during the opening days of the battle. I was hoping to find something more tangible like a sign saying “48th AIB Fought Here” with an arrow pointing to a line of trenches.
Yesterday, while riding with Freddy, he mentioned that he has always wanted to see the great American Civil War battlefields like Gettysburg and Manassas. I told him that they were very different for a number of reasons, but I think the most striking one is that every little action is marked by a sign, or a gravestone, or a line of cannon standing as if ready to fire. We love to celebrate our battles in America. Every American battlefield of this scale is marked, sometimes costs a fee to enter, and has everything from a snack bar to a self-guided kiosk where you pick up and drop off your digital players.
Riding through the pock marked forest again today, and seeing the shell holes, trenches and fragments of shrapnel lying around, I thought it was fitting, maybe even better, not to have turned this battlefield into an amusement park. Battles have been fought on these hills since the times of the Romans, and maybe will be fought here again. Better to forget about it, and go on with life as St. Vith has done; a town literally built on the ruins of its former self.
As I reached the northern edge of the woods, I saw a very intact line of trenches running alongside the road. At first, I thought they were simply drainage ditches, but when it continued for at least a mile and had branch trenches running off at all major crossroads, I realized that I was staring at the front line defenses of CCA. These must have been the trenches near where grandpa was.
It’s exactly the location on the maps, and the spacing of the foxholes and alignment with the forest edge is correct for a defensive line of the period. Every so often, there was a larger open space surrounded by ditches like a mini castle with a moat. These would have been field guns like 105 field guns and 155 howitzers. In between, men would have lined these trenches and laid in the dirt throwing off attack after attack from the Germans trying to come up the hill from the North, and into these trees.
I looked for some shrapnel, or other paraphernalia of war, but these trenches have been here on this main bike trail for 65 years. They are picked clean, overgrown with tall trees, and full of underbrush. To get the good stuff, you have to go way up on the hills east of here, and walk into the woods off the trails. It’s a little nerve-wracking because you never know if there’s a bomb or a mine or something left buried.
As I mentioned in my last posting, Freddy laughed at me when I asked him about this as we were traipsing about the forest. Never mind that every single guide book states not to do this in very bold print. He’s been at it most of his life. Still, on my hike this evening to the top of the ridge overlooking the campground, I was a little scared to go off trail and follow the trenches I found the other night. I supposed that’s a testament to the power of war.
Don’t worry parents I still have all of my limbs.

Riding the Battle Hills

2009-09-14T08:40:00.001-07:00

The Battle of France is Over....and I lost

2009-09-14T08:40:00.000-07:00

Route: Wimereux to Calais then by train to Antwerp. Distance by bike about 50 km.

Warning! There are strong statements about France in the following posting. I'm only telling it how it happened to me. May not be suitable to all readers!

The dawn broke under drizzly skies, and I got up early to get my gear together. After talking to Anika and Lesbeth last night, I decided that today was going to be my day. Once in Calais, I will have ridden the entire French side of the English Channel from Normandy to Cape Du Blanche. I was beyond ready to get going!
Just as soon as I got back from the restroom, it started to rain. Great, today would be the day where I got to test my raingear. I pulled everything back into the tent, and waited out the drizzle. It gave me some time to plan my route. According to the map, Calais wasn’t far, but I wasn’t sure if I could get a train today or not.
As soon as the sun broke through the clouds for an instant, I was out the door, and packing up the bike. After saying bye to my new friends, I left the campground. My legs were tired from 3 days of long distances, but I was determined. I have had enough of little French villages, headwinds, rude people and crappy bathing conditions. It may be my American nature here, but when you pay 30 Euro for a campsite, the damn bathroom should come equipped with toilet paper and a free shower!
On my way through town, I thought I would stop and by snack items. It was Sunday after all, and I wasn’t sure if I was actually going to get out of France or not that night. I carefully locked up my bike in front of a little market and walked in. I picked up a couple of small things, paid and left.
As soon as I got out the door three things that cemented my feelings about France. One, the shop closed as all things do routinely in France for no apparent reason. Two, I realized that I had forgotten to buy Toilet paper, and everything was now closed. This of course led me to wonder if French people walk around with toilet paper all the time? Three, a guy walked by when I was eating a banana and sneered at me while saying “bon appitet…”, which is a French insult whenever they see someone eating in public.
You know how you always think of something to say long after the moment has passed? Well, it occurred to me as I was chugging up a huge hill, into a yet another wet and freezing headwind, that I should have chewed loudly and gotten in that guy’s face just to watch his expression. Of course, me being the nice guy that I am, I simply acknowledged his outgoing insult with a wave and a frown.
The final straw came at the train station. After being jerked around by the ticket counter staff who seemed to think that I would know what train I was supposed to get on and when by osmosis, I finally got onto the right train, squeezing in between people with my bike. As usual, it’s a catch as catch can kind of situation on the train, no special areas for things like bikes, you just bring it on and hope for the best.
As soon as I’d settled into an out of way seat, a conductor stuck his head into the car, and yelled in French for a while, after which everyone on the car got out and went to another car in the same train for no apparent reason. I slowly got up and started to put the bags back together, when a conductor came back on the car to tell me to hurry up or I was going to make the train late. As he whizzed past me, he bumped into the bike and knocked it halfway out of the car which in turn knocked one of the panniers off the back. It’s not easy to pick this all up and put it back together quickly.
In what seemed like 10 seconds, three conductors were standing around me yelling at me to hurry up, that I would make the train late. Finally, I’d had it and I yelled at one, “well maybe if you helped me steady the bike, I could get the bags back on?! What about that! Hold the bike for a second!” He looked at me like he didn’t understand a word I was saying, even though he has just told me I was late in perfect English, and went on berating me for not getting the bags on faster.
Basically, not one of those three conductors lifted a finger to help me, other than verbal abuse, until I handed the bike down from the car. At that critical moment one of them helped me steady it for a second while continuing to yell at me to hurry up to the next car down the train. Wow. Thanks guys. It may be the tiredness of the road talking here, but I have never met any people as genuinely stuck up and mean to foreigners. With a few notable exceptions, one of those being when I’m actually on my bike, people have actually gone out of there way to be rude to me simply because they know I’m an American.
For the benefit of those of you who may be reading this and don’t know the author, I’m a pretty tolerant guy. I try to be open to new things, and inviting to new people. I came to France with the idea that I could be a one person symbol of America by being polite, speaking French whenever possible, and generally blending into the framework without doing things like announcing that we won World War Two for the French while wearing a dirty American flag T-shirt and acquiring a “my other bike is a gun” bumper sticker.
With that said, even though I tried my hardest, and was as patient and as tolerant as I know how to be, I would not say that the vast majority of the people I encountered even thought of me as a human being. Getting scolded for eating in public is hard to understand from a culture which views it as perfectly acceptable behavior to urinate in public. Getting boot camped on the train for something that was obviously not my fault is hard to take from a country which prides itself on nuance and manners. My thoughts on France at this time can best be summed up in a two word phrase; the first word being the expletive for coatis and the last word being the country name (France).
With all of this said, there have been some great positive experiences on my tour of the English Channel. The visit to the invasion beaches and the American Cemetery was without a doubt one of the most moving experiences of my life. Standing on that ground was very powerful, and I highly recommend it for anyone at interested in such things. Equally as amazing to see where each little coastal town, all them well over 1500 years old, holding fast to their traditions and culture, even if it did get on my nerves toward the end. Finally, I was amazed to see the devastation that is still evident from the war. It is everywhere, German bunkers, shell holes overgrown with brush, buildings still pockmarked with bullet and shrapnel damage. The list goes one.
Perhaps it’s easier to understand the French attitude toward foreigners when placed in the context of two horrible world wars less than 20 years apart. As I road the sandy hills approaching Calais, I came to place called the Pont du Blanc. It is the northwestern tip of France, and you can clearly see the Cliffs of Dover across the Channel.
At the apex, there is a monolith marking the edge of France, and a memorial to the civilian war victims. It is from this point that Hitler launched the Battle of Britain, his ill-fated attempt to invade the UK. Consequently, the entire hillside is a complex maze of bunkers, observation and gun posts, radio and anti-aircraft sites, and machine gun nests. The larger bunkers are battle scarred, but still intact while there smaller cousins, some as far as 3 miles inland, are generally piles of dynamited rubble.
The sandy ground, covered with scrub sage and dry pine trees, is a lunarscape of shell and bomb craters left just as they had been during the war. The trees and bushes have re-grown inside the craters so that all of the groves of trees, or bunches of bushes, are circular. The monument stands in the middle of this wasteland as a symbol of human hope, or maybe desire, that the world should learn to live in peace. France has certainly given more than its fare share of people to the slaughter.
The final hill to Calais was the longest, and the steepest. My gear weighs around 45 pounds, plus the weight of the bike at around 30. That’s a lot of stuff to haul up anything, but the grades here are crazy! Sometimes you get up to 11% on simple country lanes. Even in the granny gear, I have to stand up and pull on the bars to get any purchase. After a long slog in the rain, with the wind whipping down from the hilltop and blowing me all over the tiny traffic filled lane, I saw the city. Sweet Lord in Heaven, I thought to myself, I can leave France!
The aforementioned short annoyance at the train station put me on a fast train to Lille, then a quick transfer to a slower train up to Antwerp. I watched as the countryside turned to city and back to country while the train swayed its way north. My heart rose as I saw, slipping through the windows, bikes lanes on every road, public restrooms, water fountains, and (gasp) stores open on Sunday! One step off into the Antwerp Central Station and I knew I was right at home. The signs are in several languages, English too. The people speak English, and the city is extremely clean and full of bikes! People are whizzing everywhere on them while utilizing clean public bike paths, public bike lockers, covered bike parking, and the list goes on.
I am indeed more than excited to be in Belgium, one of the countries where Grandpa fought. I can’t wait to hit the road tomorrow! I’ve got a big day. My route will take me through the city of Antwerp and east to Lommel near the Peel Marshes of Holland. I will camp there, and meet Niek the next day for that battlefield tour. Yes folks, things are definitely looking up!
Finally, thanks to everyone who has been reading the blog! It’s great to get all of your comments on facebook and to hear your thoughts. I expect to have some pics and video up in the next couple of days as I’m, apparently, back in the land of the 21rst century!

Ride Safe!

Gavin

Against the wind....

2009-09-14T08:38:00.000-07:00

Route: Cayuex sur-Mer to Wimereux. Distance about 100 km

The old man who gave me the table and chairs last night has a girlfriend! I saw her doing the walk of shame around 6 this morning. It can’t be that bike of a secret in such a small trailer park.
I returned the set with a smile and a thank you. He smiled back and gave me the traditional parting “Bon La Road.” Captain Dickface came by on his little golf cart and sneered at me. Some people. Can you tell I’m tired?
I guess picking a trailer park next to a bar to sleep in is probably not going to add up to t quiet night. I was woken up at various times by kids exploding firecrackers, drunk people walking and talking up and down the road, and at least one couple in a drunken French argument. I didn’t have to speak the language to get the jist what the girl’s probably was with her man.
After I left the village, vainly looking for a quick cup of coffee once again, I found the greatest bike path in the world! The Somme river empties into the channel at this point creating a large bay. All around the bay was this separate and perfectly maintained bike corridor complete with benches, signage, and trash cans! I half expected to see bathrooms!
The best thing about this path was that they had planted trees and brush to block the wind. I was flying! I covered the 40km to Berck in what seemed like a dreamscape. There were all kinds of people out, and there was a road bike race going on with flaggers to direct traffic at every interchange.
At one point, this super-agro group of German’s in full racing kit came rushing by screaming at the top of their lungs to each other. It was comical to actually hear phrases like “Von Schnell!” yelled to the group by the leader in front. He was obviously someone who didn’t tolerate any talkback. They faded off into the distance in front of me, hauling ass, and disappeared over the hump of a hill. To my left was a German machine gun pill box in the middle of a field.
All along the route were pillboxes, bunkers and machine gun dugouts leftover in fields, usually near crossroads. Sometimes, though, there were just there in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason other than to surprise someone advancing over the land. For the most part farmers had adapted their use to their own purposes. Several were overgrown and used to stack bails of hay. Others were used to store fencing material and irrigation piping. Some were actually being used as flower beds. What a fitting end to something built with hate in mind.
During the last push to my latest McDonalds outpost, the pain from my saddle became exquisite. I can’t wait to see what it feels like in a month! The newish Brooks leather saddle is perfect for touring, but needs to be broken in still. Until I ride more on it, which I will, it won’t soften up. The result is like riding a freaking shoe for a bike seat!
I wanted tonight’s camping spot to be a good one, maybe with an ocean view. So, I put my head down and hauled the last 40 km out to my daily goal at Wimereux. I’ve been generally assuming that little coastal towns have the best camping. With the exception of last night’s little foray into the trailer park style, I have found this to be true. On my way past a huge complex of German bunkers overlooking Boulogne-sur-Mer, The horizon opened up before me and I finally saw the place on the coast where I get to turn east! Thank God! One more day and I’ll be in Belgium.
The sun shown down on the city below, and I saw strangely out of place Teepees dotting a hillside. The sign a littler farther down the road indicate that I would be staying at the “l’ete Indian Campings”. The office was pretty much what you would expect, grotesque carved wooden Indian figurines, prints of buffalo and wolf, and a French dude about my age running the place. He was cool, spoke English with me, and gave me the spot for 3 Euro less than the price. He also gave me an adaptor.
While setting up my tent, I had a joyful encounter with some girls from Holland. Anika and Lespeth. I overheard them speaking English and couldn’t resist walking up and introducing myself. Thank God, what a relief to speak to someone in English for the first time since leaving Cherbourg 5 days ago. I never knew how lonely it gets not being able to talk to anyone.
We hung out for a bit, and they only reinforced my desire to get to Holland. They were coming the other way down the coast from the North on bikes and tent camping along the way. They told me about the camping got farther and few between the farther inland I went and that I really should buy this specific type of book when I get to Holland. Someone has written an entire series on cycling specific trips including campsites along the way.
It’s strange. Talking with them made me happy, and I have no doubt that I came off as a complete lunatic because I haven’t talked to anyone in English in 7 days, but it also made me sad. I realized for the first time how very alone I am over here. How I won’t be back home for 4 long weeks. How all I was thinking about before coming was the excitement of seeing the places I’d always dreamed up like the Tower of London, and the invasion beaches.
When that excitement wore off, which I think it just did, the only thing I’m thinking of now is how much I want to be home with Becky and Levi. No wonder grandpa wrote so much about how he missed grandma and home. He must have had a similar transition at some point too. Something I would term as the desire to get it all over with and come home, to do what you came to do and get back.
I’m really struggling with basically not wanting to be in France anymore. I really can’t take the constant attitude towards Americans and the lack of anything that I would term as close to home. I did kind of jump in the deep end here at the beginning of this trip and I knew it was going to be hard. I just didn’t realize until now what making a complete break with your “normal” life feels like. I’ve never been so alone and isolated while surrounded at the same time.
I think I’ll wake up tomorrow and haul as fast as I can to Calais to get the train a day earlier than planned. That will definitely give me enough time to meet my contact in Ospel. I am excited beyond belief to finally get to the ground where grandpa fought, and meet some of the people who were there. We will be touring the battlefields in a period Jeep, talking with Dutch veterans, and attending a memorial dedication in Sillengry, France.
Can you tell I’m ready to get on out of France?

On the road again,..again

2009-09-12T06:25:00.000-07:00

Route: Veules-les-Roses to Cayeux-sur-Mer via Dieppe. Distance about 90 km

I’m feeling a lot better today the headwind has subsided a little bit. It’s still there, but not as strong. I am finding that I am past the hump of not wanting to ride anymore. I think I had to go through it. Everyone does go through something like this in whatever they try. Mine was (hopefully) yesterday when I just couldn’t ride anymore into that wind. All I wanted to do was get off the bike and get onto a train. I really just needed sleep and a new outlook.
I happened upon a wonderful little artspace/coffee shop in Verengevill Sur-Mer. The woman who runs the place, of course, speaks no English, but I think I’m starting to think in broken French anyway. I walked in and asked if they had the internet. There was a brief second of pause then she smiled and said “oue, le toiletts?” To which, because it sounded like the French pronunciation of internet, I replied “Oue! I was very excited to get my postings off early for the day.
Of course, she mean toilet, which I also needed, so it was a 50/50 win I guess. Also, this small misunderstanding gave me a chance to enjoy a very expensive, yet needed cup of coffee. I’m starting to let go, albeit not voluntarily, of my American need for instant gratification. The French attitude is laid back on purpose. Some things are worth waiting for. While this is a lot easier for me to understand after I’ve had coffee, I do dig it.
They generally get up early, 6 or 7am, eat a small breakfast and are at work by 9. Around noon, they close up (and I mean everything closes) until 3pm and work till around 7. Some places still close at five of course, but they generally don’t take work too seriously. Perhaps this is why so many French people live to be 100.
I was generally sticking to the coastal roads, not trying to get onto the main highway too much due to traffic and bad wind conditions, but the problem with that is that every little town starts to get repetitive. I would be riding along into minor headwind making around 14 kph. A sign would come up, and announce that it’s 1km to (fill in the blank –sur-Mer), shortly followed by a bittersweet downhill into a wonderfully picturesque little French fishing village.
Usually there is at least a well maintained but ancient stone church, sometimes a medieval castle and it’s always nestled in a little draw created by a river valley which empties into the English Channel. I would pedal through it in a flash because the draw protects the town from the ever present winds, and then have to climb back up onto the bench land above on the other side. Then there is a steep uphill into the wind, and onto the next town in 3km or so where I repeat the whole process. It’s so strange to think of something like a McDonalds as being an oddity given this sameness.
Each one of these little towns has existed since the time of the Romans. There are little reminders of this in the stone quays which lead into each port from the sea. They are ancient, and probably the most well-preserves pieces of architecture in the area in terms of age and lifespan. Since each of these towns is traditionally a fishing and trading town, these were their lifeblood and there are monuments on each one at various points highlighting certain rulers or rich nobles who made contributions to their upkeep over the centuries. I have little doubt that if Marcus Aurelius, were he with us today, would recognize some portion of these stone edifices.
The other comment about these coastal towns is that, barring one or two areas which cater to tourists, they are rough. As soon as you stray off the beaten path, you get into a no mans land of drunk sailors, drug dealers, prostitutes and little punks kids riding motorbikes. It’s really on recently say since about 1860, that these towns have been considered tourist destinations.
Of course, I’m way off of Grandpa’s track. As a replacement officer coming into the ETO he would have been assigned to a replacement depot, called a repple depple, somewhere in France, most likely around Caen. This was a huge staging area for the allies for the duration of the war after its capture from the Nazi’s in August 1944.
Usually what happened at a Repple Depple was you sat and waited while putting up with various degrees of military discipline, called at the time chickenshit. Waking toa bugal call at 0500 everyday, followed by constant drills and physical training. Along with this still came a lot of just sitting around waiting to be assigned to a unit. A dull and tedious process that was distained by almost everyone involved.
It was at encampments like these that some of the more unsavory and lesser known acts of robbery took place during the war. It’s estimated that fully 30% of US Army supplies sent to the ETO never reached the front. This explains Grandpa’s repeated requests in his letter for cigarettes and food. He wasn’t crazy a lot of rear echelon people were “finding” things that fell off the truck and selling them in Paris which had grown into a huge black market for everything from chewing gum to heroin. When you remember that toilet paper was rationed by the War Department, it makes sense that every little item would inflate in value.
But of course, this wasn’t the whole story. These places were also filled with mostly good guys trying to get used to the fact that a lot of them were going to go into combat shortly. The war in late 1944, despite the opinion of the top brass and the press, was not ending anytime soon. These men were going to be fighting, and soon.
In a way, I feel like I’m sitting in one of these camps right now. My humble abode for the night is the French equivalent of a white trash trailer park. Next to me are little pop trailers that have obviously not moved in ages because they have been mowed around so many times that the earth has built a mini hedgerow under the faded sides of each unit. The tires are flat, and the windows have rusted onto the finishes.
I too am waiting. Waiting to get out of France, and into Holland where the combat part of the story took place. Like Grandpa, I’m sitting around waiting for my walking papers. Instead of time, I have miles of French coast to sweat through. Instead of combat, I have at least a month of living in a tent in all kinds of conditions. Instead of friends he made at the camp, I have the few people I’ve interacted with along the way.
The couple who runs this fine establishment at first seemed very nice, then all of a sudden not so nice when they looked at my passport. “Ahhhh..Americane”, awkward pause, “oue”.
I tried my best broken French. “Pardon Madam, petit Francais. Une komping, Une Jeix, avet L’eltricite, cei vou plei?” She smiled, and her husband yawned and rolled his eyes. “It’s ok, one spot with electricity right?” She replied in English. “Right, thank you, I’m sorry I don’t speak much French.” I said.
“Oue” was all she said. Merely an acknowledgement of fact.
After we had finished the paperwork, and her husband led me to a crappy campsite in full view of the parking lot next to the toilets and without power, I asked for another site, with power. When he led me to one with power, he had forgotten the keys to open the utility box. I said ok when he indicated that I was to wait and he would get the keys. I waited, and waited. I got out my maps and did some planning. I was about to walk over to the booth when he showed up with a set of keys, unlocked the cover and left saying “viola” over his shoulder as he walked to a neighbor a couple of trailers down and starting talking.
Soon it became apparent that I needed an RV adaptor to make my computer plug fit the plug on the outlet. I politely walked over to the two men talking, and the guy turned to me and said a bunch of things in French that I don’t understand, but none of good. I asked politely for a power adapter. He told me that he would get one from the office and went right back talking to his friend, loudly mentioning the word “American” while scoffing.
While I was pitching my tent and getting my stuff ready to take a shower, I could overhear both of them telling their favorite rude American stories. The word “American” repeated over and over again in ever louder and ruder tones. As far as I was concerned, I had done nothing but ask for what they said they could provide me when I signed the papers in the office, and in an overly polite and respectful manner. If I was back home right now, I probably would have been yelling at someone.
I took a walk to the showers cursing France under my breath and generally not feeling good about being here. This of course sucks because I’m supposed to be having fun. But is it really a fun when you have to keep reminding yourself that it is? I’ve tried so many times to be polite and speak what little French I can. The problem of course isn’t that I don’t know French, it’s that I wasn’t born French.
With the hot water of the shower washing away the day’s travels, all the hills, headwinds and general lack of progress went away and I began to think about how I could have approached that situation differently. When I had finished, I walked to the office and asked for the adaptor that I knew the guy wasn’t going to bring over. He was hanging out with three of his buddies and didn’t acknowledge my presence. I asked his wife, and she very nicely provided me with the adaptor. I began to sense that the problem wasn’t that I wasn’t French, the problem was in fact that this guy was a dick.
While walking back to my tent, I passed the elderly neighbor to whom Captain Dickface had been talking earlier. I made a peace offering my smiling and saying “Bonsiour”. He smiled at me as I walked past. Five minutes later, as I was struggling to get my dinner laid out on the ground in front of the ten, he showed up at my site with a folding table and a lawn chair. In a jovial manner, he indicated to me that camping and eating on the ground was not civilized. I was to return it in the morning, and if I didn’t, he would beat me up!
He was around 80 and hefted out his arms and chest in a fake muscleman pose while smiling. I laughed and said thank you many times. I think he felt bad about what had happened earlier. Every time I’m ready to give up on this country, something like this happens and I realize that it’s no worse than the US. Can you imagine what some redneck would do to a purse carrying French fop if he showed up to go camping in Wyoming?
One point of interest along the way today was the city of Dieppe. In the World War Two “nerd alert” that I constantly live in, Dieppe is famous because it was the target of a poorly planned and executed raid by the British in 1942. They landed with several battalions of Canadian troops at Puys, a little town just to the north of the city. The port of Dieppe itself was heavily fortified, and most of these bunkers are still there in some form or another. The entire work is a Hollywood set designer’s dream. Imagine an entire cliff face carved out, made into machine gun nests, artillery ports, and listening posts, then recovered in concrete and formed to match the natural finish so well that you can’t tell until you are literally standing next to it. The budget must have been gigantic because these types of forts are in every port and minor town all way from Normandy to here.
The one at Dieppe, however, proved to be too much for the Canadians who were doomed from the beginning because of the “limited” nature of the assault. Basically that meant that they would be given little to no tank support. This factor, plus the still very strong German Air Force, decided the day and the whole effort resulted in ______killed or wounded and a massive evacuation/abandonment of forces on the coast, a major German victory for the press, Oh, and Dieppe got on the map.
Coincidently, there was a huge air battle over the city during the assault. Estimates of over 1000 aircraft dog-fighting that day after the landing have been posited. This could very well be accurate. It’s known as the biggest daylight dogfight in the ETO.
Something I forgot to mention yesterday was that I came across an old US fighter airfield and ate lunch on the runway. The cracked cement still contained its letters, and the tower still stood at one end. To be fair, it is still used as a General Aviation field, but the runway isn’t. There is a lone British Vampire jet fighter sitting in repose next to a snack shop under the tower. It was the first jet the allies managed to get into the air in 1943. It ended up being inferior to the German ME 262, and was basically abandoned as a design after the war, but it probably operated, along side American planes, out of this field. I could almost see the P-51’s lining up on final and flaring out over the runway while returning from a mission over Germany.
Of note was the youngish looking French dude preflighting a low wing Grumman trainer aircraft while sporting a black bandana and full trench coat. He looked like he was trying to be some sort of flying Zoro. He nodded and looked at me curiously as I circled his plane on my bike. “Je Pilote”, I said to him trying to spark some sort of “I love flying too” discussion. This would ultimately culminate in him letting me ride right seat on his flight today. He nodded and looked at me quizzically not unlike a cat when disturbed some lesser animal like a human. I left.
Well, that’s about it for today folks. I will be in Holland in three more days if I can keep up 90-100 km a day. If all goes well, I’ll be out of France by Sunday. Everything is closed here on Sunday anyway.
Peace.

On The Road Again... Again

2009-09-12T04:42:00.000-07:00

Route: Veules-les-Roses to Cayeux-sur-Mer via Dieppe. Distance about 90 km I’m feeling a lot better today the headwind has subsided a little bit. It’s still there, but not as strong. I am finding that I am past the hump of not wanting to ride anymore. I think I had to go through it. Everyone does go through something like this in whatever they try. Mine was (hopefully) yesterday when I just couldn’t ride anymore into that wind. All I wanted to do was get off the bike and get onto a train. I really just needed sleep and a new outlook. I happened upon a wonderful little artspace/coffee shop in Verengevill Sur-Mer. The woman who runs the place, of course, speaks no English, but I think I’m starting to think in broken French anyway. I walked in and asked if they had the internet. There was a brief second of pause then she smiled and said “oue, le toiletts?” To which, because it sounded like the French pronunciation of internet, I replied “Oue! I was very excited to get my postings off early for the day. Of course, she mean toilet, which I also needed, so it was a 50/50 win I guess. Also, this small misunderstanding gave me a chance to enjoy a very expensive, yet needed cup of coffee. I’m starting to let go, albeit not voluntarily, of my American need for instant gratification. The French attitude is laid back on purpose. Some things are worth waiting for. While this is a lot easier for me to understand after I’ve had coffee, I do dig it. They generally get up early, 6 or 7am, eat a small breakfast and are at work by 9. Around noon, they close up (and I mean everything closes) until 3pm and work till around 7. Some places still close at five of course, but they generally don’t take work too seriously. Perhaps this is why so many French people live to be 100. I was generally sticking to the coastal roads, not trying to get onto the main highway too much due to traffic and bad wind conditions, but the problem with that is that every little town starts to get repetitive. I would be riding along into minor headwind making around 14 kph. A sign would come up, and announce that it’s 1km to (fill in the blank –sur-Mer), shortly followed by a bittersweet downhill into a wonderfully picturesque little French fishing village. Usually there is at least a well maintained but ancient stone church, sometimes a medieval castle and it’s always nestled in a little draw created by a river valley which empties into the English Channel. I would pedal through it in a flash because the draw protects the town from the ever present winds, and then have to climb back up onto the bench land above on the other side. Then there is a steep uphill into the wind, and onto the next town in 3km or so where I repeat the whole process. It’s so strange to think of something like a McDonalds as being an oddity given this sameness. Each one of these little towns has existed since the time of the Romans. There are little reminders of this in the stone quays which lead into each port from the sea. They are ancient, and probably the most well-preserves pieces of architecture in the area in terms of age and lifespan. Since each of these towns is traditionally a fishing and trading town, these were their lifeblood and there are monuments on each one at various points highlighting certain rulers or rich nobles who made contributions to their upkeep over the centuries. I have little doubt that if Marcus Aurelius, were he with us today, would recognize some portion of these stone edifices. The other comment about these coastal towns is that, barring one or two areas which cater to tourists, they are rough. As soon as you stray off the beaten path, you get into a no mans land of drunk sailors, drug dealers, prostitutes and little punks kids riding motorbikes. It’s really on recently say since about 1860, that these towns have been considered tourist destinations. Of course, I’m way off of Grandpa’s track. As a replacement officer coming into the ETO he would have been assigned to a replacement depot, called a repple depple, somewhere in France, most likely around Caen. This was a huge staging area for the allies for the duration of the war after its capture from the Nazi’s in August 1944. Usually what happened at a Repple Depple was you sat and waited while putting up with various degrees of military discipline, called at the time chickenshit. Waking toa bugal call at 0500 everyday, followed by constant drills and physical training. Along with this still came a lot of just sitting around waiting to be assigned to a unit. A dull and tedious process that was distained by almost everyone involved. It was at encampments like these that some of the more unsavory and lesser known acts of robbery took place during the war. It’s estimated that fully 30% of US Army supplies sent to the ETO never reached the front. This explains Grandpa’s repeated requests in his letter for cigarettes and food. He wasn’t crazy a lot of rear echelon people were “finding” things that fell off the truck and selling them in Paris which had grown into a huge black market for everything from chewing gum to heroin. When you remember that toilet paper was rationed by the War Department, it makes sense that every little item would inflate in value. But of course, this wasn’t the whole story. These places were also filled with mostly good guys trying to get used to the fact that a lot of them were going to go into combat shortly. The war in late 1944, despite the opinion of the top brass and the press, was not ending anytime soon. These men were going to be fighting, and soon. In a way, I feel like I’m sitting in one of these camps right now. My humble abode for the night is the French equivalent of a white trash trailer park. Next to me are little pop trailers that have obviously not moved in ages because they have been mowed around so many times that the earth has built a mini hedgerow under the faded sides of each unit. The tires are flat, and the windows have rusted onto the finishes. I too am waiting. Waiting to get out of France, and into Holland where the combat part of the story took place. Like Grandpa, I’m sitting around waiting for my walking papers. Instead of time, I have miles of French coast to sweat through. Instead of combat, I have at least a month of living in a tent in all kinds of conditions. Instead of friends he made at the camp, I have the few people I’ve interacted with along the way. The couple who runs this fine establishment at first seemed very nice, then all of a sudden not so nice when they looked at my passport. “Ahhhh..Americane”, awkward pause, “oue”. I tried my best broken French. “Pardon Madam, petit Francais. Une komping, Une Jeix, avet L’eltricite, cei vou plei?” She smiled, and her husband yawned and rolled his eyes. “It’s ok, one spot with electricity right?” She replied in English. “Right, thank you, I’m sorry I don’t speak much French.” I said. “Oue” was all she said. Merely an acknowledgement of fact. After we had finished the paperwork, and her husband led me to a crappy campsite in full view of the parking lot next to the toilets and without power, I asked for another site, with power. When he led me to one with power, he had forgotten the keys to open the utility box. I said ok when he indicated that I was to wait and he would get the keys. I waited, and waited. I got out my maps and did some planning. I was about to walk over to the booth when he showed up with a set of keys, unlocked the cover and left saying “viola” over his shoulder as he walked to a neighbor a couple of trailers down and starting talking. Soon it became apparent that I needed an RV adaptor to make my computer plug fit the plug on the outlet. I politely walked over to the two men talking, and the guy turned to me and said a bunch of things in French that I don’t understand, but none of good. I asked politely for a power adapter. He told me that he would get one from the office and went right back talking to his friend, loudly mentioning the word “American” while scoffing. While I was pitching my tent and getting my stuff ready to take a shower, I could overhear both of them telling their favorite rude American stories. The word “American” repeated over and over again in ever louder and ruder tones. As far as I was concerned, I had done nothing but ask for what they said they could provide me when I signed the papers in the office, and in an overly polite and respectful manner. If I was back home right now, I probably would have been yelling at someone. I took a walk to the showers cursing France under my breath and generally not feeling good about being here. This of course sucks because I’m supposed to be having fun. But is it really a fun when you have to keep reminding yourself that it is? I’ve tried so many times to be polite and speak what little French I can. The problem of course isn’t that I don’t know French, it’s that I wasn’t born French. With the hot water of the shower washing away the day’s travels, all the hills, headwinds and general lack of progress went away and I began to think about how I could have approached that situation differently. When I had finished, I walked to the office and asked for the adaptor that I knew the guy wasn’t going to bring over. He was hanging out with three of his buddies and didn’t acknowledge my presence. I asked his wife, and she very nicely provided me with the adaptor. I began to sense that the problem wasn’t that I wasn’t French, the problem was in fact that this guy was a dick. While walking back to my tent, I passed the elderly neighbor to whom Captain Dickface had been talking earlier. I made a peace offering my smiling and saying “Bonsiour”. He smiled at me as I walked past. Five minutes later, as I was struggling to get my dinner laid out on the ground in front of the ten, he showed up at my site with a folding table and a lawn chair. In a jovial manner, he indicated to me that camping and eating on the ground was not civilized. I was to return it in the morning, and if I didn’t, he would beat me up! He was around 80 and hefted out his arms and chest in a fake muscleman pose while smiling. I laughed and said thank you many times. I think he felt bad about what had happened earlier. Every time I’m ready to give up on this country, something like this happens and I realize that it’s no worse than the US. Can you imagine what some redneck would do to a purse carrying French fop if he showed up to go camping in Wyoming? One point of interest along the way today was the city of Dieppe. In the World War Two “nerd alert” that I constantly live in, Dieppe is famous because it was the target of a poorly planned and executed raid by the British in 1942. They landed with several battalions of Canadian troops at Puys, a little town just to the north of the city. The port of Dieppe itself was heavily fortified, and most of these bunkers are still there in some form or another. The entire work is a Hollywood set designer’s dream. Imagine an entire cliff face carved out, made into machine gun nests, artillery ports, and listening posts, then recovered in concrete and formed to match the natural finish so well that you can’t tell until you are literally standing next to it. The budget must have been gigantic because these types of forts are in every port and minor town all way from Normandy to here. The one at Dieppe, however, proved to be too much for the Canadians who were doomed from the beginning because of the “limited” nature of the assault. Basically that meant that they would be given little to no tank support. This factor, plus the still very strong German Air Force, decided the day and the whole effort resulted in ______killed or wounded and a massive evacuation/abandonment of forces on the coast, a major German victory for the press, Oh, and Dieppe got on the map. Coincidently, there was a huge air battle over the city during the assault. Estimates of over 1000 aircraft dog-fighting that day after the landing have been posited. This could very well be accurate. It’s known as the biggest daylight dogfight in the ETO. Something I forgot to mention yesterday was that I came across an old US fighter airfield and ate lunch on the runway. The cracked cement still contained its letters, and the tower still stood at one end. To be fair, it is still used as a General Aviation field, but the runway isn’t. There is a lone British Vampire jet fighter sitting in repose next to a snack shop under the tower. It was the first jet the allies managed to get into the air in 1943. It ended up being inferior to the German ME 262, and was basically abandoned as a design after the war, but it probably operated, along side American planes, out of this field. I could almost see the P-51’s lining up on final and flaring out over the runway while returning from a mission over Germany. Of note was the youngish looking French dude preflighting a low wing Grumman trainer aircraft while sporting a black bandana and full trench coat. He looked like he was trying to be some sort of flying Zoro. He nodded and looked at me curiously as I circled his plane on my bike. “Je Pilote”, I said to him trying to spark some sort of “I love flying too” discussion. This would ultimately culminate in him letting me ride right seat on his flight today. He nodded and looked at me quizzically not unlike a cat when disturbed some lesser animal like a human. I left. Well, that’s about it for today folks. I will be in Holland in three more days if I can keep up 90-100 km a day. If all goes well, I’ll be out of France by Sunday. Everything is closed here on Sunday anyway. Peace.

wow

2009-09-11T02:57:00.000-07:00

Route: Fecamp to Meules les-rose, distance about 50 km

So, today, I really felt the effects of yesterday’s 100km jaunt. I will have to perform at that level soon, but I think I needed more recovery time than a few hours in a windswept tent on a cliff overlooking the churning English Channel. That plus I got up this morning and the damn wind that had picked up during the night intensified. It is literally blowing straight down the coast from the North at around 20 kph. It’s probably gusting to 30 or 35. That just saps your strength man.
The way the country is here, the farm land sits on a shelf above the water, not unlike the famous white cliffs of Dover which are actually not far across the channel. Because of this, the wind whips down the channel, gathering force as it’s constricted between the two landmasses of England and Europe. A venturi effect ala grande!
The good part about this wind is that it is what saved England from being invaded by the Spanish in 1588 by blowing south and giving the Queen’s fleet a massive wind advantage. The bad news is that it’s sure taking the sap out of poor old me. If it beat the greatest sea armada in the world before World War Two, how am I supposed to feel good about overcoming it?
This is a long winded (pun intended) way of saying that I am flat tired after 5 days. I haven’t been sleeping well, it’s cold and windy, and I don’t have enough to eat. On top of that, I’m expecting myself to get up and haul a bike loaded with 50 pounds of gear into this wind and make appreciable progress everyday. That generally translates to 70-100km per day, or my schedule is off.
The best laid battle plans are usually off when the first shot is fired. This was certainly true on D-Day when none of the tank support, or the landing parties made it to shore on location and time. It was chaos governed only by a few quick men who realized that to stay on the beach is be a dead man. “Better to get off this beach and die inland!”
Well, I’ve tried. Lord knows, I’ve tried to get off the beach, but each time I head inland, there is no camping, water or stores. This is a problem. Also, my general direction is northeast, but a long way farther north than you realize sitting in a comfy chair at home looking at maps.
Long story short, I’m changing my plans. I’m staying on the channel all the way to Dunkerque. This takes me straight through Dieppe, famous for a botched raid by the British and Canadians in 1942, Calais, famous for being close to Britain and the place where Hitler was convinced until too late that the main thrust of the allied invasion would come, and Dunkerque, famous for being the place where the British made a hasty retreat after the Fall of France in 1940.
All of these are worthy WW2 goals, and I don’t pick up Grandpa’s tracks again till Holland anyway, so what the hell. From Dunkerque I will go inland to Gent and from there I’ll follow my original plan.
This is getting to be quite a trip. It’s a test of strength and will. If it’s those things this early, I don’t even want to think about what it’ll be like later in the Ardennes with real hills and snow. The main problem is finding camping. No one seems to know where it is and it’s not like America where you can pretty much camp anywhere. Here, you have to find specific designated camp areas, pay $20-$30 and camp. They usually have showers and electricity, which is good, but that’s about it.
Anyway, I feel the spirit of Grandpa here, but honestly, he probably got to ride in a truck or something to Holland. There is a lot of France to smoke before I get there. But, I know myself, and I would be ashamed to come home without having ridden the whole thing. That is, after all, what I’m here to do. I just needed to give the body some rest today. Tomorrow I’m going to come out swinging and put up some big numbers!
So, thanks for staying tuned. It’s nice to know I’ve got a lot of friends out there pulling for me! Keep reading, and I’ll try like hell to get some pics up soon. Apparently the internet and France don’t mix well; something about being too efficient

caen to fecamp

2009-09-11T02:56:00.000-07:00

Route: Caen to Fecamp via Le Havre. Distance around 100km

Wow. Today I wanted to put up some big numbers in terms of distance, and I think I did. 100 km! Not intentional. Basically it resulted out of slowness in me to pick up the fact that once I left Normandy, I needed a larger scale map. I was trying to dead reckon based on a huge map of Northern France, and my generally good innate sense of overall direction. (Pause for laughter)
Basically I was riding roads really bad for cycling like freeways and major highways. Highways filled with trucks. Highways with no shoulder. I thought France was supposed to be the best cycling in the world! I knew it was only because I was completely lost. My circuitous route from the Omaha Beach, uphill and inland to Caen, downhill to the beach again, only to have to climb back uphill inland to find camping should have been enough tp make me realize this.
I was so amazed by the invasion beaches, and I had studied them so much through my reading, that I pretty knew the landscape by heart. Once I left Normandy yesterday, it was one wrong turn after another trying to follow signs that led me in all the wrong directions. How’s that for a life metaphor? I can picture some self-help guru saying something like “All you need is a bigger map people! Yay!”. To be shortly followed by “I sell maps”.
On one of these little wrong turns, however, I came upon a crossroads in the town of Pennedepie, near the port of La Havre. While stopped staring at yet another amazing 1000 year old cathedral, I noticed a little concrete line sticking out of the hillside to my right. Then I realized that it wasn’t a hillside at all, but an old German bunker covered with earth. This was a favorite tactic of the German’s during the war.
They would build a fortified position like a machine gun emplacement and cover it with dirt, then plant trees and grass on it so it blended in with the natural surroundings. Many veterans talk about how hard these were to spot until you were right on top of them. And here I was, basically right on top of it. If this had been a war, I would have been dead.
A lot of guys were killed this way. Patrols would be sent out simply to find the enemy. Today we would use GPS and real time satellite imagery to find this stuff out before ever risking a life. Back then, GPS and satellites were called infantry. A lot of the time during World War Two, their job was simply to go walking around a certain area and see if they got fired at. These were called reconnaissance patrols. One or two of our guys would probably be wounded or killed, but the higher ups would know were the enemy was, in what strength, ect.
I walked around the bunker and found that the machine gun apertures were pointed away from the crossroads inland down the slope of a field filled with cows, probably just as they had been 65 years ago. This was a rear guard position.
Then it occurred to me that it must be guarding something. The proximity of the crossroads to Le Havre and the English Channel made it an important center of travel which also came with a terrific view of the port. So, there must have been an observation post somewhere on the other side of the crossroads pointed toward the harbor that this pillbox bunker was guarding.
3 minutes later I found it. An old hollowed out concrete observation post complete with machine gun mounts, ladders and a linear concrete viewing platform protected by a coved concrete roof. All around the post, in the field below and out to the water, lay the scattered concrete remains of at least 6 other posts. This must have been a strongpoint in the defense network.
The ripped apart pieces of concrete, one of which was awkwardly jammed into a tree trunk next to the road, led me to think that they remained in pretty much the exact position they landed in after being hit by allied bombs or artillery. The farmer who owned the land probably didn’t have the money, or time, to try and get rid of such a massive pile of rubble, and so just worked around it.
It was in the little village of Hornfleur on the Seine, after stopping to gauze at the remains of the medieval fortress at it’s heart which was now mostly missing it’s pieces and had been re-used for several things over the centuries, that I found the treasure of all treasures for American’s abroad; McDonalds!
Yes! Finally some hot food that I can afford. And, what’s this? There is a bathroom with toilet paper and water and stalls! And, free internet?! And they serve beer??!!! No wonder Americans always go there in France. Its way more than a normal McDonalds, it’s like a little piece of America that you can visit when you need to check your email or go to the bathroom without having the hold your nose and hover while people of every gender listen impatiently.
Ok, so I went a little overboard, but I was tired and hadn’t eaten more than a few energy packs and a banana, so I got a Big Mac meal and went large on it. Over here, there is no jumbo or supersize. A large is simply a large. The drink was what I would consider to be a small. Whatever, it hit the spot! As I pedaled away, the faint smell of French fries and burgers floated after me, calling me to return. “You can eat us….its ok…you’re poor and cycling…we’re cheap and delicious....come baaaaaack….”
Fifteen minutes later, newly purchased roadmap in hand, I turned onto a brilliant stretch of road near the Seine River. No cars, just marvelous little villages with old style European thatched roofs tucked away into the little green valleys. In the distance loomed a large suspension bridge. After studying my new map, I realized that I had to cross here.
As befitting the nature of this trip, and Grandpa, the planning of it has taken on a bit of a military maneuver. As such, planning when and how you cross major natural barriers like a huge river, is paramount to the success of failure of the mission. Back at home, I just looked at the roads crossing the river and assumed that I could get across at any one of a dozen locations. They lay of the land is radically different.
First off, as befitting anything that happens in France, you can’t count on things like maps, bus schedules, or even the sun. If the sun were French, he or she may sound something like this; “uouuuuu je moname. I’m soo boored, naise pas? I don’t sink I will rise today tillllll ph du do tuan oclock in the pm. Oue?”
More on that obnoxiously stereotypical comment later…
My new map told me basically that if I didn’t cross here, I would have to go to Rouen, which was more than 120 km out of my way. Good thing I checked. As I turned onto D6180 and headed around the last hill before the river valley, I was struck by how big the river actually was. I could easily see how something like this would present a significant barrier to an army.
Grandpa’s unit, the 7th Armored Division/48 Armored Infantry division, had been only the second American unit to cross the Seine in 1944. This was just before Grandpa joined them, and it was a very successful crossing. There were few casualties and a correctly sized and reinforced bridgehead across at Verdun was established. Shortly after this action, the unit’s Lt. was killed. His name was Micheal Conti. He died when his armored personnel carrier hit a landmine the day after the river assault. He had been with the unit less than 48 hours.
These thoughts were spinning through my head as I was nearly sandwiched by too freight trucks after passing through the complicated roundabout that was the entrance ramp for the bridge. It was a close call. Very close. I looked up at the bridge and saw, in typical French fashion, that there was no shoulder at all. There was a very narrow walkway, maybe 2’-6” wide, on either side. Swallowing my pride, and embracing my will to live, I stopped at an opportune moment and hefted by laden beast over the 18” high concrete siding. Once on the walk way, I slowly pushed the bike up the slope of the huge bridge.
Below, the patchwork countryside faded away and I could see the river gleaming in the sun. A straight, obviously man-made, canal exited the river from just under the bridge and disappeared over the horizon in an unnatural straight line. To my right, juxtaposed between two little hills above a modern city complete with stacks and freeways, was a castle. It stood with one circular tower rising above the other square ones in typical Norman fashion. The wall was complete, and the building looked like it had been maintained since it was built. It perched in the hills, above the gritty modern city below, like a fairytale.
After the apex of the gigantic suspension bridge, I decided to ride the rest of the way down. After all, it was a downhill and I’m not here to walk! So, being careful not to hit the side, or fall off into nearly constant truck traffic, I eased my way down to the toll booths below. I was happy to see a sign which read “cycliste gratuit”.
By this time, I had covered 70 km, and was getting tired. The day was winding down, and it was getting increasingly windy. Wind, especially a headwind, can just take whatever strength you have right out of you. This area is famous for its soul bending headwinds, and as night was approaching, the weather was kicking up a little. Next stop then was the town of Bolbec where I hoped to find camping, or at least someone who could point me in the right direction.
When I finally got here, as the sun was definitely beginning its downward fall in the west, I was not too thrilled to find a little dump of a village filled no stores open, mostly punk looking kids on un-muffled two stroke dirt bikes. They whole place had a general creepy feeling. Crap, I thought as I read the sign which indicated Fecamp was 35km away. But, it was on the coast, and the coast seems to be where the camping is here, so Fecamp it was. I breathed hard, took a shot of energy drink, and pedaled back up to the roundabout.
Those last kilometers to Fecamp are a blur of country highways, screaming trucks and a nasty little headwind. The weather was now fully shifting, and the calm little sunny pedaling I had enjoyed in Normandy was definitely behind me. With a headwind, there is nothing you can do except gear down, go slow and just keep at it. It’s really no fun. It’s like riding uphill all the time. Then, of course, when you are actually riding uphill into a headwind, it’s even worse.
This is where my love of ACDC, especially the Bon Scott years, comes into play. Nothing takes your mind off of pain better than music. I like to listen to my ipod while cycling. I know some of you out there are going to think I’m unsafe and whatever, but at times like these it really takes the edge off.
I was pushing 85km and the wind was making my whole body strain to keep moving forward. Even with everything I could give it, I was making around 12 kph. Pop in the ACDC, and voila! Perfect cycling music because of its simple 4/4 rythm. I have this great live album called “If You Want Blood” recorded in 1978 in Glasgow during the height of their rock power. I just kept the rhythm with my cadence, and the kilometers went by one after the other.
Before I knew it, I was whizzing down a long stretch of road coming into Fecamp, screaming “Hell ain’t a bad place to be!” along with Bon on the chorus while bouncing up and down to the beat. I must have looked like a madman because several reserved French townies stopped in their tracks and stared. So much for manners right now, I was tired and wired. 100 km.
I found the camping spaces, and selected one overlooking the English Channel. Sitting in a natural amphitheater sat little terraced tent spaces filled with twenty-something Europeans out camping, I wrestled with the tent. The clouds were out, and the howling of the wind was non-stop now.
I read Grandpa’s letters in the tent, while hoping that I didn’t blow away. In them, he always stresses how much he misses my grandmother, and how much he really just wants to come home. He wants the war to be over, and for us to win, but he really can’t wait to start a real future. I feel him on this one.
I’m starting to wonder why I came on this trip. I wanted to put myself through an ordeal in Europe. I didn’t want to simply come here, ride the train, stay in hotels, and miss out on the hardships of having to hump your gear the full width of the continent. This is what Grandpa had to do, while also being shot at. Granted that at times they rode on trucks and on tanks, but their general pace of advance was way slower than mine.
I just wanted to feel what it was like to be tired here, and to experience the landscape in a way that you can only do on a bike. You become more involved with the land and the culture when you step outside of the tour bus or the train. I haven’t got to the places where Grandpa first saw battle, but they aren’t too far in the future. For now, it’s just putting my head down and riding the bike into the wind.

to caen

2009-09-11T02:55:00.000-07:00

Ok, this one will have to be quick. There is a lot to tell, but I’m tired and can’t write it all down now. Here are highpoints that I’ll fill in tomorrow at a café or something.

1. Sunrise over Omaha Beach! Amazing. The tide was out, the sea was calm and the sky had an awaking blue to it. I hiked to the bunker where we had hung out the night before. I found the scene inviting. You can still see the mooring guides to LST’s that are interspersed throughout the beach in generally parallel patterns all the way down. From these it’s easy to picture in your mind the large grey painted ships ramming themselves ashore under a group of barrage balloons to open up their bows and give birth to hundreds of green/brown clad infantrymen, tanks, armored personnel carriers, and the paraphernalia of war. Grandpa was among them on day in September 1944
2. Riding out of Dog One exit this morning, I met a middle aged Dutch couple. They smiled and we talked in English once they figured out I wasn’t German. This is becoming a semi-common error among the locals. Anyway, he was Bon and she was Ricky. They were from Essen. Bon was very interested in my project, and we talked for a while. I should mention that this occurred on an uphill intersection on the way to Aromanches that we both stopped at to catch our breath. From this encounter, I see the future of my trip unfolding. Can’t wait to get to Holland!
3. The American Cemetary at Collville Sur Mer. Amazing how many people are buried there and not just D-Day KIA, all throughout the war in the ETO. I fought hard to get the theme music to “Saving Private Ryan” out of my head. I was only successful when the church bells toned out the hour, then proceeded to play a grotesque assortment of American patriotic music like “She’s a Grand Old Flag” in de-tuned church bells. The dissonant sound that this created was surreal in the extreme and cast a macabre veil over the thousands of crosses filled with dead men being forced to endure the worst possible music rendered in the worst possible way for all eternity. The monuments talk about peace and liberty. Have we really achieved peace? Did these men die for nothing? Also, I was oddly looking for my Grandpa’s tombstone even though I know he isn’t here. It’s almost like I wanted him to be.
4. The long long ride to Caen. The biggest Norman Castle I’ve ever seen, and the rudest people I’ve yet encountered. Seriously, you’re not in Paris. It’s like people in Portland pretending they are from New York or something. One quick story. I finally found a Best Western near a pockmarked World War One monument that I recognized from old newsreels. It still wore the scars of World War Two. Anyway, I was desperate for water. I locked up the bike, and barged into the front lobby and asking for water in poorly rendered French. I kind of assumed at an American hotel chain that they might speak English. I got a massive eyes roll when I accidentally said thank you in Spanish after being directed to the bathroom. I should also mention that I was smelly, sweaty and at least 5 days past due on a shave. After this, I was in a bad mood. I mean, I’m really tired, dehydrated and all I want is a 711 and a campsite. Little did I know that Caen is the most confusing city on the planet and getting out would take the better part of three more hours in the saddle.
5. On trying to get out of Caen as quickly as possible, I ended up (of course) going exactly the wrong way. South. I had to backtrack around the city for an hour, and for this I actually had to use the compass that Dad gave me. I laughed a little when he did. I mean, I have an iphone with google maps. What good is that though when it costs you 5 trillion dollars to use it? The best technology in the world can’t stand up to a compass.
6. I finally found a campsite after asking at the local hotel. The place looks brand new, and it’s all on a hill facing west with no shade. Bad for camping? Yes. Good for subdividing, yes. And that is there plan. It’s owed by a family, Henri speaks English, so we had a good chat about how his dad is an Architect and he and his brother run the place. Smacks of a retirement scheme to me. Not too sure how good of an architect he is though because things don’t quite add up with the slopes in the showers for instance. They don’t drain right. And the roof tile isn’t fire rated. The rock tile outside the shower area isn’t embedded right. It’s a quick job done by amateurs and it shows. Nice place, but I think they will struggle to sell the spaces.
7. Great nights sleep over looking the lights of Caen in the distance. The whole area is on a slope, so it faces the populated valley below. Very nice lights in the distance coming through my bug screen. Man I miss home and this reminds me of it so much!