Bedlam in Belgium!

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.

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

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.