What are we doing? June 23rd, 2002 36th Marche Européenne du Souvenir et de l'Amitié (MESA or European March of Memory and Friendship) High time, to gain a second star upon the green one with the boar on. And so, with Schelden, southward I went. Noone else from the Wandelsoc. was present: even Prakke gave up, alleging that he "did not know when it was going to take place". Utter bull, since I had mailed him that twice, at two addresses, both Lydia's as well as his own, on Tue, 28 May 2002 21:17:10 +0200 and on Wed, 29 May 2002 12:35:50 +0200 and had told him twice when it was going to arrive at least twice, in person. Have the guts to say you'd rather stay at home with the missus. Sissy. It did make sense historically, of course. The MESA was my first military march and, the first time over, I went there together with Henk - now, two years on, at my third time there, I was alone with Schelden again (time to introduce the phrase 'third time lonely', as opposed to 'third time lucky'). Utmostly alone even, because although I had, in deliberation by email with Steve Atkinson, made an effort to make this happen, the Marching Team of the Herts and Bucks Wing of the Air Training Corps did not bunk at the same place we did, but at camp Bastogne, moved there at the eleventh hour by the organisers, who otherwise couldn't get that crummy camp (sanitary conditions there left an awful lot to be desired) to fill up. Groups, after all, can be relocated more easily than individuals. We decided not to alter our registrations at camp Marche (where sanitary conditions also left much to be desired, by the by), partly because Albert van Geyningen was to come along and it would have become a mutual rigmarole. Looking back, we could easily have done so, since Albert dropped out before he set a foot. More on that later though: at this point in time we did not yet know this. Day 1 (Tuesday 18.06) Haarlem - Marche After Schelden and I had boarded the intercity to Maastricht in Haarlem, a half hour early(!), we managed to meet Albert without further effort, at Den Bosch railway station, having debarked there to recapture the planned schedule. We would have had to get off there anyway, since no rail traffic was possible between Den Bosch and Eindhoven, due to track maintenance. "NS shall deploy buses", a smart voice announced by intercom. They were to leave from platform 1. They did not leave from platform 1 at all. They did not leave at all. They were not there at all. They did not arrive at all. Not even after we'd been waiting there for two hours. So when, at platform 1, it was announced that we had better take the train to Maastricht that would shortly arrive after all, at platform 6 (from which we had come, naturally), we were not surprised and trudged back grinning, luggage and all. Besides, our stay at platform 1 had been a pleasant one, because we had been unmasked there, by Jack Verschuren (that's what it says on his identity card, but he calls himself 'Jacques'), who mercilessly correctly took us to be marchers "on the way to Marche too?" and so joined us. He proved to share our sense of humour. Mind you, it was a good thing that this made our stay a pleasant one, because I had to pay for this with the loss of my return fare to Marche, in the turmoil. It apparently slipped from my coat pocket along with its surrounding envelope. But I only discovered this later. Back at platform 6 said train turned out to take some more time to arrive, and someone had forgotten to turn off the tape about the buses. Bitter deception ensued, for quite a few newcomers, who made the returntrip to the busless platform 1 in vain. We, on the other hand, shruggingly boarded the slow train to Maastricht after a delay of three hours. Once there, we changed to the slow train to Liège, in which I discovered that I'd lost my ticket. Thankfully, the Belgian conductor on this train turned out to be utterly reasonable. One should think my explanation was predominantly plausible and therefore accepted because I was in the company of the heavily laden Ab and Zjak, and Schelden was a compartment further up, smoking and carrying the same kind of ticket. So, after a sunsplashed ride along the river Meuse, we arrived at Liège-Guillemins, where we used the waiting period to visit our regular terrace, directly across from the station, and the Quick next to it to score a decently doughy hamburger. Fine terrace, lovely view. If prizes for urban ugliness are not yet awarded to cities, Liège looks like the reason to start doing so. But, in this most eyesoring of European cities, the ladies parading by were a sight for sore eyes. Moreover Turkey had just beaten host country Japan at the Soccer World Championship, reason for cheerful honking on the part of Liègian Turks and a broad grin on ours. After that, and without any problems thanks to another utmostly friendly ticket collector of the NMBS, we travelled past Angleur, Tillf, Mery, Hony, Esneux, Poulseur, Rivage, Comblain-la-Tour, Hamoir, Sy, Bomal, Barvaux and Melreux-Hotton (thank you Ab) to Marche-en-Famenne's railway station. From there, panting, we followed two aged fellow marchers (panting less, dammit), downhill to the Athenée Royal, where we took up our quarters in the dormitory, following a fast supper (for which we had namely almost arrived too late). This taking up of quarters, by the way, was an endless affair, to my mind: the senseless banter between Schelden (who prefers to sleep in a dormitory because this means less cold to his preciously tender feet) and van H. (who prefers to sleep in a tent because he's been used to that since his commando days and he abhores the smell and snoring of all those people packed into a single dormitory anyway) could not have been bettered by two old hags in Portobello Road, I'll tell you. What load of useless bullshit. All the more pleasant therefore were the Hoegaarden white and the Leffe Brun that followed, still available at ridiculously low prices (0,75 euro a ticket, two tickets for a half litre of Blanche, three for a bulbous glass of Leffe) next to the pleasant picknick tables above the parking lot of the Athenée Royal. Of what followed, I have no recollection. Day 2 (Wednesday 19.06) Vielsalm - Vielsalm Until the next morning, when we awoke to discover that on the campbeds next to us, lay the same contingent from the Belgian airforce that we had known for two years now, from this march. Among them was the man who'd suffered so terribly on day four of the first time over when he had tottered down the slate-covered hillside and into Vielsalm, pressing his thigh into its socket, from which it had sprung, with his belt. A happy reunion. Less pleasant was that Albert, beset by a wild case of gastroenteritis during the night and therefore having been awake all night, shaking and sweating hot and cold, chucked it in this morning because of that and left for home after breakfast. Well. What can you do. And so, alone with Zjak and the rest of the camp, we experienced the clammy and death-defying ride from Marche to Vielsalm, in a convoy of khaki buses, escorted as always by military police on motorcycles, sirens screaming. Gushing, we tumbled from them on arrival. And steeply up the slate it went immediately, by the field where we finished two years ago, along the same stretch where the navy guy had suffered so much. Great moral victory for him therefore. What followed was a nice but arduous walk across steep hills providing, as ever, beautiful views. Novelty, this year, was an enormous contingent of the Chasseurs Ardennais, whom in previous years we had mostly encountered in veteran form. But this time they were strongly represented. In multiple ways. Many military teams sing, at marches of this kind. But that usually sounds like a crowd of lousy singers following the lead of a lousy singer-singing-from-a-booklet, because they usually are a crowd of lousy singers following the lead of a lousy singer-singing-from-a-booklet. How different the Chasseurs Ardennais. In tune, rock-hard, rhythmic and absolutely menacing, their loud battle hymn thundered over the hills. Imagine having to wait for them, behind your mitraillette. Ve-ry cold shivers. As I climbed past them with a steady pace, one of them, nudging another, in perfect French muttered: "John Wayne". Whereupon the other spoke: "Il n'aime pas la musique". And so, having reached the head of the column, I turned around and, marching backwards, hollered: "Chasseurs! Merci, pour la musique!" I do believe it was too much for them, since they collapsed, on the other side of the soccer pitch of the local FC. Since that was where the large rest was, and it was much like the last major rest of last year's edition: just like then it was in a sporting grounds, and just like then food and drink had been farmed out to a third party (and so wasn't provided by the seventh itself) and therefore wasn't as good as usual: blackened sausages, off the barbecue. This, on the other hand, was also where we met the ATC-team. We hardly recognized them at first, as they marched onto the pitch, because they had new uniforms, more modern, more comfortable but also more 'common' camouflage outfits. And they were many! 39 in total, of whom there were at least 32 in that field. Amongst them Steve Atkinson, Andy Briant, Steve Callaghan, Tom Collins and Sam Cook (she was even more beautiful than before, which apparently threw me off guard so much that I kept calling her 'Sarah' all the rest of the week - wherefore I now do wish to offer my sincere apologies). A short conversation later Henk and I continued onward, but not before we'd been invited to stop at the team's support vehicle later on. It took us some time to get away from the field, because we first ran into the Belgian air force again, and after that there was our good friend Pieter Spaan, accompanied by a beardy buddy. Together with them we raided the MESA-shop, next to the barbecue, where besides Teutonically-looking beer-paraphernalia, thankfully, large plush wild boars were on sale. Reason for me to buy the larger, more impressive version, for Fien. Schelden's remark that "she would probably be scared to death by the thing" and that I "should have bought the smaller one instead" fortunately was given the lie to by Fien herself, who embraced the thing joyfully. And rightly so. It is, after all, a fine boar, that Riflemen swine. A sweet and protective animal. Proudly onward with it, therefore, to the great amusement of my fellow marchers, and that of the dutifully clicking march photographer around the corner. Hence the photo above, of a great marching team. In the Grand Bois sometime later, we stopped at the blue support wagon of the ATC, where Elaine Porter provided us with lemonade in a motherly, and as always heartwarming fashion. After a hard fast walk through recreational area So Bechéfa (somewhat strange, to march across golfcourse-like grass in the middle of the wild Ardennes), the entry into Vielsalm followed, us in front of a singing Marching Team. Granted, they might have sung louder and more in tune, but that they sang at all was new and therefore praiseworthy. So I decided to give them a prize and, together with Henk, bought another plush boar at the MESA-shop, for them. After that Schelden and I, watching the solemn wreath-laying at the local monument, sat behind the Leffe for too long, and so, having changed buses in the old barracks grounds of the Chasseurs in Vielsalm, we were almost too late in returning to Marche. Which meant a rather hasty round of supper and showers, but this did not detract from the pleasantness of the get-together with Zjak afterwards. Day 3 (Thursday 20.06) Vielsalm - Houffalize Schelden and I quickly lost sight of Zjak the next morning as, after another damp busride, we went to procure some softdrinks at a local supermarket. After that, during a good conversation I had with a Belgian and Belgianette of the administrative troops as we stopped in congestion at the foot of a steep climb, I lost my sunglasses. Every reason for an unpleasant experience of the morning, therefore. Yet this wasn't the case, because the walk itself was magnificent, and when halfway through the day the dampness disappeared, to be replaced by dry heat, the party was on for real. Today, I regained all my nicknames, and sometimes I even knew who handed them out. Like, for instance, the well-rounded lady who was forced to drop out during the two previous editions because of bust-up knees, but who completed the march vivaciously this year. And like those I met at the splendid large rest below the rock of Bistain, at the crossroads by the river, as for instance the good old lt.col. Franken (striking as ever, with his white moustache, pipe and cane, below the green beret) and another Dutchman I had met during previous MESA's. Disagreeable was the stoppage, just before we entered Houffalize, which arose when we had to clamber down a small bit of wet slate towards the road below. Well, it wasn't because we had to climb down it, but because the Mini-MESA, which had by now joined the fray, had to do so too. For children around the age of six a height like that can easily be an impressive obstacle, of course, and before it lay a kilometre of singlefile-foresttrail. Somewhat put out because of this lack of organizational foresight I therefore stamped onto the scene of my vengeance. Where, during my first year here, descending from the opposite edge of the valley, I had limped by a platoon of French Légionnairs on my way to the bus crying for pain, as they stood at attention by the Sebalt-monument for the first French soldier fallen in WW1 on Belgian soil, I now marched with vigorous step, past that very same monument and across the finish behind the market square of Houffalize. There again was the village fest that resembles the one at the march of Diekirch so much. Pleasant prattle this became, with two Dutch ladies, and looking at the ATC, which marched past with the Chasseurs, the mayor and the rest of the military contingents, and stopped right beside us for the honorary salute. Cold shivers again. Having returned to Marche, after supper and shower it turned out that Henk, who had already felt this coming in Houffalize, dropped out for the second time in his personal marching history. This time it wasn't because of alcohol abuse (the first time, at the Four Days of the Yser, it was), but due to a muscle inflammation, incurred during marching because of continued walking with a sprained ankle that had gone unnoticed (he had consulted a physiotherapist and several fellow walkers about this in Houffalize already, but once in camp had also, at my urgent recommendation, asked for the opinion of the seventh's medics, who had looked at him headshakingly). Day 4 (Friday 21.06) Bastogne - Martelange After another hot busride, and a bizarre parade right through the Tourist Information Office in Bastogne, on the Place McAuliffe, Zjak and I picked up the brisk pace the next morning, through the pretty hills past Salvacourt and Hompré and, following a brief conversation with a digitally camming Belgian compufreak, to the beautiful fishing ponds of La Strange. One immensely heavy slate-climb (during which, just before the top, I coolly got called by Larisa, to the astonishment of particularly Zjak, who had hoped in vain to have drawn ahead of me far enough to be able to leisurely water the verge before I paced past) and a marring crossing of an ugly stretch of highway-by-a-watertower later, via the rural Sainlez we came upon the first straight asphalt road of my MESA-career. As if we were in bloody Nijmegen. And that wasn't by a long shot the last surprise the roguish organisation had conjured out of its top hat for us. No, when partaking in the MESA you can be sure of one thing: you are paying for four days of Hell-with-a-capital-H. But: it is a ve-ry pret-ty, un-for-get-ta-ble Hell. From the beginning of this asphalt road, far to our right and in front of us the large rest lay smoking peacefully. But it was far away yet, and just before it, having turned right after Honville, came an intensely sharp descent, followed by a monstrously steep climb, 300 metres almost straight up, through a forest. Scenes that would have made Dante's jaw drop. Fantastic, all the more so when, once on top, the rest could only be reached via two custom-built hillocks that went with the motocross-circuit the rest was at. "Brilliant idea!", I hollered across the field semi-offended, and I meant it too. And that rest became even more memorable when I was given a free round of icetea here, by a fellow countryman, because of my outfit. "You, like the piper, are a thread in the marching thing". That's the kind of compliment I have no answer to. Having walked from there through the forest to Tintange (which wasn't easy, since for the first time I now had some trouble starting up, due to incurred blisters on my heels and the stiffness of three days' marching), we made a sharp descent, crossed the engineers' bridge at Martelinville and marched steeply upward, into the hills of the Grand-Duchy of Luxembourg. In front of us the song, enthusiastically loud by now, of the Herts and Bucks Marching Team rang out. We didn't catch up with them through these s-turns: that only happened by the time we got to Bigonville, where we started the descent towards Grumelange together. Having drawn ahead of them by now, we passed the national monument of the Riflemen of the Ardennes, where the ATC would later partake in the parade for the wreath-laying Prince Philip of Belgium, walked past an air cadet bravely limping ahead of the team, and into Martelange. Having arrived there, we collapsed into the grass by the river, in the very same place where my first day of MESA once ended, but because we quickly stiffened there, we decided to set out on the return journey after two beers. This would later prove to be a wise decision, because, due to the parade that followed, the buses that came after ours had to wait a long time before they could leave. We, on the other hand, drove along the still empty route of the parade (following yet another 'pleasant surprise': the buses were placed on the edge of town, atop an insanely steep hill), out of Martelange and back to Marche, where we only reached the camp, by the by, after the bus driver had, Pavlov-wise, driven to Camp Roi Albert and his mistake had been corrected by his passengers. Day 5 (Saturday 22.06) Marche-Marche The next day, too, our tempo was high. From the camp, Zjak and I marched at great speed, to the right through the tunnel and into the Fond des Vaux. Zjak now incurred his first blister, but nevertheless unwitheringly accompanied me to the first support stop of the ATC, where we thankfully drank Elaine's lemonade and told her we hadn't yet seen the troop (which was logical since, today, we came from the starting camp and thus were the first ones to leave). Today I got two new nicknames, from a trio of slightly older Brits: 'Lee van Cleef' and 'Jesse James', with which they tried to outbid eachother until I explained to them what the truth of the matter was. Splendid. One otherwise also gorgeous marching day later, shortly after the Mini-MESA joined us, the Marching Team passed us unseen, at the large rest in Hotton. Which, by the way, was situated beautifully, along the river there. I stuck to two icetea here and, because of slim-down plans, skipped the barbecued sausage for the first time - Zjak for the first time did eat it as, by way of a cardboard sign, we learned that Spain had a 1-0 lead over South-Korea. Somewhat further up the marching day got better yet since, on another cardboard sign at a drinkrest, we read that Guus Hiddink's South-Korea had beaten Spain after all, 5-3 through penalty kicks. Two steep forest hills and ditto descents further on, we were back in the Fond des Vaux and marched through and out of it, and into the market square in Marche, where Henk sat waiting for us at a terrace and treated us to white beer. Really! I admit it sounds incredible, but it's really true (although Zjak did have to order him to)! In that market square we congratulated passing air cadets out on leave (amongst whom SAM Cook, whom I AGAIN called Sarah). And after that we ourselves finished, at the Athenée, to the spontaneous applause of our fellow marchers. Having collected the medals with Zjak, Henk and I had a pleasant run-in with a Swiss soldier, I ran into the roguish Little Richard-clone of the Belgian logistics troops (who had so helpfully encouraged me when I was in great pain last year, had predicted to a mate this year that I would "crack, like last year", and now smilingly conceded that that hadn't happened) and we contentedly raised glasses with Steve, Steve, Tom, Andy and the rest of the Marching Team. They moreover, and to my great pride, presented me with a t-shirt and shoulderpatch. Marche-Haarlem What followed was a nice conversation with two veteran Chasseurs about my black attire, the packing of my gear in the dormitory, and some drinks with Zjak, Henk and three German reservists. After that the three of us walked back to Marche-en-famenne railway station, and travelled past Melreux-Hotton, Barvaux, Bomal, Sy, Hamoir, Comblain-la-Tour, Rivage, Poulseur, Esneux, Hony, Mery, Tillf and Angleur (thank you Ab) to Liège-Guillemins. There I had a bizarre row with Henk, that started just before we got there. He namely suddenly wished to leave the train here, not travelling any further with us, because he was hungry, so desired to eat, but assumed that we adamantly wished to catch the train for Holland that was to leave 10 minutes from our arrival. Because he complained that he hadn't withdrawn any money and thus couldn't buy food on the train along the way (egotistical argument since, during his second day of resting in Marche, he had had ample time to make that withdrawal), Zjak offered to pay for it for him and I offered him the food I had saved up during the previous days (and off which I proceeded to live the next day, but which Henk rejected as too stale). Because I had told Henk that, apart from the principle of being in it together which I of course honoured, one of the advantages to travelling back with him to me was that the story about the loss of my train ticket was so much more plausible with his ditto ticket present, that I expected to then be able to make the trip without having to buy a new fare, he now offered to pay my way... ...to Maastricht. As if the bit of Holland after that would not cost 22,50 euros, aboard the train. But all this didn't even matter all that much, to me. I mainly thought it bizarre that he would decide to travel on separately on account of his hunger. I would have gladly considered taking a later train, even though that would have postponed my reunion with Larisa and would have meant travelling on without Zjak, as he had obligations to honour, in this case. After all, I had undertaken this journey together with Schelden. In short, I thought this was behaviour of such an egotistical and uncompanionlike nature that I was inflamed with anger and shouted at him so loudly and long that Liège Guillemins as a whole fell silent. But this, of course, was not nice of me, and I shouldn't have roughly pushed him away when he kept trying to give me his money. So I apologized for that later and we made up then. But before that I travelled on with Zjak, without Henk, and without my hat, which I had left on the previous train in the chaos of the argument. This became an interesting journey with pleasant surprises, because due to track maintenance no rail traffic was possible between Eindhoven and Utrecht and I therefore had to travel back to Haarlem via Arnhem, Nijmegen and Sloterdijk (not a hair on my head thought of trying the 'buses' NS had 'deployed'). It's a good thing Larisa was waiting in Haarlem. To your health gentlemen, excellent walking there. Nijmegen awaits.