| What are we doing?
June 15th, 2003 36th Marche de l'Armée, Diekirch Diekirch was a dramatic affair before we'd even lifted a foot, this time over. The quarrel between van der Schelden and van Zijntergen, that had risen to such blinding heights during the last edition, thankfully no longer was a factor, but I had taken it upon me to arrange enrolment, trip and quarters this time, and this was not a sinecure.  For those who wanted to come along did react swiftly enough to my requests for necessary information, but I did have to rely on the registry forms on the march's website, which suck, not leastly because they're there in PDF-format, instead of them being online mailforms. Moreover, our registration, despite all good intentions, came too late, according to official regulations. A good thing then, that we were informed, by email, just before our departure, that that registration had succesfully been completed. But I had enrolled for three nights, mindful of my habit to use the days before and after the march for travelling to and fro, because (as we learned the hard way in 2000) one otherwise incurs more stress, and less sociability. Alas, this was not to be, since because my two nearest colleagues were both on holiday, I did not get time off.
Day 1  And so I was forced to take backpack and sleeping-bag to my work on Friday, from there to immediately carry on, on a bloody hot and overly crowded train, and brave the outrage of my fellow passengers, over the size of my luggage on the floor of that train, as it rolled to Utrecht Central (I'd bought a first class ticket in order to have some more breathing space, but the thing was so full I had to stand in the aisle). Once in Utrecht things looked sunny enough - it was not just that the weather forecast was good, but we also left in numbers hitherto unheard of: seven of us, no less, these being Lourens E. Dinger, Raymond de Gisser, H.P. van der Schelden MA, Marco Neumann, Harm Swarts, Jan Middelkoop and myself. Made for a lot of little niggers (and you've guessed it: this leads to misery), and they set off (a short bit of getting lost on Swarts' part aside) contentedly towards the Luxembourgian, in three cars, namely the two limousines of the ex-commandoes, and Neumann's Redford.
 Then, this became a nerve-racking ride to Diekirch. For those limousines make headway. Especially Harm's, which namely comfortably does around 220 kph uphill. Jan, who's a much calmer driver than Harm is anyway, only just managed to keep up, and for Marco it was a hopeless task. His car, we later learned from Raymond, who was in it too, had considerable trouble with it all. Which therefore showed by way of the more than 80 kilometres that we were ahead of them eventually. Harm, meanwhile, turned out to be a creative driver. I saw him do things, as he rigidly followed his Bitchin' Betty (one of those onboard computers-with-a-sultry-female-voice, that does not take local fairs and ensuing fencing into account; we therefore saw parts of Liège that I had never wanted to see), that would stand an excellent chance on prime time TV. This was aggravated when, in his Harmhaste, he also proceeded to play cat and mouse with pairs of trucks, along the winding secondary road by St. Vith and Clervaux to Diekirch. Nonetheless all of that didn't help: we arrived there too late. The registration desk had closed, and so we had to proactively find out where to sleep. A lot of banter with some (utterly friendly by the by) Luxembourgian soldiers later, we did not end up in the encampment next to the start but, just like last year, in Caserne Grand Duc Jean on the Herrenberg.
 It was a lot more comfortable than the encampment last year already, but more so now. See, we were not put on mattresses in the sports hall of Luxembourg's only barracks, but put up in the quarters of Reconnaissance Company A. There, there were real beds, and we had the sanitary fittings all to ourselves. This was reason for cheer. So we were undaunted by a bit of fuss over entry passes to the barracks grounds and, once holding these blue scraps of paper, set off downhill, in order to enjoy a few beers in the starting area. That area, in which we ran into friends like Jasper Nales and Pieter Spaans, by the by had been moved this year, for good as we learned, to the grounds of a sawmill turned into a party hall. This turns out not to be a bad move in itself, for the hall is comfortable and fine, but the surrounding grounds do lack any atmosphere, so there's some profit to be gained there. And there's more profit to be gained anyway, but we'll get back to that later. First, now somewhat more intoxicated than before, we worked our way back up the hill, for a well-earned night's rest.
Day 2 Fully refreshed, we rose around six - fully refreshed, but for one of us, that is. This was, who else could it be, Henk. As adamant as he had been the night before absolutely to want to go into the village to booze (which namely and naturally required the willing sacrifice made by at least 1 sober driver who, in a grand and appreciated gesture, the obliging Neumann became), just so adamant he now was about not wanting to do anything at all.  "Schelden, wake up, we leave in a quarter of an hour." "I'm not coming along, I'll stay here, I don't feel like it." "Okay, have a nice day. Do get a good day's rest, okay?" None of it, naturally. He then arose rattling, sniffing and hawking, and said "Neumann, they've got to go, and then I'll come along with you." When he then walked into the washroom starknaked, this appeared to me to be a fine moment for a photo. It is, after all, a legendary image that by now we all know very well. Schelden, however, did not find that a good idea at all, and tried, whilst loudly cursing, to whack the camera from my hands. The claim he later made, that he did not actually touch the camera (incorrect) because he realized in time that the thing cost quite a bit (bullshit) is irrelevant, to me.
 Man at night, man in the morning. Who cannot be that isn't worth a straw, and who then also makes an attempt to strike in my direction, from the anger that this lack of character has already fostered, simply gets clobbered. And so I tried to strike Schelden down, with all that was in me. A good thing too, that there isn't too much in me, that way. Said Neumann, later: "I could of course have intervened earlier. But I thought: very good, punch him in the face for a change, then maybe he'll finally learn. The problem with you, though, is that you can't hit at all. But, I'm going to teach you that." Neumann did fortunately intervene after all. I'm just as grateful to him for that as I am for his not giving me fighting lessons yet, for I do really believe that that's a bad idea, given my temper.
 That fight over, a repeat of last year ensued, in which everyone but Schelden took the path that steeply fell downward, straight from Caserne Grand Duc Jean into the village, whilst Schelden had driven past us just before that, smiling benignly and waving, in a chartered car of unsuspecting countrymen, on their way to the starting line too. He therefore arrived there much earlier than we did. Not that that mattered, at all.
 For when I, by the 'Lodgings'-counter, had finally reached agreement with the organizers (which amounted to an urgent request on their part for us to spend the next night in the encampment after all, since they were unsure as to whether Recon A would care to use the beds we now occupied for themselves), I was, when asking for the starting-cards-for-the-march, redirected to the row that stood next to it, in front of the counter 'Registration'. And I remember thinking "But isn't there a counter 'Groups' as well, over there?", but then I thought "Oh well, they will know best, they do after all know we're a group, since they've just arranged lodgings for it" - nothing farther from the truth, it turned out. As the rest of our group went, with Astrid van Loon (who expectedly showed up here, nice) and the breakfast-cards procured at the 'Lodgings'-counter, to consume that breakfast and get it for me, I waited, reeling with drowsiness, for an hour and a half, for nothing. Because when my turn finally came around, the astounded lady behind the counter said: "No sir, you have to go to the 'Groups'-counter!". At which I was then finished within five minutes because all groups had already left, but that's beside the point. I can, with the best will in the world, no longer accuse such an organization of competence. And so therefore: god-dam-mit. And this is me putting it mildly, faithful readers know. Moreover, this turned out to only be the beginning of trouble, more on which to follow.
 First we now left, at an angrily fast pace, with the other remaining marchers (amongst whom Martine Segers, present with her mother, as always, by way of the unsurpassed Bavelaar, who she caught on photograph - spot the Baaf!), towards the first hump. And it immediately was obvious that Neumann thought this to be a highly ill-fated idea. No further than twenty metres up that hump he asked, indignantly: "Is this normal?". When I whole-heartedly confirmed this, his outrage grew. "I set out to do this because Henk said: you should do this, this is good for you, you'll like it - but I don't lìke this at àll!"
I can still hear him say it. "No guys, this is not for me." And here's me thinking he was joking. Nothing further from the truth. The next rest, which I reached covered in sweat, along with Dinger, Swarts and Middelkoop, in further company of Belgianette Shanti and Jasper Nales, who'd resurfaced too, turned out to also be the last time that we, as a quartet, saw anything of Neumann. He namely approached in the distance, together with Schelden, as we left there - and at the next rest, in Vianden, which still is incomparably beautiful (to keep it that way they have wisely started to restore the citadel, as was evident from the crane, next to it), Raymond was the only one who joined us, after some five minutes. Just before that Marco had called us to announce his dropping out. A wise decision, for given his structural tiredness and just so structural untrainedness, it was a miracle, of course, that he managed to tick off those first 12 kilometres anyway, two very heavy humps among them indeed - nothing but respect for Neumann, therefore.  But what we did not yet know, and so now learned from Raymond, was that Schelden had misused the occasion to also drop out there, citing gastric pains and general indisposition as the reason for it. Well. Well then you shouldn't, knowing you've got a weak stomach, booze out like that, the night before, you imbecile! Sis-sy! Which I therefore broadly proceeded to notify him of, roundabout 12 times, by mobile phone, clearly audible from all the way down below, by the river in Vianden. What a loser. Sheesh.
This can definitely not be said of de Gisser who, once alone, walked down the distance between us and him in no time, to here. Or of Harm, Jan and Lourens, whom we saw for the last time at this rest. For that concept of 'Harmhaste', that I introduced earlier on in this report, sank in here, as far as I'm concerned. That man, whom I, not for nothing, called a 'certified marching maniac' before, walks just as fast as his car tears uphill. Utterly insane. Nówhere to be found in nó time whatsoever. That Middelkoop tags along, this I understand. Once a commando, always the dogged, after all. But that Lourens did so as firstling, baffled me to the utmost. Luckily, the world would eventually become as it needs to be again. But let's not get ahead of things.  So in any case, we didn't see them again, for a while. Who we did see was Jasper Nales. And Ralph, who we already knew as hyperactive student-like type, from this march in the past, and whom Henk and I had dubbed 'Furbian' at the time. Addressed as 'Ralfie' for the remainder of the day, by me, in sly recalcitrance towards his general and just as nasty concescendence in our direction ("Do carrrrry oooonnnn", with that TellSell-Mike-accent), he livelied up our day by running to and fro (and past that horrible Dutch Costa Del Sol-hotel 'Berg en Dal' in lower Vianden) in half zipped-off marching pants, lifting a soldier here and there, doing something funny with playground fixtures, and moving from bar to bar loudmouthedly.
This humor would serve us yet. For we lived on it shortly, as when we moved up a hill and into the forest with Jasper, a thundering bout of heavy weather announced itself. In the Ardennes, and especially after such oppressive heat, this usually comes with a flashbang of magnitude. As it did now. And although we're men of steel, we decided that we didn't think that lightning was a kosher thing at all, here amidst the trees. So we hid, with a friendly barrelround, mustachioed Belgian, a ditto German and an apparently Dutch youngster, in the forecastle of a local home, whose owner came to wish us luck as we hid, and estimated the bad weather would last for about 20 minutes. 
Trusting him blindly, as a native, we decided, when some 20 minutes had indeed passed and the thunderstorm did appear to move further off, to walk on. STUPID! We could have known, for we always have bad luck, after all. And so it was now: we hadn't barely yet seen that, around the corner, there was a large empty paddock for us to work through, when the rain again fell down upon us by the bucket. 
We pulled through this manfully, of course, with a lot of black humour. And I even thought it kind of nice to finally be confronted with bad weather - for I had had incredible luck in this, for three seasons on end. But I believe that Raymond, for the first time in his marching existance, now began to realize that there are things that can beat even him. The photo of his bowed head, that I took at this stage, eventually turned out to be characteristic of his perception of this march. I had known this before, of course. And I'd reported it before, too: the guns of Diekirch have to be earned. Or, as Harm Swarts would say by the end of this day: "you don't get it for free". 
What you do get for free (since it is added, as a gift, to the hell you pay for) is a fan-tas-ti-cal-ly beautiful country to walk through, with very friendly people in it, as inefficient as they turned out to be, this year (I do believe it's more by good luck by good judgement that I didn't notice this before). There is an exception to this inefficiency, by the way. It's name is Georges, and he is the landlord of Pompjeen Bastenduerf.  This is an inn in Bastendorf, and Georges runs a canopied place for the marchers in front of it each year where, wilst being served in utterly friendly, correct and fast manner by his family and personnel, one can procure deliciously filled rolls, grilled sausages, soup, beer, softdrinks and candy. It had always been a relief, but it was all the more so now. For after a rainfall like this (that ended just before we reached it) there is little better than that sausage, that beer and those rolls. Home, away from home. Quite apart from the fact that Georges, in doing so, is way ahead of his time. For where the rest of Luxembourg has'nt really discovered this yet, Georges does what they've done with total abandon around Nijmegen for decades already: make a profit off the marcher, without conning him.
 With which the marcher is therefore completely at peace. It was a pleasant reunion. Mr. Georges, thank you very very much, and see you soon. A breath-catcherish gettogether with Ralfie, Jasper and some surrounding Dutch military riffraff later, Raymond de Gisser and I again accepted our fate, and walked on, past splendid vegetable gardens, out of Bastendorf. And up an 18% hill, which symbolizes Diekirch as a march: from this thing, the noun 'horrorhump' stems, and it is apt. Zigzagging through the forest, the road leads up a hideous wooded carbuncle, and once you're on top, you are God indeed, but a very dead one, gushing with the sweat of the dying. And it therefore isn't for nothing that the Marche de l'Armée in Diekirch is one of the few marches in Europe where, somewhat regularly, people die - mostly British youngsters drinking too much the day before, then to kick the bucket in extreme heat, on this hump. This, thankfully, and more than probably because of the weather, did not happen today.
 But there were another fifteen very long kilometres to go, to the finishline-for-today. And these ware aggravated, by the organization. Since as we started to approach Diekirch again, along the Sûre, past an obtrusively passed sign that made us go in the wrong direction for about a kilometre (at which point the Luxembourg army still showed us its best side by driving us back to the course in one of their jeeps), and by a hotel where I cheerfully shat apart the loo, we were stopped at five past five, by another one of those jeeps, from which the command "Einsteigen!" was bit into our direction. It turned out they wanted to drive us to the next checkpoint and give us that next cut-in-the-card for free, because they wanted to shut down that checkpoint by now. WELL HELL GODDAMMIT! I CAME HERE TO WALK, YA BUNCH OF EFFIN' MORONS!
Now we had of course gone wrong for that kilometre's worth earlier on, and the next checkpoint was only a few hundred metres onward, so that was alright and we complied without argument. But once we were let out again, and allowed to continue on foot after we had been requested to "please hurry up, because the checkpoint at the finish normally closes at five" and told that they would "keep it open for another hour, as an exception", and we therefore made a move on, in the company of Jasper and the liftable soldier, we were, bloody hell, stopped another two times, and twice again heard that "Einsteigen!". Not a hair on our heads man. FUCK THE HELL OFF, YA FRIGGIN' BLOODY ASSHOLES! FIND YERSELVES A GODDAMN JOB! GO PESTER YER MUM! Not just bluntly ignoring them, but on repeat on their part also cursing them loudly in High German, I therefore stamped my way to the finish with de Gisser, in a decidedly icy mood, right through the centre of Diekirch, and to the final checkpoint, where they did correctly cut our cards, thank God. But they must not have done so for the by and large 150 marchers still on the course behind us (for they were taking down the signs reading 'checkpoint' already), marchers WHO WERE ONLY OUT THERE BECAUSE THIS INCOMPETENT FUCKING ORGANIZATION HAD TAKEN SO FUCKING LONG OVER THAT FUCKING REGISTRATION IN THE FUCKING MORNING AND THERE IS NO COMMUNICATION WHATSOEVER BETWEEN THOSE COUNTER CLAPTRAPS AND THOSE MILITANT COURSE CONTROLFREAKS! FUCK THE FUCKING LOT OF THEM! You cannot get me any angrier. Particularly not when the last bit of the course, where they were also removing the signs already, leads straight through the maze of central Diekirch, and one of those 150 remaining marchers is a Dutch soldier who manfully fought his right heel, recently operated on and stripped from muscle tissue. It got me, in short, into such a vitriolic mood, that I not only hardly noticed Astrid, who drove by in a bus full of Dutch soldiers she'd wrapped around her finger, and who cheerfully greeted me, as I was ensconced in an icy palaver with a soldier busy removing track-signs, but also no longer felt the need to throw a glass of beer into Schelden's face as I had earlier resolved to, because of the morning drama - by now, I was angrier with the organizers than I was with him. 
It was to be a peaceful affair therefore, once we had returned to the Herrenberg, in the company of Swarts, Middelkoop and Dinger. There, Schelden informed us that Neumann had already driven back to Holland (logical in itself, but all the more astounding and praiseworthy that Henk was still there), Harm, Jan and Lourens went to kip for an hour (and were discovered while doing so, by the dumbfounded owners of Harm's bed and mine, who made no fuss about it whatsoever, however, because they only came around to get some stuff out of their lockers and weren't planning on spending the night there anyway, allowing us to remain there for another night), and Raymond and I hit the showers. All refreshed, we then set off downward again, for dinner. Because Schelden, that afternoon, had finally consumed the steak that he had seen going past the night before, whilst waiting by the church in the centre of Diekirch (as Harm and I were arranging lodgings with the guards at the encampment), we decided to go and process that steak as well, and therefore occupied six of thirteen bucket seats on the terrace of Restaurant 'Um Grill'. 
This, we should not have done. For once we had been supplied with drinks, it became apparent that that table had been reserved (but there were no 'reserved'-signs on it) and we therefore shouldn't be sitting there. Well, tough luck (for there were no 'reserved'-signs on it). And so we got into negotiations with the waitress. Couldn't we quickly eat before the reservists would show up? For what time had the reservations been made? Half an hour to go until then. Okay, was it possible to serve our steaks with that half hour? This was possible. And so she went inside. She'd barely turned around, or the reservists arrived. They weren't reservists but a thirteen man-strong contingent of Dutch military police, three women among them. They were justly upset to find us occupying there table (but there were no 'reserved'-signs on it). But they weren't mad at us (because there were no 'reserved'-signs on it). But they were with the staff. Maar niet op ons (want er stonden geen bordjes 'gereserveerd' op). Wel op het personeel. Because there were no 'reserved'-signs on it, and one of the thirteen seats, not used by us, was out in the rain, that had now returned, not protected by the overhead cover anyway. Rightfully unwilling to get into shit like this, the reservists therefore left for nowhere. Or so it turned out later, when we saw them hopefully but disappointedly sidling past our table again, as, because of their absence, we had now somewhat expanded our dining and were having some fun with the Portuguese part of the waiting staff (Schelden speaks some Portuguese, and Swarts a little more). Luxembourg efficiency for you, part 3. 
Anyway, then we made for the starting grounds to enjoy the evening party, and it was wild. Table-top dancing, loud singalongs, loads of beer, and lots of heat - just the way it should be. Moreover, in front of its entrance, we ran into Vandy van Geyningen. He was doing the march in uniform for the first time, this year, as cannon fodder for the armoured infantry. "Oi Vandy, out for a stroll with the newbies?" - I had namely and previously been informed by his father, Albert, that he was the only one in his company who had ever marched Diekirch before (and at his twelfth too, haha), to the great astonishment of his commander. Yes, nice. Only, to my regret, I did not, at this party, run into Elisabeth Marquart-Scholtz, who however was in Diekirch (she'd mailed me this, and I'd also been told so by both Grietje Vissers and Janny Beishuizen, who were naturally here as well). Not nice. By the time that, following a long and pleasant conversation with Astrid, I had found Petra Vissers (very nice), she was able to tell me that Liz had gone to bed some time ago. Shame, shame, shame. But, life. 
So I took a cab, generously shared it with a couple of Dutchmen on their way to an almost untraceable campsite along the Sûre, and eventually drove up the Herrenberg in it. I took that cab because the rest had already tiredly called it a night when I started my quest for Liz, and that cab was an experience in itself. See, Diekirch has only 1 taxi-driver, so he now worked overtime amongst the plastered. But he was a most friendly gentleman, just like the guard at the entrance to the starting grounds who, while I waited for that taxi, explained to me that that trouble with the registration wasn't new, but "the same damn thing every year". Glad I hadn't noticed before, and the object lesson for today. Which I therefore got into my head, before I fell asleep around two. Day 3 The next day Schelden, who had bragged the night before that he would "do a 40 tomorrow" so he'd be entitled to collect the bomb-for-the-two-by-twenty, was absent again - but without a fight, this time over. Unfortunately, he was not the only one. Because Lourens Dinger also didn't start today. He was namely heavily plagued by his left ankle, direct consequence of his absurdly fast marching of the day before. I'd already thought it to be extremely silly behaviour. But, as I told him, no coaching can deal with that. To do so, I would have had to tell him "You must walk slower" and then he, being a Young Democrat, would have said "Fuck you", as he now acknowledged. So, probably best that he learned this hard way, and also still an accomplishment, given his relative lack of training. Bit dumb, therefore, that he didn't even collect his well-earned bomb, later that day. Instead, he remained at the barracks, with Schelden, while we, being 2 men Soc. and 2 men SWOC, descended from the Herrenberg for the second leg. So, this thing about the little niggers then eh? And then there were four. 
Which in itself was a nice thing of course, since it added a certain splendor to our own achievements. But they still had to be made, and that wouldn't be easy today. Because today was a Diekirch-day the way I remembered Diekirch: bloody hot, with a burning sun under an empty blue sky. And that second day isn't much easier, where the arduousness of the course is concerned. Also, both Raymond and I were troubled by that last bit of hard walking, the day before - thanks to the organization. I had a kind of weird whiplash in my left leg, a kind of 'zweeouiee'-feeling every five minutes, and de Gisser developed a serious runup to a tendon inflammation to the left front, during the day. In addition to which we fell prey to blisters, partly because of the wetness of the day before: de Gisser four, and three on me. 
But we did of course finish it, past splendiferous vistas (day 2 is the day of those 'landsnakes' of human ribbon, that are so unique to this march, and can so beautifully be followed throught the landscape when the 20 and 40-km distances split up), loads of old (Vandy, Jasper, Ralfie, Flip, Pro Libertate, the Dutch bagpiper so inextricably attached to this march, and the 'birdman' who walks nearly everything there is and was here again too, with his girlfriend) and new acquaintances (to the latter kind especially, we handed out our freshly made business card with Soc.-emblem and site-address), and that ridiculous last rest with that terribly bad band. There, true to our own tradition by the way, we stayed for too long, albeit that this time over this was due to a necessary visit to the First Aid Tent, by de Gisser. 
He had himself fitted with an icepack to his shin, and allowed it to work its magic for a minute or five before he preferred going on (with that icepack in his sock and an extra icepack for after the finish in his pocket) to dropping out here. Meanwhile, it was almost five again, so we dearly feared a repeat of yesterday's ending.  This, thankfully, did not materialize. Nonetheless, we laid down a murderous pace, in goosestep (long, rather than fast, that makes it easier but still delivers increased speed), and in matching trod (accompanied by an entrancing 'Umph, umph' from the both of us). In the end, we marched into Diekirch's centre like that, at a rate of 8 kilometres an hour, and were treated to a regal applause by a square full of fellow-marchers and sympathizers, which de Gisser especially deserved. On that square, by the way, Schelden and Dinger were also waiting, inviting us to their table, but passed by us, because we feared that we would otherwise never get the final cut and the much coveted medal. In this, we did succeed, and the contentedness that this produced could not even be nullified by the lack of a last beer with Dinger and Schelden, who fell prey to Harmhaste, since they were immediately kidnapped by him and his Bitchin' Betty, and driven back to Holland as soon as he'd located them. We got back in country some time later, with Middelkoop, plagued by congestion, and knew it for certain: this was a drama. But, a gorgeous one.
To your health,gentlemen. Excellent walking there. Viborg awaits. |
