Christmas Bloody Christmas!

Christmas bloody Christmas

Some say it’s the long distance runner who gets lonely but, having driven the length and breadth of Europe and the Middle East, my conviction is that it’s the man behind the wheel of the big rig who can lay rightful claim to the heights of solitude. Mile after mile of unrelenting tarmac, concrete or hard packed sand take it out of you especially when you’re not going back to the arms of your loved ones at the end of the day. On our runs we could easily be away for four to six weeks so, as we zipped ourselves into our sleeping bags and drew the curtains, we had no-one with us to share our days’ tribulations or minor triumphs. This was in the early ‘70’s, the days before cellphones or even fax machines! In the winter, snow could be swirling round the cab with the wind rocking the springs and the temperature plummeting to minus 45 deg. c. In eastern Turkey for example we kept the motors running partly to keep ourselves warm but also to ensure they didn’t freeze solid during the night. In the summer we had to keep the windows closed to keep the mosquitoes out, great if you had air conditioners but a veritable sweatshop if you hadn’t. Day after day on your own could be psychologically frightening and you’d keep your sanity by talking out loud to yourself or even singing if the mood took you. Sometimes you’d pass the time altering the words of popular songs with banal lyrics such as ‘If you ever plan to motor East, Don’t take my way – that’s the highway you’ll like least. Stay alive, keep off the E5!’ or you could reconstruct the Wichita Lineman with ‘I am a driver for ICC, I drive the long and lonely road, Trunking in the snow with yet another overload, And I’m driving through the long night, And I never see the sun, For an ICC driver, his work is never done’. Yes you’re right we all lost it in the end but many years of patient professional care have restored my sanity somewhat and I can now lead an almost ordinary life amongst normal people, none of whom suspect my mental capacity in any way!

Loneliness could easily lead to depression and those hours of pounding soulless tarmac would compound the strength of feeling. Small slights or misunderstandings became magnified and could even manifest themselves in bouts of anger resulting in unnecessary gear jamming and sometimes even a lack of brotherly understanding of your fellow motorists. “Stupid Vacuous ■■■■■ was almost a term of endearment at these times when fellow travellers would erratically change lanes and slow down right in front of your hurtling forty-four tonnes! Here I was entering the Karlsruhe interchange with a load of Iranian cotton bound for France. It was early on the morning of Tuesday the twenty third of December and I was not the happiest bunny in the warren.

My previous load had been two twenty-foot containers of Hillman car parts which I’d collected off the ferry in Europoort, Holland. Rene, in the Hudig and Pieters office had all the paperwork prepared as I entered the offices. I was carrying my briefcase in one hand and my overnight case in the other. Renes eyes widened and he looked at me somewhat quizzically. “Where are you off to?” he asked, “There’s no time to visit Annatje if that’s your intention.” “What do you mean,” I riposted, “I’m booked on the Cerdic Ferry this evening. Going over with Ron, he’s dropping me in London and then it’s home for Christmas. I’ve left old 6822 in the port parked up safely behind the gate.” Renes face darkened. “I think you’d better speak to Gerhardt,” he advised, “Salzburg need these containers to tranship before Christmas.” “What?” I expostulated and the whole office seemed to stop as the staff turned to look at the cause of the sudden commotion. “Sit down Andy,” Rene forced a smile, “I’m sure we can sort this out. We’ll call Salzburg and you can talk to them direct.” Rene made me a cup of strong Dutch coffee while one of the girls booked a call through to Austria.

I was adding Carnation creamer when the call was connected and the phone on Renes desk sprang into action. He listened while the call was put through. “Ah Mr. Riahi,” he said at last, “Can I speak to Gerhardt please.” There was a short pause. “Gerhardt, Rene here. I’ve got Andy Maclean with me. He says you’d agreed he could go over to England for Christmas.” There was another short pause while Rene listened and I became more agitated. “I’ll put you over to Andy,” Rene said at last, handing me the receiver. “Andy you old son of a gun, how you doin’?” came the familiar Americanised English tones of our great leader,“Gert, I’m not amused,” I said haltingly trying to contain my welling angst, “You promised me I’d be home for Christmas and now Rene is telling me I have to come back to Salzburg. What’s going on?” “Andy Andy, calm down buddy,” Gerd replied, “We got a problem. Those two containers were left in Felixstowe by mistake last week. We don’t get them to Tehran by first week of January, we could lose the entire contract.” I shrugged, “Not my problem,” I replied assertively, “You promised me when I missed last Christmas on that Kitzbuhel job that you’d get me home this year.” “I know Andy and I can’t say sorry enough,” Gerd’s voice softened a little, “You’ll still be home for Christmas. We’ll do a deal man. You get here by the weekend and we’ll fly you over to London. How’s about that?” It was an offer I couldn’t refuse and so I had resignedly returned to the port, fired up the Mack R600 and, with blacksmoke pouring from the stack, had headed east.

Hang on, let me get the comfy chair out. Already waiting for part 2!

Living with Mrs GOM there’s many a time I wish I’d been ‘away from home’ like Jazzandy

grumpy old man:
Living with Mrs GOM there’s many a time I wish I’d been ‘away from home’ like Jazzandy

She probably wished the same!

Pete.

bullitt:
Hang on, let me get the comfy chair out. Already waiting for part 2!

Come on Andy you do leave us wanting■■?
Jeremy

The run up to Salzburg, a bit of a milk run for us since container loads were continually shuttled back and forth as ICC had the Hillman/Peykan contract between England and Iran, was uneventful. Gaby in the Frans Maas office at the German border had everything ready and I was through in less than two hours. Then it was the boring concrete autobahn trunk around the Ruhr valley, Duisburg, Essen, Dortmund and down to Koln for the long run through to Frankfurt. I overnighted just south of Nuremberg across the seats of the narrow cab and made an early start transiting the Mittlerer ring around Munich mid-morning and arriving at the Schwarzbach autobahn frontier after towards the end of the afternoon after a slow crawl along the snow bound autobahn made worse by the heavy Christmas traffic.
The parking on the German side just before the autobahn bridge was fairly fully but I managed to nuzzle into a fresh space just vacated by a Romanian fridge outfit. Snow was trickling down outside, nothing serious but par for the time of year in these alpine foothills. I pulled on my parka, retrieved the briefcase containing all the vital truck and cargo paperwork from its’ safe stowage place in the passenger footwell, opened my door and swung out onto the fuel tank step before stepping down onto the compacted ice which now formed the base of the parking area. Scwarzbach had a small pre-customs holding area where I was now standing in front of a covered concrete and glass bridge across the many lanes of the autobahn leading into and out of Austria. The idea was that you checked in with your freight agent who prepared the necessary documentation before you actually entered the much larger customs truck park. It was also possible to leave your wagon there when the customs closed each night and you could take the trail through the woods to spend the night carousing in one of the small hotels and hostelries which lined the old road from Salzburg to Bad Reichenhall in the small village of Walserberg which was situated several hundred yards from the autobahn. It was late afternoon and I knew there was no chance of clearing customs so I reached up into the cab and grabbed my small overnight case. Locking up the tractor, I trudged over to the bridge entrance mounted the stairs and crossed the bridge watching the car traffic drone underneath as the gloom gathered.
On the far side was a row of modern looking shops which were in fact the freight agent’s offices and my outfit, Iran Container Company, were renting the right hand one. On entering, the ubiquitous Mr. Riahi, his sallow lined face looking up as I entered, greeted me with, “Mr. Andy you have made good time. Your paperwork is ready but customs is closing so you will have to wait until morning.” “And my flight to London. When is it?” I enquired. “Ah,” Mr. Riahi haltingly replied with what I detected to be a slight frown, “You must speak with Mr. Gerd. He is home now but back in the morning.” I opened my briefcase and handed over all my paperwork, the invoices, packing lists, TIR carnets, Tryptychs, road permits and transit tax receipts. “You have a room at Pension Fenninger,” Mr. Riahi pointed out, “Bob is in the café so can give you a lift. See you in the morning Mr. Andy.” His tone of voice and the slight darkening of his countenance when he first saw me was ringing alarm bells and I meant to extract information from Bob during the evening to ensure that I would actually be flying to England on the afternoon BEA from Salzburg airport. If not there might always be the option of the train or, failing that, hitching a lift with a friendly TIR driver.
The border café was just a stone’s throw from the ICC offices and readers of ‘Fifty Shades of Tarmac’ will be familiar with the times we had in there waiting for the completion of paperwork, whiling away pleasant hours over cool spritzers in the searing summer heat, watching the queues of traffic wend their slow way up to the passport and customs checks at the border post. Today I trudged along the un-cleared, snow-compacted trackway after turning left out of the office, my face set against the light snowfall being blown up the valley from Salzburg by the increasingly high winds whistling straight in from Siberia. I mounted the steps to the café entrance, opened the door and was immediately surrounded by the warm damp atmosphere of the wooden chalet like room full of drivers, police, customs officials and a few bewildered tourists all attracted to the conviviality of this oasis of civilization. The room was arranged with wooden booths around the sides and thick pine tables surmounted with red or green tablecloths in the middle. I could see Bob, our yard foreman at the bar holding court with several drivers including Steve Varga, Pete Betts and Michel Vranjes the crazy Frenchman. He looked up as I approached. Was that a sickly conspiratorial grin I detected on his rotund ruddy face or just a welcoming smile? I didn’t have too much time to think about the matter because his greeting of “Andy my boy, you look in need of a gluwein!” was made with his usual bonhomie and I was soon involved in the cheek kissing ritual to which we had all become accustomed since becoming, to all intents and purposes, Europeans rather than the stiff upper-lipped insular Brits we had been before our initiation into continental driving. Soon I was enfolded in a bear-like hug from the massive Michel while Bob had turned to the barman to order my mulled and spiced wine. I was slightly re-assured when Steve turned to me and said, “Andy, you lucky boy. Go back to England for Christmas yes?” but then Bob butted in first with the warm wine and then with the chilling news, “We couldn’t get you on BEA tomorrow or in fact before Christmas. They’re fully booked.” My face fell and my stomach froze. “Don’t worry though,” he smiled attempting re-assurance, “Gerd lives in Munich. He’s there tonight and the Lufthansa manager is his brother in law. He’ll find you something. Don’t worry!”

Jazzandy:
The run up to Salzburg, a bit of a milk run for us since container loads were continually shuttled back and forth as ICC had the Hillman/Peykan contract between England and Iran, was uneventful. Gaby in the Frans Maas office at the German border had everything ready and I was through in less than two hours. Then it was the boring concrete autobahn trunk around the Ruhr valley, Duisburg, Essen, Dortmund and down to Koln for the long run through to Frankfurt. I overnighted just south of Nuremberg across the seats of the narrow cab and made an early start transiting the Mittlerer ring around Munich mid-morning and arriving at the Schwarzbach autobahn frontier after towards the end of the afternoon after a slow crawl along the snow bound autobahn made worse by the heavy Christmas traffic.
The parking on the German side just before the autobahn bridge was fairly fully but I managed to nuzzle into a fresh space just vacated by a Romanian fridge outfit. Snow was trickling down outside, nothing serious but par for the time of year in these alpine foothills. I pulled on my parka, retrieved the briefcase containing all the vital truck and cargo paperwork from its’ safe stowage place in the passenger footwell, opened my door and swung out onto the fuel tank step before stepping down onto the compacted ice which now formed the base of the parking area. Scwarzbach had a small pre-customs holding area where I was now standing in front of a covered concrete and glass bridge across the many lanes of the autobahn leading into and out of Austria. The idea was that you checked in with your freight agent who prepared the necessary documentation before you actually entered the much larger customs truck park. It was also possible to leave your wagon there when the customs closed each night and you could take the trail through the woods to spend the night carousing in one of the small hotels and hostelries which lined the old road from Salzburg to Bad Reichenhall in the small village of Walserberg which was situated several hundred yards from the autobahn. It was late afternoon and I knew there was no chance of clearing customs so I reached up into the cab and grabbed my small overnight case. Locking up the tractor, I trudged over to the bridge entrance mounted the stairs and crossed the bridge watching the car traffic drone underneath as the gloom gathered.
On the far side was a row of modern looking shops which were in fact the freight agent’s offices and my outfit, Iran Container Company, were renting the right hand one. On entering, the ubiquitous Mr. Riahi, his sallow lined face looking up as I entered, greeted me with, “Mr. Andy you have made good time. Your paperwork is ready but customs is closing so you will have to wait until morning.” “And my flight to London. When is it?” I enquired. “Ah,” Mr. Riahi haltingly replied with what I detected to be a slight frown, “You must speak with Mr. Gerd. He is home now but back in the morning.” I opened my briefcase and handed over all my paperwork, the invoices, packing lists, TIR carnets, Tryptychs, road permits and transit tax receipts. “You have a room at Pension Fenninger,” Mr. Riahi pointed out, “Bob is in the café so can give you a lift. See you in the morning Mr. Andy.” His tone of voice and the slight darkening of his countenance when he first saw me was ringing alarm bells and I meant to extract information from Bob during the evening to ensure that I would actually be flying to England on the afternoon BEA from Salzburg airport. If not there might always be the option of the train or, failing that, hitching a lift with a friendly TIR driver.
The border café was just a stone’s throw from the ICC offices and readers of ‘Fifty Shades of Tarmac’ will be familiar with the times we had in there waiting for the completion of paperwork, whiling away pleasant hours over cool spritzers in the searing summer heat, watching the queues of traffic wend their slow way up to the passport and customs checks at the border post. Today I trudged along the un-cleared, snow-compacted trackway after turning left out of the office, my face set against the light snowfall being blown up the valley from Salzburg by the increasingly high winds whistling straight in from Siberia. I mounted the steps to the café entrance, opened the door and was immediately surrounded by the warm damp atmosphere of the wooden chalet like room full of drivers, police, customs officials and a few bewildered tourists all attracted to the conviviality of this oasis of civilization. The room was arranged with wooden booths around the sides and thick pine tables surmounted with red or green tablecloths in the middle. I could see Bob, our yard foreman at the bar holding court with several drivers including Steve Varga, Pete Betts and Michel Vranjes the crazy Frenchman. He looked up as I approached. Was that a sickly conspiratorial grin I detected on his rotund ruddy face or just a welcoming smile? I didn’t have too much time to think about the matter because his greeting of “Andy my boy, you look in need of a gluwein!” was made with his usual bonhomie and I was soon involved in the cheek kissing ritual to which we had all become accustomed since becoming, to all intents and purposes, Europeans rather than the stiff upper-lipped insular Brits we had been before our initiation into continental driving. Soon I was enfolded in a bear-like hug from the massive Michel while Bob had turned to the barman to order my mulled and spiced wine. I was slightly re-assured when Steve turned to me and said, “Andy, you lucky boy. Go back to England for Christmas yes?” but then Bob butted in first with the warm wine and then with the chilling news, “We couldn’t get you on BEA tomorrow or in fact before Christmas. They’re fully booked.” My face fell and my stomach froze. “Don’t worry though,” he smiled attempting re-assurance, “Gerd lives in Munich. He’s there tonight and the Lufthansa manager is his brother in law. He’ll find you something. Don’t worry!”

Ho ho! Always the cliffhanger! Merry Yuletide Andy! Robert

great read andy. you really have got a great command of the English language. keep it coming.

Those words ‘Don’t worry’ were a natural trigger for total panic at ICC! I was torn between blowing a gasket and telling Bob exactly what I thought about the inept management of a company running in excess of one hundred and thirty trucks between Europe and Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan, or taking a deep breath and believing the improbability that all would be well and I’d soon be soaring high above the snowbound highways and byways of western Europe, a glass of wine in one hand and a delicious airline inflight meal on the table in front of me, as I flew back to the warmth and bonhomie of a family Christmas. Having already lost my cool on several previous occasions and got absolutely nowhere, I had learned the lesson that our lot as drivers was ‘to do and die’. Management’s lot was to cover their backs and seek excuses for their crass stupidity blaming anything that might conveniently come into their myopic range of view. Steve had once taken the blame for driving an empty container truck from Europoort to Bamberg in Germany when he should have taken it to Hamburg. The telex definitely read ‘Bamburg’ and luckily he had kept it together with his paperwork. They still expected him however to have worked out that, because ‘Bamberg’ had been spelt with a ‘u’ and not an ‘e’, the office had actually meant him to go to Hamburg. Ron, our road foreman had taken Gerhardt aside and told him that we were paid to drive not to think as had been hammered home to all of us whenever we questioned an obviously flawed instruction. I had once been accused of accepting an overload from Kuhne and Nagel in Frankfurt am Main. I had not checked the printed weights on the invoices it was true but then we never did. It was only because my truck had been involved in a fatal accident north of Munich when a car with a sleeping driver had buried itself underneath the rear of my trailer that the excrement had hit the fan.

After a night as a guest of the motorway polizei, I had briefly appeared in court in Freising. I was escorted back to my lorry and then to a truck testing station where my Mack R600 and Pitt trailer was to be thoroughly checked over. There was a long queue of trucks waiting for their annual tests and it took all morning before I was anywhere near the front. Looking in my mirror I was surprised to see one of ICC’s dark blue Mercedes cars racing alongside the queue. It drew level, came to an abrupt halt and Wolfgang, one of the office clerks from Salzburg, jumped out. “Thanks so much for coming over,” I said, still in a slight state of shock from the horrors of the previous night. “We need your papers,” he yelled up at me breathlessly. Innocent old me assumed of course that he was assisting the police in order to smooth my passage through the procedures ahead. I handed him the folder from Kuhne and Nagel and he disappeared round the corner of the grey concrete warehouse-like structure which housed the testing station. A while later, the three trucks in front of me were waved forward a few metres and a uniformed police office directed me out of the line and into the bowels of the torture chamber, sorry ‘testing station’. Everything was rigorously examined, the diesel emissions, the tyre treads, the air lines, and the brakes. They went so far as to manually wind off each brake cylinder on each wheel and test it individually! Wolfgang must have been worth his weight in gold I thought as I sailed through all of these and a few other checks and then I had to drive through the doors at the far end of the building and be weighed. I had no idea at this time that there could be any problem. The Mack, with its’ two hundred and forty horsepower turbocharged diesel engine and twenty-four speed quadruplex gearbox, would have pulled a thirty tonne load with ease even though the maximum allowable in Europe at this time was twenty two tonnes plus the weight of my tractor and trailer bringing me up to the thirty eight tonne limit. Once again I was at the rear of a long queue and spent an hour shuffling up as each truck had each axle laboriously weighed. I was about six from the front when Wolfgang, accompanied by a policeman, re-appeared and I could tell from his demeanour that all was well. “Don’t need to weigh you,” he had shouted up to me and the policeman had beckoned me to leave the queue and park next to the perimeter fence. I sat there for another hour before a beaming Wolfgang had come back waving a sheaf of papers which he had handed to me. “Just show the stamped permit to the man on the gate and you’re free to go,” he had said triumphantly, “I’m back off up the road. See you in Salzburg.” And with that he had jumped into his Mercedes and sped off. “What a great company I work for,” I thought, “You get into trouble and they really look after you.”

Back in Salzburg however it had been a very different story!

Nice one Andy. Better than my dithering tales. Keep up the good work and Happy New Year to you.

Back in Salzburg however it had been a very different story! On entering the office, Wolfgang motioned me to follow him to the inner sanctum behind the main room. Gerhardt was there and so was Mr. Achemian, one of the owners of the company. Gerd was in his usual ebullient form greeting me with “Andy you old son of a gun,” but Mr. Achemian was looking extremely unhappy. “You have put us in a very difficult position Mr. MacLean,” was his starting point, “You loaded six tonnes over the limit at Kuhne and Nagel without making any effort to ensure you were within the legal limits,” It was as though I had personally profited from the overload and I was furious to be accused in this way. “I was not aware of the weight of the load,” was my answer, “Kuhne and Nagel are a reputable agent as you well know and I had no reason to check the weights on the paperwork.” It would, in fact have been possible if I had looked at the CMR note which had the total marked on it but it was a groupage load which meant that I had about sixteen different consignments on board and the folder handed to me by Kuhne and Nagel was marked for their agency at the Salzburg border so I had no particular reason to open and inspect it. “This overload was not my fault Mr. Achemian but if you think it is, please make up the money owed to me and I’ll hitch a lift back to the UK.” With that I carefully placed my briefcase on the desk and turned to leave the office. “By the way,” I remarked as I turned to walk through the door, “How did you know the truck was overloaded? You must have done because otherwise you wouldn’t have sent Wolfgang down to Munich with such haste. It was only a few hours between me loading in Frankfurt and the accident near Friesing so someone here knew exactly what had been loaded. Another thing! As you are well aware, Wolfgang changed the paperwork didn’t he?” I paused and looked directly at Gerd who was beginning to shift uneasily on his high backed executive chair. “These new papers show a total load of sixteen tonnes. Someone must have worked pretty fast to get this lot together. Presumably now you’ll change them back before presentation to customs. I’ll be in the bar but in the meantime, I’ve left the doctored paperwork in the truck,” I finished and left the office.
Later on Wolfgang joined me in the bar of the border café. He kind of sidled up to me and I knew at once that I had hit home and that either it would be back to UK or an accommodation would have to be made. “Can I buy you a drink?” he tentatively asked settling into the seat next to mine. I accepted. To tell the truth I was quite shaken up. A man had been killed under the rear of my trailer the previous night through no fault of mine, I had spent the night in a police cell and the day wondering what was going on. My hand was shaking as I raised the glass of Stroh rum to my lips. “Gerd knew you were overloaded. He took a risk. We had some late cargo and K&N also wanted it out of their warehouse,” he confessed. “Mr. Achemian has screamed at him and me. We’re in the doghouse. You’re in the clear. Bob’ll run you back to the hotel and Mr. Achemian is standing you dinner tonight at the Pension Rohrwirt.” So it was all settled amicably but it taught me a useful lesson about the chasm that in actuality existed between management and drivers.
So here I was back in the border café with Bob and several drivers wondering whether or not to kick off at the news that there was a distinct probability that I would not be flying home for Christmas as had been promised. Bob was lucky. The Gluwein was taking effect and I was mellowing by the minute. I decided to wait until the morning just in case Gerhardts brother in law was able to find me a flight. Bob and the others were good company that evening. After a couple more bevvies we all piled into Bob’s Mercedes for the trip through the forest back to Pension Fenninger and conviviality was definitely the order of the evening . Pete Betts, Steve Varga and Michel were all already loaded with pickled goatskins for delivery to Bremen port and would be leaving in the morning once the customs frontier opened. They had already left the hotel when Bob and I left for the office. Mr. Riahi was making tea and Wolfgang was engrossed in paperwork as we made our way Gerhardt’s office. He was already there and was wearing a look of extreme if slightly amused condolence and my heart sank because I knew immediately what the news would be. “Andy old buddy we’ve really messed up for you.” He motioned me to sit down and Bob took up a position perched on the end of the desk looking at me quizzically as if to say “Well what are you going to do now poor old Andy?” Poor old Andy was in the early stages of despair and in an advanced stage of extreme anger. “You must have known you couldn’t get me home when you sweet-talked me into bringing this load up from Europoort,” I seethed, “Why do you do this to me Gerd? It just isn’t fair is it? No wonder you’re having so much trouble keeping drivers.” This last was a barbed comment because there were two distinct sides to that story. On the one hand too many drivers joining the company were just not suited to the job but on the other it was a very demanding one. You were travelling all over Europe from Sweden down to Spain and across even to Albania and Greece and you never knew from one week to the next exactly what you’d be faced with next. A lot of men just could not live with that and gave up after just a few weeks of being tossed around from pillar to post. Perplexed and downright beaten. Hitching a lift would be possible but difficult. There was no direct train to the European coast. The journey involved at least three changes and anything could happen with railway services in the run-up to Christmas. I cradled my head in my hands despondently as Gerd cut in.

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“Hands up Andy. We screwed up for you big time,” Gerhardt said in a most apologetic tone. “Please don’t think we knew this when you were at Europoort. I wouldn’t do this to you or in fact to any of the drivers. So here’s what we’re gonna do.” I tensed waiting for the proverbial offer I wouldn’t be able to understand let alone refuse. I sat back in my chair and looked at him with what I hoped would be a ‘This had better be a good one Mr. Behrends’ gaze. “Andy we’ll pay your return train fare back to UK, so long as you’re back here by the 3rd.of January or you can hitch a lift and keep the train fare so long as, once again, that you’re back here by the 3rd.” I visibly brightened at this prospect but at the back of my mind knew the logistical problems. My girlfriend had come out by train back in the summer and it had taken her thirty six hours including the ferry from Dover to Ostend Belgium, train through to Brussels, then a change of train to Cologne and another at Munich. Gerd leaned back in his chair and swivelled it to the right so that he was facing Bob. “Whadda you think Bob. The Munich train leaves around 1300 hrs. right?” Bob nodded. “Well Andy you gonna take it?” I must have hesitated because Bob immediately interrupted the flow of discussion with “Do you think Andy should know about Mr. Achemian’s suggestion?” Gerd shook his head but I foolishly took the bait. “So what is the other alternative?” “You’re not gonna like it Andy buddy,” Gerd asserted, “I wasn’t even gonna suggest it but for what it’s worth, here it is.” He paused as Mr. Riahi darted in with a tray of glasses of cay which he handed out to the three of us. I could tell that Gerd thought that I would dismiss out of hand what he was about to propose and the atmosphere in the little back office was tense to say the least.

“OK. We’ve got a container load of cotton just arrived from Tehran sitting in the yard. It’s bound for France. We can’t despatch it now until the new year unless,” he paused again and looked me directly in the eye as he took a sip of his hot sweet tea, “Unless you are willing to run with it down to Demangevelle, tip it out and reload back out of Danzas in Paris and get straight back here when we will definitely fly you back to UK for a week or so.” I held up my hands in despair. Bob grunted, took a gulp of tea and purposefully removed a cheroot from his cigarette case, lit it and drew on the slender black cylinder sending a wreath of smoke ceilingwards. “OK you don’t like it?” Gerd asked. I looked somewhat askance at what could only be considered as yet another imposition. Did they want me to throw in the towel or was I being toyed with to become the ■■■■ of their jokes in the bar later on? “Right,” Gerd continued, “Here’s the real deal. Today’s the twenty first. All your import papers are ready. Get your load down to the yard, swop containers, get back up here, your export paperwork is all sitting on Wolfgang’s desk and we’ll get you straight through customs and out on the road. If you’re at the customs house in Luxeil les Bains and cleared by the 23rd. we’re gonna give you a six hundred deutschemark bonus and,” here he winked at me meaningfully, “We’re not gonna be too fussy about your expenses either!” Dapper Bob, dressed as usual in a blue blazer, open necked check shirt with a dark yellow cravat and light grey trousers, took a long drag on his cheroot and smiled, acknowledging the turmoil going through my brain. Six hundred deutschemarks was a month’s basic wage. I’d be mad to turn this one down. And so it was dear reader that I found myself changing down from sixth main second split to fifth main fourth split as I slowed to negotiate the complicated autobahn junction at Karlsruhe on the morning of the twenty second of December.

I was looking to head south on the A5 towards Basel and with six lanes of highway it was important to be over to the left to avoid being forced into the northbound traffic flow towards Mannheim or even worse the sister autobahn which crossed the Rhine before turning north towards Ludwigshafen where I had loaded so many times at the vast BASF chemical plant . Once southbound I was able to relax and mull over the current situation. Yes I had been shafted once again by the management and the hours of slogging through Bavaria and now the Schwarz Wald as we skirted the Black forest were bringing nagging doubt and grievance into play. By the time I left the A5 and headed for the Kehl am Rhein/Strasbourg frontier I was becoming very bitter and twisted indeed, feeling that I’d been deliberately cheated out of Christmas at home. Once I was in Kehl customs house, in our agent’s, Transmaas’s office, I handed over all my paperwork to the lovely Helga who did manage to improve my mood by smiling winningly and leaning forwards over the counter somewhat provocatively. Ian had obviously not been this way lately I surmised. “Andy ve haf all ready. Gerhardt’s telex was most insistent you must be at Luxeil tomorrow ja?” she trilled. “Yes,” I replied, “Six hundred deutschemarks depends on it.” “Oh,” Helga laughed, “If I get you through by lunchtime you can take me to dinner next time you return?” She raised her eyebrows and I nodded allowing the delightful prospect of an evening with Helga to cheer me up considerably. She was true to her word and with a kiss on both cheeks I took back the sheaf of paperwork, almost raced out to my truck and gunned her down to the barrier where I presented my stamped laufzettl and was waved through without even a tankshein kontrol on my diesel. This meant that I could bring seven hundred litres back into Germany without paying tax, a remarkable achievement when I only actually had around four hundred litres swilling around in my tanks. Once over the Rhine bridge, I entered the French customs compound and reported to the office of our agent for this load, Gondrand Freres, a division of SNCF, the French Railway system. In their office I presented my paperwork through a glass partition to Herve, a young, gangly pimply faced lad I had dealt with before who had two important virtues as far as we drivers were concerned. Firstly he was very efficient and secondly he spoke perfect English! “Do you have the sanitary certificate for the cotton?” he asked as he leafed through my file of papers. It had not been required by German customs as I had been transiting that country but as I was to offload in France it would be needed to allow the entry of agricultural goods to the country. I opened my briefcase and handed over the vital document. “Am I likely to get a Controle Sanitaire?” I asked knowing that this could cost me a night’s stay if there was not a vet on hand to certify the paperwork. “I’m bonded through to Luxeil,” I pointed out, “Last time they did the controle at the destination customs.” “I will see what I can do,” Herve assured me, “We have a telex for Salzburg asking us to process you with haste.” Herve smiled and shuffled the papers into order, “Come back in two hours and I think all can be done”

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Andy
Please don’t keep us waiting any longer. Did Herve get your papers rushed through.

Christmas Bloody Christmas! - Conclusion

I left the offices and headed for the compound café at the end of the pre-war brick clad warehouse block. After a couple of café cremes, a sandwich jambon and a lively chat with two Dutch driver friends from Wim Vos, I returned to the Gondrand office almost on the stroke of four o’ clock. Herve was as good as his word and handed me my papers. “No controle,” he confirmed. “Thanks Herve,” I replied and then continued a little apprehensively, “Could you do me a favour? Could you send a telex to your office in Luxeil asking them to ensure that they’ll have a vet to certify the load when I arrive tomorrow please?” To qualify for my six hundred deutschemarks I had to physically clear customs which meant that I would be free to offload on the 24th. and I was leaving nothing to chance. “Already we did it,” Herve laughed, “Don’t worry Andy. The mill at Demangeville are most insistent that they get the load before Christmas.” Once again I thanked him profusely and gathered up my paperwork including the stamped bordereaux paper which would allow me out of the compound and into la belle France. Regaining the cramped cab of the Mack R600, I fired up the diesel, selected second main and second split and eased the rig out of my parking slot between a Unic of Transnord and a Saviem of Debeaux. At the gate I handed over my bordereaux and the guard lifted the barrier and I slipped up through the mains and split gearchanges now so used to the precision of the gearboxes that it was almost a matter of honour not to use the clutch except for starting and stopping.

I estimated that the run down to Luxeil les bains should take me a about three hours along the A35 to Mulhouse, the A36 to Belfort and then onto a minor route nationale up into the foothills of the Vosges mountains to the spa town of Luxeil. I’d driven down from a parking area near Bad Reichenhall where I’d spend an uncomfortable night in my sleeping bag across the seats of the Mack so, with in excess of three hundred and fifty miles covered plus the time spent in customs, I was in need of a good meal and a night’s rest in a real bed. Only fifteen minutes down the road was Eurostop, a purpose built truck parking area and hotel catering for international transport. I pulled off the main road and into the massive parking area which that night was only about a third full but with the unusual addition of a couple of German Mercedes 0302 tourist coaches. It looked as though I should have no problem getting a room for the night so I parked up, gathered my overnight belongings together, jumped out of the cab, locked up and walked across to the six storey hotel block. The ground floor was taken up with a restaurant and bar area in front of which was the hotel reception. My euphoria at the prospect of a shower, food, drink and a proper bed for the night was short-lived however. The smartly dressed receptionist was apologetic but the hotel was ‘complet’ with the tourists from the coaches. This was most unusual since the complex was supposedly for the exclusive use of truckers but it was explained that with Christmas in only a couple of days, booking s were light and the management had exceptionally accepted this reservation from a Christian tour group on their way home from Lourdes. But ‘monsieur’ was welcome to use the showers in the toilet area and, of course, to spend as much money as he wanted in the restaurant and bars. So despondently I showered and shaved, restowed my overnight case in the truck and took my place at a lonely restaurant table surrounded by the pilgrims, none of whom was remotely attractive, and all of whom babbled away so loudly that I was unable to enjoy the music from the jukebox in the bar. Before turning in for the night in Hotel Mack, I had a couple or three beers at the bar and several times punched my favourite number of the moment ‘Jeepster’ into the jukebox. This had the added trivial satisfaction of me noting that the tourists were really ■■■■■■ off after the fifth or sixth time Marc Bolan’s classic screamed through the bar as they tried to enjoy a peaceful evening, indeed their guide even suggested that I choose something more soothing. I ordered another Jupiler Pils, stuck another Franc into the Wurlitzer and pressed E11 yet again before retiring for the night.

Sleeping across the seats of the Mack could not be described in any terms of comfort. The width of the cab was about five feet so it was not possible to stretch out unless you opened a window and stuck your feet into the freezing night air. By judiciously placing your overnight case between the driver’s and passenger seats however you could get a reasonably flat if somewhat confined surface, restricted by the position of the two gearsticks and the steering wheel. In short I did not sleep at all well, but woke fitfully several times until at last, although it was still dark, I checked my watch, discovered it was five-thirty and decided to make a start. I reckoned that Luxeil les Bains could be reached by around eight o’ clock and I could check in with customs nice and early to ensure that the crispy wonga would be waiting for me on my return to Salzburg. I started the motor and let her run for ten minutes to warm the cab while I dressed and stowed away my sleeping bag. I was sorely tempted to give a couple of blasts on my air horns as I left the compound but knew that a gratuitously kind gesture would be rewarded during the day and so I desisted and felt quite elated at my remarkable restraint. Once out on the N83 traffic was negligible and I was soon up to sixth main and fourth split not even having to change down as I ran through the sleepy villages. Colmar came and went, lamps starting to be lit in the upstairs windows as I passed and by Mulhouse early risers were out and the traffic was starting to affect my progress with constant gear changing necessary as I transited the town. At Belfort I had to look out carefully for the turn onto the N19 which swung westwards towards the Vosges mountains. At Ronchamp, a small hill town, remarkable for me only because it featured a sharp left turn in the market square which my rig could only just negotiate, I saw that we were approaching nine o’ clock so I was already a little behind my estimated schedule. Fifteen kilometres later we had left the hills and I took a right turn onto the D64 and I entered the goods yard behind Luxeil les Bains station just a tad before ten o’ clock. I was a little late so was slightly worried that they might make that an excuse for not clearing me through customs that day.

The only freight agent’s office in the compound was at one end of a warehouse built for loading railway trucks. Luckily it belonged to Gondrand Freres. I parked outside and entered the office clutching my paperwork and, most importantly, the phytosanitary certificate. Immediately inside the door was a counter with an open flap at the right hand end. There were five desks on the other side complete with typewriters and at the back was a telex machine and a Xerox photocopier but there were no staff to be seen. I shouted but there was no one in the back office either so I decided to walk over to the station which involved crossing the tracks but there were no trains to be seen so no danger was apparent as I gingerly stepped over the rails. Once inside the imposing building, which looked more like a chateau than a railway station, I found the main booking hall also deserted but attached to it was a bar and there was definitely activity in that direction. I walked through the door to find a large buffet with a bar at one end with several uniformed railway staff amongst others, enjoying a mid-morning break. “Y’a-t-il un gen de Gondrand ici?” I enquired in my best schoolboy French and a moustachioed functionary, possibly even the station master judging by the amount of silver on his peaked cap, nudged his companion. “Tu as du travail apres tout,” he said. (You have some work after all). The companion placed his glass of cognac back onto the bar and turned to me. “Ah Monsieur Iran,” was his greeting. I handed him my paperwork and he beckoned another uniformed individual over. “Gaston,” he said, “Here is the cotton for Demangevelle.” He then addressed me, “Gaston is the customs man. He will clear your paperwork. We have telex from Strasbourg so everything is in process.” Gaston cleared his glass finished his coffee and grudgingly accepted the paperwork. “Ah, moment,” said the Gondrand man, “You have the sanitary papers?” I handed them over. “All in order,” he confirmed. “Once Gaston is finished we call the vet for final clearance and you are free to offload.” This conversation incidentally was entirely in French and I was struggling to clearly understand what was being said but it did sound as though everything was being taken care of. The Gondrand man introduced himself to me as ‘Thierry’ and immediately ordered a coffee cognac which the barman deposited right in front of me. With finely combed greying hair, a sallow face highlighting his very Gallic hooked nose, grey eyes and a slight stoop despite his slim build, he had the demeanour of an absent-minded professor but this could of course have been put down to his service at the bar and not the legal one. We continued our conversation in broken French and a little English and my understanding was that I would be cleared soon after lunch. In the meantime I asked Thierry if I could use the telex back in his office and I sent a message to Gerhardt confirming that I had arrived in Luxeil-les-Bains and that clearance was taking place. I was all fingers and thumbs on the telex machine. It was a German Siemens setup which required you to press either the ‘number’ key or the ‘letter’ key before each digit and it took me some time to produce the ribbon of punched paper tape which then needed to be checked for accuracy before we loaded it into the ‘reader’ for transmission to Salzburg. We got through three tapes before I was satisfied that Salzburg would be able to understand the end result without an excuse for being confused! Thierry then insisted we return to the station buffet as lunchtime was looming and we needed another aperitif apparently.

With the benefit of hindsight I should have realised a lot earlier that all was not going to plan. There had been no need to wait for customs clearance before calling the vet, indeed clearance could not be effected without his signature on the phytosanitary certificate. However the smoky buffet, heavy with the smoke and scent of Gauloises, was a scene of pre-Christmas merriment and Thierry was a jolly and entertaining host. Whether or not this was a deliberate ploy to allay my fears I cannot say but a good worker’s three course lunch followed, shared with the station personnel, a couple of local gendarmes and Gaston the customs officer. This was accompanied by unlimited vin rouge de pays poured liberally from a carafe which needed frequent refilling. This I confess left me in an extremely agreeable and expansive mood and I was slicing a liberal helping of runny camembert when Thierry turned to me and said “We still have not heard from the vet. I will go and call him again.” He left the room with a rather shaky gait which in retrospect was amusing but at the time was starting to ring alarm bells in my head. Gaston, a portly ruddy faced figure, at this point decided to launch into song encouraged by the remaining SNCF staff, some of whom had departed to process a train which had had the temerity to actually stop at the little station and disgorge passengers. They all returned post haste as Gaston was rendering a hearty version of the Marseillaise. I was in the course of ordering a black coffee when the assembly turned to me. “Your turn,” they chorused. “God Save the Queen” one of the Gendarmes chimed in. “Mais je suis Ecossaise,” I argued. “Rapellez le Grand Alliance.” I ended up singing “Loch Lomond” to much amusement and an unordered glass of cognac was plonked down next to my café noire. Then Thierry returned. “I cannot raise the vet,” he shouted above the hubbub, “I now go in my car to his house.” He departed and I had visions of him ‘making the zigzag’ as the French say through the roads of Luxeil in his Citroen 2CV. Luckily the police force seemed to be occupied with us in the buffet. One of them launched into a Foreign Legion marching song which started ‘En Algerie dans le djebel’ but the rest was a blur. The little party broke up as the afternoon’s work beckoned and I returned to my Mack for a post- prandial nap. It was cold with intermittent snow flurries and I ran the engine on fast idle to keep the cab cosy and dozed off, the previous night’s insomnia, the wine and the cognac and the sumptuous lunch taking their toll.
I awoke to the first bombshell to ruin my afternoon reverie. Thierry was knocking on my door. He looked up at me and sheepishly said, “We cannot obtain the vet today!” I froze. Six hundred deutschemarks was evaporating before my eyes. “He is on a farm near Vesoul and cannot return,” Thierry explained. “But can we go to Vesoul and get the paper signed,” I asked, the dread of not being able to clear customs that day and so breaching my agreement with Gerhardt, clearing my drowsily befuddled mind. “It is not possible,” Thierry replied, “First he has to open your truck and inspect some cargo and second it is now four- thirty and customs is closed. Also,” he added with a shrug and a grin, “Gaston, he celebrated too much and went home early.” My luck appeared to be running out. “But the vet comes in the morning,” Thierry ventured brightly, “And then we can clear you before lunchtime.” With that he turned on his heel, opened the door of his 2CV and sped off in a reasonably straight trajectory through the gates of the goods yard leaving me to my own devices. The cab of the Mack was too small to accommodate cooking devices or even a store of food and drink so everything had to be obtained out of bars and cafes. The town centre was close by and I spent a couple of hours walking around as night fell. I ambled back to the station buffet and managed a couple of beers and a sandwich made with a local saucisson and Dijon mustard before being ejected at nine o’clock when the establishment closed for the night.

Next morning, true to his word, Thierry turned up with the vet and also Gaston who broke the lead seal on the container doors which I then opened wide and helped the vet up into the back of the load. He took a couple of samples and promised to return within a couple of hours with all the paperwork for Gaston to complete his clearance process. As his Citroen DS vanished from the compound, Thierry and Gaston strolled across to the Gondrand office while I repaired to the station buffet for coffee and a croissant or two. Mentally I was now becoming downhearted. ICC now had an excuse not to honour the six hundred deutschemark agreement. I was still not offloaded. It was Christmas eve and I was far from home. In addition I was hungover from the previous day’s excesses. Eleven o’clock came and went and I was on my third coffee with no news from Thierry. I called the waiter, paid my bill and crossed the railway tracks to the goods yard. Outside the Gondrand office was the vet’s DS so I hurried over to the office where I discovered that everything was finished and I could proceed to the spinning mill at Demangevelle to offload. After handshakes all round I settled into the driving seat of the Mack, started the motor and while it idled, checked my map for the best route which turned out to be the N57 north out of town and then the D417 west, a run of about an hour I estimated. The terrain was easy, undulating farmland dotted with copses and hamlets. I reached the village of Demangevelle just after one o’ clock and Thierry had told me to turn right opposite a bar called Catillon Martine which luckily I spotted just in time. This road led out of the village and over a small canal bridge before turning left onto the Rue de la Filature and the spinning mill complex was immediately visible on the left hand side between the road and the canal bank. My spirits were down but I reckoned that once I was tipped, I could travel up to Paris on Christmas day, load at Danzas and be back in Salzburg before the New Year. As I approached the factory gates however, it became obvious that my plans were about to be thwarted once again. They were closed. I stopped the truck, pressed my airbrake button and jumped down from the cab leaving the engine running. At the gate I could see that the plant was deserted but there was a side gate which I pushed and it opened. I walked into what looked to be the loading bank area on the right hand side and, seeing a light on in a small building, I knocked on its’ door. “Oui” a disembodied voice shouted. I entered and a wizened old boy who I took to be a cleaner looked up through his bifocals at me. “Je suis routier avec votre cotton d’Iran,” I explained. He looked at me as though inspecting some alien being before exclaiming. “Je doit telephoner mon chef.” (I must phone my boss). Once his call was over he told me that they had not heard from Danzas that I was in Luxeil so did not expect me at the plant to offload. I could bring my truck into the yard. There would be a watchman on duty night and day but they could not offload me until the day after boxing day as they had no staff. I could come and go through the gate and there was a bar and cafe in the village, I could also use the toilets and the vending machine in the canteen attached to the mill and that was that. I thanked him and he opened the gates for me to enter the factory where I reversed carefully into the loading area.

I spent a lonely afternoon in the cab reading and listening intermittently to a crackly BBC world service on Long Wave radio. In the early evening I wondered into the canteen to make use of the facilities and managed to prise a cup of thick coffee flavoured dishwater and a shrink-wrapped cheese roll from the machines. I sat on my own in the neon lit sparsely decorated canteen and felt thoroughly miserable and sorry for myself. One small grain of comfort was that the nightwatchman took pity on me and allowed me to take my sleeping bag into the canteen area where I was able to stretch out on the floor rather than being hunched up across the seats of the truck. In the morning I woke early, washed and shaved and decided to walk into the village to see if anything was open. Maybe I could find a bijou café with a buxom French madame behind the counter serving fresh bowls of hot chocolate and warm croissants for breakfast. “Happy Christmas,” I sighed to myself ironically as I walked across the yard, lightly dusted by the snow which had gently fluttered down during the night. With my belongings safely packed in my cab, I locked it and, dressed in a dark blue parka, blue Levi jeans and my long calf length leather boots, I set out along the road to the village.
My mood was grim to say the least. Christmas day and I was on my own, my bonus in doubt, my loved ones probably bereft that I had once again failed to make it home for the celebrations, my back aching from the hard floor of the canteen and a couple of days before I could get offloaded and out of this hell-hole in the back of beyond. I must have made a sorry sight indeed as I trudged miserably along the snow-rinded lane. It was about eight o’ clock as I turned right and mounted the small bridge over the canal. A light mist was hanging over the surrounding meadows in the slight valley that separated the canal from the village. As I peered over the edge of the bridge, I could see that the canal itself and the lock underneath the bridge were frozen. In the distance I could hear a brittle crunching noise and realised that this must be the first barge of the morning somedistance away, breaking the ice in its’ path. I descended the steps from the bridge onto the towpath by the lock to watch the progress of the barge as it rounded a corner about a kilometre upstream and approached along the dead straight upper reach of the canal. A lock keeper appeared and proceeded to open the sluices to bring the lockwater up to the same level as the oncoming barge. This action had the effect of draining water from the upper reach along which the barge was proceeding, leaving the ice suspended in mid-air. It could not stand this strain for long and there was a massive cracking noise along the entire reach of the water as the ice broke on both sides leaving a frozen island floating in the middle of the canal right back to the bows of the barge which proceeded to plough its’ way through. As the barge hit the ice island it pressed it up against the lock gates where it shattered and the lock keeper had to break it up further with a pole which made a watery plop plop sound as it splashed into the icy canal. All these noises were accentuated by the quiet stillness of the morning and the calls of a very few water fowl. The stillness was increasingly broken by the rumble of the green and white barge’s diesel engine as it sidled into the lock. I watched in admiration as the bargee’s son leapt ashore and, with the help of his father, ■■■■■■■ at the bow. The rumble of the diesel suddenly increased as the bargee’s wife at the helm threw the diesel into reverse to bring the vessel to a halt whereupon she dived out of the wheelhouse and expertly ■■■■■■■ at the stern. She must have been an expert helmswoman as well because, although the lock was a mere four or five inches wider than the barge, it never touched the sides the whole time it was in it. The top gates closed and the lower sluices were opened allowing a fountain of water to spout through the lower lock gates washing over the ice below. Once the barge had lowered, the lock keeper opened the gates and the barge glided out onto the lower reach breaking more ice as it progressed. The barge slowed and touched the bank and the bargee jumped ashore with a little motorbike and puttered off towards the village in search of the day’s provisions.

I turned and left the canal folk to their separate world and carried on somewhat disconsolately towards the village. A gaggle of well wrapped small children were walking towards me looking very sweet in their colourful wooly hats with satchels on their backs full of what I took to be presents for relatives perhaps. As I approached them, without exception each one greeted me with a “Bonjour monsieur” followed by a “Bon Noel Monsieur.” By the time they had all passed my cheeks were wet as I welled up with such an offering of gratuitous friendliness. As I walked further along that country lane I started to realise what a miserable specimen of humanity I had become. Here I was, surrounded by an exquisite countryside scene, newly milked cattle grazing in the snow-dusted fields, birds singing of their joy at the brightness of such a crisp morning, the awesome beauty of the frozen canal and the canal folk getting on with their lives and their work. I was looking forward to a warm café and a French breakfast. I was healthy and had so much to look forward to. A cycle approached from the village. As it reached me it stopped and the rider, a young chap dressed in a warm coat and with a Russian style fur hat addressed me in reasonable English. “Bonjour monsieur .You are the English truck driver?” he asked politely. “Bonjour et Bon Noel, yes I am,” I answered. “Ah tres bien,” he said, “I am the guard at the mill today. My boss is coming later. He is very sorry we did not unload you yesterday. He will take you to lunch and then you are to be in a hotel in Vesoul which is the nearest one.” With that he pedalled off towards the factory. I continued but with an optimistic spring in my step towards breakfast in the village.

Happy New Year everyone!

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But did you get the bonus??

Excellent… waiting patiently…

Excellent stuff, thanks for taking the time to write it!! But, as has already been asked… did you get your bonus??

Andy.
I am not usually a story reader, but this one has got me spellbound. Maybe it’s because it reminds me of very similar things that have happened to myself, when you arrive at some place in the back of beyond to be told that your load is not ready, and they cannot tell you when, and that could be in Spain or Italy or anywhere. The longest one was in Grenoble when I was on chemical tankers and they could not unload my tank for ten days so I left the ERF and tank inside the plant and trained it to Calais and a lift home to the Midlands. Happy day’s. Please don’t leave us on a cliff hanger, did you get the bonus. Happy new year to all.

Ben9:
But did you get the bonus??

I hope we haven’t got to wait till next Christmas for the answer Jazzandy!!!