It was seven in the morning of December the twenty second and I was heading home in my faded yellow GMC Astro and it’s Dorsey tilt trailer with the axles right at the back. I was loaded with bales of cotton from Istanbul and my aim was to make it through to Ludwigsburg just north of Stuttgart to catch the last westbound kombiverkehr train before Christmas. It would leave at around ten o’clock that night and drop me off at Koln Eifeltor guterbahnhof at seven in the morning in good time to catch an early evening ferry out of Zeebrugge which would mean I could drop my trailer in the Eastern docks and be home in time for lunch on Christmas eve. The children, I knew, would be delighted to know that dad had made it home, hopefully laden with many of the goodies they had intimated during the previous few weeks that they not only would like, but absolutely needed or it would be the end of the world!
I was travelling north in Czechoslovakia somewhere between Tabor and Pilsen on that old rat run we used to negotiate in order to avoid Prague. The weather was foul but, it had to be admitted, very seasonal. Snow was relentlessly falling, large soft flakes dashing themselves against the windscreen before being swept aside by the powerful wipers. The villages were aglow as I trundled past and I could imagine we were journeying through old England of the nineteenth century, the rural vistas being almost untouched by modernity and the roads seemingly as they had been originally constructed with the desire to go round the farms rather than through them, speed and thirty eight ton juggernauts having held no brief for those ancient roadbuilders. It was however a ■■■■ sight faster than the circuitous route through the capital city avoiding the myriad of low bridges and tram lines which were every truck driver’s nightmare. The road itself was snow covered but not too dangerous so long as you didn’t steer or brake too violently and held the rig at a sensible speed. Vast pine forests came and went and small fields, their fences sagging from the weight of the winter ice, abounded on each side of the route. Just after Nepomuk there was a diversion and I gingerly guided the truck through what seemed like a farmyard and out onto what can only be described as a rutted farm track which then disappeared into another of the vast forests. Leaving the farmyard I had felt a slight jolt but looking in the mirrors nothing seemed amiss so I continued on into the woods where the road conditions actually improved but I was beginning to realise that my trailer was not following as it ought to have been and on the corners was taking a distinctly shorter route than the tractor. I had no option but to stop in the early morning gloom of the forest and investigate. Pulling on my leather boots, I dropped down from the high cab of the Jimmy and trudged back along the length of the trailer. It was not long before I identified the problem, two blown tyres on the offside rear of the trailer’s tandem bogie.
I had already had my two spare wheels stolen in a layby near Adapazari in Turkey while I slept so had nothing to change them with. The only option was to split them down, repair the punctures and build them up again. I had an airline which would inflate them but what I didn’t have were tyre levers and whereas a couple of dessert spoons would have saved the day on a bicycle they would be of no use whatever on the truck. Resignedly I returned to the cab, started the Detroit and attached the air hose to the valve on the underside of my main air tank. I then attempted to inflate both tyres which in the freezing conditions was a fiddly job, my fingers not entirely responding to my commands. They both inflated to about one hundred p.s.i. and I returned to the cab, started the Detroit and edged the rig forward to find a passing place where I could safely stop while I flagged down a passing truck for assistance. I was rather hoping that a womble (a Bulgarian state transport truck), would come along as they were always well equipped and had a good reputation that they would always help a fellow trucker. Within a kilometre I had come to a clearing in the forest and was able to steer the rig into it. Walking back to check the rear bogie however, I found that both tyres were flat once again so there was nothing for it but to wait. After about half an hour I was suddenly struck by the realisation that no vehicles, either cars or trucks, had come along in either direction and I was starting to feel rather alone. I rationalised this fact by working out that I was possibly the last vehicle to be diverted and that the road blockage had been cleared but if that was the case I could be stuck here for days. Being at home for Christmas was starting to become unachievable and I was feeling very down in the dumps. I decided to take the wheels off to save time when some kindly passing truck would stop to help and half an hour later I had jacked up the axle, undone the nuts and wrestled the heavy wheels onto the ground. Still there was no sign of any traffic. The only thing for it I decided was to walk back to the farm, which could only be three or four kilometres back down the track, and summon help. Before setting out I thought I had better brew a cup of tea on my camping gaz stove to warm myself up for the trek. Thus fortified I locked up the wagon and started trudging through the light snow. The forest was eerily silent apart from the intermittent rustling of the top branches of the pines which resulted in occasional flurries of falling snow onto the track. I wondered if there was any animal life in the wood, perhaps some deer or wild boar or may be even wolves or bears. My imagination was taking the wrong direction to keep up my morale so I diverted it to thinking of home; Mary and the two children, Tom the eldest and Lucy my little two year old blue eyed blonde who followed me round like a shadow when I was there. These thoughts made me smile and I took up a brisker pace. Then I thought I could hear a new sound, tinkling bells perhaps, the sound of horses hooves and their heavy breathing as they toiled through the forest pulling some unseen load? Soon the noises became more distinct and I was aware that something heavy and horsedrawn was about to round the corner in front of me.
To my delight in a couple of minutes a large cart carrying logs rounded the corner pulled by three horses with jingling harnesses, a veritable troika. Driving this contraption was a forester with two compatriots dressed in what I assumed was the local traditional costume, a muddy red jerkin with thick fur at the neck and cuffs, dull grey lederhosen, thick woolly stockings and stout leather boots. The stranger bellowed up the local equivalent of ‘Whoah’ and the ensemble came to a halt right next to me. The three foresters looked at me quizzically. “Camion Kaput” was all I could think of saying. “Sind sie Deutsche?” the driver yelled at me a little accusingly. I shook my head. “English,” I replied. “Ah Anglicina,” he explained to his friends. They all smiled and proferred their hands to shake. “Speak leetle Eenglish,” the driver said. “My truck is broken,” I tried to explain, “Back there.” “Ah kom mit us,” was the reply and I was pulled up onto the troika and sat astride a tree trunk behind the driver. The Czech for ‘Walk on’ was bellowed at the horses and off we set on our jingly way back through the forest. All the way the three comrades were laughing and joking and indeed seemed like very affable fellows to fall in with. On our arrival in the clearing it was easy to explain the problem to the grey bearded round faced driver as he paced around the trailer and kicked the flat tyres with his boots. I was wondering if he was a little over rotund or perhaps it was his mode of dress layered against the inclement weather. “Ve take,” he suddenly announced and he and the two others lifted the wheels onto their cart. “Ve kom back,” he assured me as he again commanded the horses to resume their labour and within seconds I was once again on my own listening to the diminishing sound of the leather harness, the bells, and the jocularity of the foresters and then all was silent once more. I had to pinch myself to check that I was not dreaming this episode but walking round to the back of the truck it was obvious that the wheels had indeed gone.
I jumped back up into the cab and started the engine to warm things up. Maybe if they were as good as their word they would soon be back with mended tyres and I could still comfortably catch the night Kombiverkehr, or had I just lost two wheels to a band of desperadoes intent on fleecing itinerant trucks purposely diverted off the main route for just such a purpose? I turned the dial on my radio and eventually caught American Forces Network. “It’s the morning show with Charlie Tuna. Remember folks! Always ‘Stay Tuna’d’” came the familiar voice of the DJ proving that I was still in the real world. I dozed while the cab warmed and the music for the expatriate troops droned on. Jim Croce was just starting to belt out ‘Big Bad Leroy Brown’ when I noted the time at ten o’ clock. I shut the radio down pulled the engine stop and climbed down from the cab to walk around the clearing at the far side of which was an old tumbledown woodsman’s hut. I distinctly heard what I thought was the howling of wolves and pictured a pack of them pounding into the clearing to tear me limb from limb. This thought had me retracing my steps back in the direction of the truck but at that moment I heard the sound of jingling harness and my spirits revived as the troika came into view. It slewed into the clearing at speed, the horses’ distended nostrils steaming with exertion as it slowed and stopped at the rear of my truck. The ruddy faced driver beamed down at me. “All finish,” he yelled as the three foresters pulled the wheels off their trailer and laid them beside my rear axle. I pulled out my wallet and opened it asking them how much they wanted. “No no no money,” the driver chortled as if it was some big joke and the two comrades, heavy thickset workers, lifted the wheels onto the axle with ease. All I had to do was tighten up the nuts with my wheelbrace. “All OK?” the driver asked. “Very OK,” I replied “Thank you so much.” “No thanks, we like help,” my full faced bearded friend roared with laughter as he and his team remounted their wagon and within minutes had disappeared back through the wood their laughter being all that was left to me.
I was in a state of disbelief as I gunned the rig back onto the forest track. After about another five kilometres we were out of that forest and the track rejoined the main road. Driving towards Pilsen I was still shaking my head. Had I really heard Ho Ho Ho as that troika spun out of the clearing. I smiled to myself. Maybe the spirit of Christmas did exist after all.
The rest of the trip went like clockwork, straight through Waidhaus customs, everyone for a change in a good humour and not as usual trying to create problems where none existed. The German roads were well gritted and my cross country route via Nurnberg and Schwabisch Gmund was as clear as a bell. I arrived at Ludwigsburg Guterbahnhof by six o’ clock and booked onto the last train before Christmas. Once my place was reserved I had my customary peppersteak with a couple of lagers in the station restaurant and at eight-thirty we were called forward for loading onto the train. Parked on board we had to chock our wheels for the journey before retiring to an old sleeping car at the front behind the electric engine. Prompt at ten o’ clock we slid out of the goods station for the run through the Rhine valley up to Cologne. I turned into my sleeping bag on the couchette and for a change slept the whole way. Once on board the Free Enterprise 5 leaving Zeebrugge at 1830 hrs. I met some old mates and regaled them with this tale but they were a disbelieving bunch of reprobates and they reckoned I had made it up. “You sure it wasn’t Santa Claus?” one of them ribbed me.
Back home I received the warm and loving welcome which always greeted me. Mary hugged me while Tom and Lucy tugged at my trousers seeking the attention which they soon got. That night we tucked them into bed and warned them against staying awake in case they heard the sound of jingling bells as Father Christmas only delivered presents to children who were fast asleep. Their childish excitement was infectious and both Mary and I found it difficult to drop off. Eventually we did however and my dreams of forests and merry ruddy faced woodsmen and jingly horses were rudely interrupted by shouts of “Mummy, Daddy, he’s been,” as our two little ones tugged at our duvet and dumped their sacks of presents on top of us. It was still dark and I checked my watch. It was all of four o’ clock!
We both dozed as the children excitedly opened their present with occasional shrieks of ‘Wow,” and “It’s a ‘My Little Pony’”. I think I had dropped off once again when I was woken by Tom, “Daddy daddy there’s a present here for you,” he shrieked. Mary and I looked at each other and she shook her head. She had not put a present for me in their sacks. He handed me a small neatly wrapped package , dark green paper with black pine trees scattered across it secured with gold string. I opened it carefully and inside a small white box there was a John Bull puncture repair kit! A folded note had been attached. I opened it to read the words ‘Next time - Be prepared Anglicina!’ Was that a Hohoho I could hear disappearing into the cold starry night?
It must be better than ploughing, planting and harrowing in the Wind and Rain of Kent. 
