Laine explained that he had just left the Army and was looking for a bicycle and trailer for a cross-country road trip.
The store owner sighed and said, “Yes, I have heard about the planes and the trains. Not even the buses are running on the long lines.”
They spent the next fifteen minutes looking at Kurt’s inventory of mountain and road bikes. Then they discussed panniers and trailers and how much cargo they could carry. Laine settled on a nearly new Giant brand mountain bike that already had a headlamp, a blinking LED taillight, and both a small tool kit and a tire pump clipped to the frame. Next he picked out some sturdy racks, a pair of Ortlieb waterproof black nylon panniers and matching handlebar bag, and a well-used trailer. The trailer had a scuffed frame and road-tar-stained yellow nylon sides, but it looked sturdy and serviceable. It had a clear plastic front, since it was originally designed for hauling toddlers.
During this time, another customer came in, but occupied the shop owner only for a few minutes to buy some optic yellow rain pants and a pair of trouser leg clips. After he had left, Laine picked out a similar pair of pants—except in forest green—and a matching jacket with hood. He bought the jacket slightly oversize, knowing that in cold weather he would want to wear a sweater beneath. He also didn’t want the bulge of the holstered SIG printing through the jacket. So looser was better. Andy knew that he was in for a series of long, cold, wet rides.
Next he asked for two spare inner tubes and a bottle of Slime tire sealant, in case of punctures.
Gesturing to his pile of selected merchandise, Laine said: “Die Rechnung, bitte.”
Kurt pulled out a notepad and started listing and totaling with a fat pencil. Finally he said, “With VAT, 3,315 euros—so let’s just call it 3,300, okay?”
Andy let out deep breath.
“I don’t have that in Papiergeld. But I have it in geld coin, echte Geldstücke—you know, Goldmünzen. Are you familiar with the französische Goldmünzen from early in the last century, the ‘Rooster’—‘Der Hahn’—zwei Franc Goldmünzen?”
Kurt’s eyes brightened and he exclaimed “Ja!”
Andy pulled out his wallet and from an inner Velcro flap pocket he withdrew two French two-franc Rooster gold coins in a plastic flip. The coins were dated 1905 and 1907. Handing the coin sleeve to the shop owner, he declared, “Diese ist nicht gefälscht—the genuine article.”
Kurt took the coins, closely examined them under a desk lamp, and said, “I am not an expert of coins, but I do want to accept these for you to pay. Can you please come with me while I go and ask a guarantee of a Goldmünzenhändler—a dealer of coins—to test their value? He has a shop just five doors away, and he is a friend.”
Andy replied, “Freilich! Kein Problem.”
“My father will watch the store and your baggages.”
Before they left, Andy picked up his overseas bag, which held his most valuable possessions, including the SIG’s extra ammo and accessories. He slung the bag’s strap over his shoulder. “This Gepäck goes with me,” he explained.
Kurt nodded and said softly “Ich verstehe” as he took off his oil-stained canvas apron and handed it to his father.
As they prepared to leave the shop, Becker became momentarily flustered. He did not know whether he should hand the coin back to Andy before they left the store or hold it himself. Andy pointed to Becker’s front pants pocket. Kurt obliged.
They walked down the street to a smaller store with barred windows with a sign declaring: “H. Kurtz, Goldmünzenhändler.” A neon sign that read “Silber/Geld Bullionhändler” shone in the window.
They had to first knock on the door and then be buzzed in after a clerk recognized Kurt’s face. The small store was unusually crowded with both buyers and sellers. “We take a number, I guess,” Kurt joked.
They had to wait nearly fifteen minutes while other transactions were completed. Once at the counter, Kurt and the coin dealer exchanged friendly greetings and then, as he handed over the coin flip, some rapid-fire German that Andy didn’t catch much of. The only portions of the exchange that Andy understood were “Ja, ja, alles klar” and the word “Schätzung,” which Andy remembered meant “appraisal.”
Laine watched as the coin dealer examined the coins with a loupe, weighed each of them on his scale, calipered them with a Fisch coin gauge, and finally brushed their edges against a touchstone, but not without first asking, “Wie bitte.” He looked up with a smile and nodded, declaring: “Ja, die sind echt.”
For Andy’s benefit, the coin dealer switched to English: “These coins are, yes, genuine. They weigh, both by the book of coins and by my scale, point one eight six seven troy ounces of the fine gold. That is almost one-fifth of ounce troy for each.” Pointing to some figures on a chalkboard behind him, he said: “Today, spot gold in London is 9,112 euros per ounce. That makes these coins worth both together 3,402 euros.”
Kurt thanked the coin dealer and handed him a fifty-euro note for the appraisal.
As they walked back to the bike shop, Andy marveled at how the gold had held its buying power, while the U.S. dollar had become so worthless. Once back inside, Kurt declared to his father: “Three thousand four hundred euros!” Turning to Laine, he said, “I am still owing you one hundred euros difference, or the same in goods from my shop.”
“But, Kurt, you had to pay for the Schätzung.”
“I am not worried about that, Herr Kapitän, for tomorrow gold bullion it will be higher and the euro will be lower, just as sure as the rising of the sun.”
Back at the store counter, Andy asked: “Haben sie Landkarten?”
“Ja.”
Laine asked, “Für Frankreich?”
“Ja.” The shop owner pulled out a Michelin large-scale road map of France that had a heavy cardboard cover. “These maps are now twenty euros.” Becker also opened up a similar road map of Germany. Taking it over to the shop’s photocopier, he said, “Also, you will need to have our little corner of Germany. No charge for this.” He made two photocopies of the western end of the map and handed them to Andy, who slipped them inside the cover of the map for France.
Laine said, “Okay, that leaves me eighty euros credit. So I’d like to use that to pay for your time to help me attach the racks and trailer hitch.”
Becker nodded.
“Then we have a deal, for the two gold Hahnmünzen. Klar?”
They shook hands.
Andy left the store an hour and a half later, after the bicycle modifications and packing had been completed. As he was packing, Becker gave Andy a box of heavy black plastic trash bags to use as waterproof liners for the panniers, handlebar bag, and the now half-empty overseas bag. The latter initially went into the almost-full trailer, for fear that Becker might spot the SIG ammo and accessories. Laine would have preferred that his sleeping bag and bivouac bag stuff sacks be strapped to the top of the cargo rack, but the gooseneck of the trailer was in the way. So they, too, went in the trailer.
Kurt and the old man both shook Laine’s hand before he wheeled the bike and trailer out of the store.
The younger Becker waved and said, “Viel Glück!”
“Thanks, but I’ll need more than luck,” Andy replied. “I’ll need God’s Grace.”
“Well, then . . . Möge Gott mit Ihnen sein!”
Andy took the Saarbrücker Strasse out of Landstuhl, heading west. Getting accustomed to the feel of the bike and trailer took some adjustment. After the first few uphill grades, he decided that he should carry less food and water. He kept three liters of water but poured out two other one-liter bottles. He decided to gradually reduce by half the amount of food in the packed trailer.
15
Der Pilger
“To my mind it is wholly irresponsible to go into the world incapable of preventing violence, injury, crime, and death. How feeble is the mi
nd-set to accept defenselessness. How unnatural. How cheap. How cowardly. How pathetic.”
—Ted Nugent
Bruchmühlbach-Miesau, Germany
Early November, the First Year
Andrew Laine kept on the secondary roads as he headed toward the French border. He stopped when he reached the first dense stand of timber, loaded the SIG, and put it in his holster.
The L395 expressway had surprisingly few passing cars and trucks. Laine passed through the town of Bruchmühlbach-Miesau late in the afternoon. Just after turning southwest on L119, the terrain again got hilly, and Andy was feeling exhausted. Paralleling a major railway line, the road was heavily treed on both sides. It was a long day of riding, and his muscles were unaccustomed to the new strain.
Andy started looking for a secluded place where he could camp for the night. He wanted to stop before he got to Homburg, which was a sizable city. Huffing and puffing his way up a grade, now in low gear at barely more than a walking pace, Andy was surprised to see three young men burst from behind the screen of trees. They came running at him to intercept, with their boots thudding on the pavement. Before Andy could either pick up his pace or turn, they were upon him.
All three of the men had shaved heads. Two of them wore black flight jackets, while the third was in an obsolete Flecktarn camouflage pattern Bundeswehr jacket. All three of them wore what looked like Doc Martens boots, or something similar. One of them grabbed the bike’s handlebars while another shoved a one-inch diameter tree branch through the spokes of the front wheel. Laine wasn’t going anywhere.
The one standing the closest taunted, “Wo willst du denn hin, Pilger?” His breath stank of beer.
Andy jumped off the bike and backed up five steps. He held his hands just out from his thighs, showing his palms to the men.
The tallest one made a show of flicking open a German parachutist’s gravity knife. He held it up and cackled. Then he looked down at the bike’s pannier and trailer and asked, “Alles für mich?” He set the bicycle’s kickstand and then closed the knife and put it in his pocket. The third man loosened his grasp on the handlebars and began to walk around to Andy’s side of the bike.
Laine took two more steps backward. Then, in one smooth motion, he pulled back his jacket, drew the SIG pistol, leveled it, and took up the slack on its trigger. He took yet another two steps backward.
He commanded them to leave: “Haut ab! Verschwindet!”
The skinhead in the Bundeswehr jacket shook his head and hissed, “Nein, Pilgergeiger. Deine Pistole ist nicht echt!” (No, Pilgrim fiddler, your pistol is not real.”)
“Sorry, boys, but it’s echt. Now, verschwindet, macht schnell und zwar schnell!”
The one that had used the tree branch pulled it from the spokes, raised it over his head, and shouted “Lügner!” He took a step forward.
Andy aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger twice. The second shot hit the tree branch, ripping it from the man’s hand. He looked startled. The one in Flecktarn shouted, “Lass uns gehen!” All three of the skinheads ran off into the woods, shouting and cursing loudly.
After seeing them top a hillock seventy-five yards away, still running at full speed, Andy thumbed the SIG’s de-cocking lever. He switched magazines with one of the full spares on his belt, and reholstered the gun. It was only then that he noticed that his hands were shaking and his ears were ringing.
Back astride the bike and again starting to pedal uphill, Andy’s nerves calmed a bit and he started to chuckle. Pumping his legs in cadence, he repeated to himself, like a running Jodie, “Schweizer Qualität. Swiss quality. Schweizer Qualität. Swiss quality.”
He spent the first night just over a mile farther down the road. It was getting dark, and he could see the lights of the village of Bruchhof in the distance. According to his map there would be at least five miles of urban area beyond that. So he turned left onto a farm road, and then again onto a smaller lane that ran into the woods. Now that it was almost full dark, he pulled his bicycle off the road and into the woods. There were just a few scattered lights from farmhouses. Unlike a typical American forest that was choked with fallen trees, this forest was of the orderly German model: it looked more like a park than a woodlot. He had no trouble wheeling his bike and trailer two hundred yards into the timber.
Finding a brushy patch, Andy disconnected the trailer and laid his bike down. Then he backed the trailer into a clump of brush. The ground here was fairly level. Fortunately, it wasn’t raining. It took him just a couple of minutes to set up his camp. His sleeping bag was kept stowed inside his bivouac bag. All that he had to do was lay it out on top of his ground pad.
After rolling back a large rock and relieving himself, he returned to his bike trailer and washed his hands with a water bottle.
Andy sat and prayed. He had a lot to be thankful for. He pulled out an MRE at random. He was ravenous, and wolfed down nearly all of its contents in just a few minutes, not bothering with the niceties of the heating packet and the drink mixes. After eating the chicken and rice entrée, he gobbled down the entire packet of crackers, followed by several slugs of water. Then he tore off the corner of the peanut butter pouch and began squirting it directly into his mouth. Finally, he put all of the candies into his shirt pocket.
After zipping closed the clear plastic front of the bike trailer, Andy sat down and kicked off his sneakers. They were still wet from an earlier rain shower. He realized that he would have to alternate between his two sets of sneakers on this trip: this pair that would only rarely dry out, and the pair that he’d keep dry. The latter he would wear only on days when there was no threat of rain. He put the shoes into a plastic bag and tucked it into the foot end of his bivy bag. He draped his rain gear over the sides of the trailer to help camouflage it. He’d have to do something about the bright yellow color. Before crawling into his bag, he rolled up his coat inside out to use as a pillow, and tucked the SIG under it. He took off his damp socks and put them between his outer shirt and T-shirt to dry overnight.
It took Andy several hours to get to sleep. The stress of the incident with skinhead robbers still had him cranked up. His mind was racing with a thousand questions: What could he have done differently? Probably not much. Had they reported him to the local Polizeistation? Probably not. Had they wet their pants? Probably. Andy chuckled. He was worried about his prospects for getting back to the United States. He was worried about his fiancée. He was even worried about the chain and derailleur on his bicycle.
Unable to sleep, he nibbled on the leftover candy and listened to the breeze and the sound of the raindrops dripping off of the tree branches. He whispered to himself: “Dang, I forgot to brush my teeth. Oh, well, starting tomorrow.” As he finally drifted off to sleep, Andy worked on a mental checklist for the next day: “I need to get more calories. I need to keep fully hydrated. I need to watch my gear settings well in advance for hills. I need to reorganize the trailer so that the gear that I need most frequently will be closest at hand. I need to check my six more often. I need to find a way to keep my socks dry. I need to take smaller snacks rather than just three large meals. I need to reposition the magazine pouch so that it won’t dig into my side. . . .”
He awoke just before dawn the next morning, feeling sore in his buttocks, thighs, and lower back. Obviously, bicycling used different muscles than he had been using with his regular PT regimen. There would be some inevitable adjustments to this mode of travel.
After the eastern horizon started to lighten, he shook the water droplets off his bivy bag and rolled it up. In the distance, a cow was mooing for its calf. He could hear but not see just one car or light truck drive by on the nearby road.
He took ten minutes to clean and oil the pistol and to top off the magazine that had two rounds expended. Between the boxes and what was already loaded in the magazines, he still had almost 450 rounds of 9mm ball ammunition av
ailable—about nine pounds of ammunition and magazines. He was willing to shed weight from his load in water and food, but not ammunition. That was a priority.
His breakfast was a small can of peaches, a half-crushed breakfast roll that was left over from the previous morning at the BOQ Frühstück room, and a bit of jerky.
Out of habit, he buried his empty food wrappers and the dirty pistol cleaning patches. That was what he had always told his troops was good litter discipline for the field.
Andy stowed his gear and, in the process, shifted a few items between his various bags and compartments to put things within closer reach. He checked the pressure of the bike’s tires, then hooked up the trailer. Looking around his campsite, he was satisfied to see that the only signs of his presence would be some crushed grass.
He quietly walked the bike back down to the road. It was starting to rain again.
Andy pressed on, westward. The weather was rainy in the morning, soon soaking his shoes and socks. At times the spray from passing trucks was brutal. There was no good way to avoid riding through the city of Homburg without taking a huge detour. The traffic in the city was surprisingly light. Obviously, Benzin was becoming more precious with each passing day. Other than some long queues at gas stations, the activity in Homburg appeared relatively normal.
Even though the terrain was more mountainous, Laine decided to take the smaller road through Friedrichsthal and Heusweiler, rather than get near Autobahn 6—the major route west that went through Saarbrücken.
The weather started to clear and warm up in the afternoon, and Andy made good time. He stopped at an Eisenwaren store in Heusweiler and bought a can of flat brown spray paint as well as the Falks gas lamp mantles that Lars had requested. He bought the store’s entire inventory: sixty-two mantles. Even if these were more than Lars needed, they’d be a very lightweight and compact yet valuable barter item.
Exhausted after a long day of riding, Andy made camp in some dense woods north of Saarwellingen just before dark. Other than a candy bar, he had skipped lunch, so he was again ravenous. He ate a can of sausages, a packet of crackers, and a package of ramen soaked in cold water.
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