The Longest Day
This may sound like a Second
World War story but it isn’t. It does
involve invading Germany, but only for a short break in Munich! Like any day long story, it starts the day
before. August 1977, twenty three years
old; my first adventure abroad.
Travelling alone will always create some interesting scenarios.
I travelled to London by
train, continuing on the tube to Liverpool Street station. Catching the boat train to Harwich, leaving
around seven o’clock in the evening. I
was making use of the generous travel facilities afforded to railway employees,
which included the ferry crossing. I’d
never been to Harwich before, in fact I think it was my first venture into
Essex. There I was directed through
passport control to the boarding area by a multitude of multi-lingual signs. My ferry was due to leave for the Hook of
Holland at ten o’clock. Darkness had
descended on the Essex port, the harbour lights shone brightly illuminating the
cranes, sheds and dockside areas. Forklift
trucks shuttling backwards and forwards.
I’d booked a berth in a four
berth cabin for the overnight crossing, sharing it with three other intrepid
explorers, sadly all male. It was a calm
sea but I still felt queasy with the rocking motion. Sleeping was virtually impossible, the noise
of the engines was a constant drone. My
cabin was on a lower deck, near the engine room by the sound of it. I thought the gentle rocking of the waves
would help me sleep, but my stomach thought otherwise.
We
arrived around five o’clock in the morning; bleary eyed, my head pounding,
arriving in a foreign country felt strange.
I’d chosen Germany (West Germany in those days) because I’d studied the
language at ‘O’ Level. After three
attempts I gave up on the exam, getting a worse grade each time. Not quite fluent, but I knew a decent number
of phrases and sayings that would no doubt be useful. This was Holland though, and whilst the language
may have similarities to German, it is pretty incomprehensible. My train left around seven thirty in the
morning so I ventured into the station buffet to find some breakfast. From memory (it is almost forty years ago) I
had a strong coffee and something resembling a croissant filled with cheese,
probably Edam. This was in the days
before Euros, the Dutch currency was Gilders; odd shaped coins, some very tiny
ones as well.
I
boarded the Rhine Express which would take me all the way to Munich in around
eleven hours. Travelling through Holland
looking at the architecture of towns and villages, steeply pitched roofs, not
too many windmills. Cycle paths
everywhere; women riding heavy ‘sit up and beg’ type bikes and sportier men
riding lightweight racing machines. The
friendly guard (ticket collector) wore a dark blue uniform, jacket and trousers
with a low slung tan coloured leather satchel carrying all his money, tickets
and such like. The train pulled into
Venlo, the border station with Germany.
On the platform German police seemed taller, broader, meaner looking,
some with large Alsatian dogs. Once over
the border the style of architecture changed to a distinctly German style, apartment
blocks in the towns and larger individual houses in the villages.
The
Polizei came down the train, opening the compartment door and barking ‘Pass’. A fearsome sight; sharply pressed olive green
trousers; automatic pistol holstered but intentionally on view. His shirt was a pale brown / dark yellow
colour again perfectly laundered, complete with officious looking peaked cap. He looked at my passport photo, checked my
face and handed it back to me. He asked
where I was travelling to and I managed to reply in German; ‘Munchen’. He closed the door firmly without a ‘dankeschon’
or acknowledgement.
The
journey dragged, the sun had risen to a warm, pleasant summer day. The train stopped at Cologne with its impressive
black stone, twin spired cathedral. The
city was an interesting mix of old and new buildings. The new ones presumably as a result of the
wartime bomb damage. The train took its
name from the middle part of the journey running alongside the famous river. Steep sided valleys with dark forests,
endless vineyards on the hillsides. Elegant
white steamers ploughing up and down the river offering cruises, calling at the
riverside towns for wine tasting and sightseeing. Rounding a sharp bend, the infamous Lorelei
rock towering up overlooking the river. This is where the river is apparently at its
narrowest, most shallow point. Lorelei
was a distressed maiden who awaited the return of her lover but eventually
threw herself into the river. Her spirit
is said to sit combing her golden hair luring passing sailors to be shipwrecked
on the nearby rocks.
Late
afternoon the train calls at Stuttgart before the final leg of the journey. It was just after six o’clock as we pulled in
to Munich. Further reminders of the war
just outside the station, passing dark, bullet riddled buildings. I’d chosen an hotel in the city centre close
to the station; I knew I’d be tired from the near twenty four hours
journey. Setting foot in Germany for the
first time I soon got my bearings and found the hotel in a matter of
minutes. After the virtually sleepless
ferry crossing and virtually twelve hour train journey I was looking for an
early night. I was on a bed and
breakfast deal, so needed something to eat, especially as my food intake during
the journey had been frugal.
Once
I’d left my bag in my room I took to the streets to find a reasonable eating
establishment. I was so tired I just
headed back to the station to try the food there. Not the best choice, I ended up with a
mediocre salad and a cup of heavy duty coffee.
I headed back out into the city centre around seven thirty or eight o’clock. I decided a medicinal beer would be good to
help me sleep. Munich is after all
famous for a variety of beers and the Oktober Beer fest. I soon realised that they didn’t have pubs
like England, the only places seemed to be restaurants.
Just
around the corner from my hotel a neon sign advertised ‘Bar’, this seemed to be
what I was looking for. There was only a
door off the street in between two shops. I thought it odd, but accepted that maybe it
was the norm here. A quick mental resume
of how to ask for a beer and I pushed the door open and ventured inside. From daylight out on the street it was so
dark when I went through the door. It
closed behind me and was difficult to see anything at all. I couldn’t immediately see a bar, or any
other customers. As my pupils adjusted
to the darkness, I could make out something that looked like a bar. It was small; the size of a desk or small
table and no one behind it serving.
Looking around I could now perceive couples in even darker alcoves.
I
approached the bar and stood there for a moment; out of nowhere a tall blonde
woman appeared behind the bar. It was
not easy to see her face; she seemed attractive and I think she was smiling at
me. At last I was going to get a drink,
although mystified at the customs in their hostelries.
‘Ein
beer bitte,’ I proudly asked in my best German.
‘Beer
und schnapps oder beer und cognac,’ came the reply.
Bemused
by the concept of such a potent combination, I tried again.
‘Ein
beer bitte.’
‘Beer
und schnapps oder beer und cognac,’ she replied again.
This
seemed weird to me, I’d never heard of mixing drinks like this, and surely it
wouldn’t hurt to switch a couple of lights on.
I tried again, thinking it was maybe my Yorkshire accent that was
confusing her.
‘Ein
beer bitte!’ I stressed.
At last
this prompted a different response, this time in English.
‘You
drink the beer and I drink the schnapps.’
In
today’s idiom it could be called a light bulb moment. I now appreciated that they weren’t selling
beer, and what the couples in the alcoves were doing! Panic would be a good description for my
reaction; I headed for the door quickly.
As I took those few steps I expected to feel a knife being thrust into
my back. Opening the door I rushed out
onto the street; daylight again. I kept
moving, incredulous that I had not been stabbed! I didn’t look back.
It
had been the longest day.
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