20 years ago today - Day 98

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Sunday, June 9th - Arras to Lille, 4733 km

I have definitely pulled a muscle in my right knee as a result of trying to keep up to Mike in the headwind yesterday, and now I have two pulled tendons. But now with these injuries I am wondering how far I can go. Mike will not respect my need to baby them. He wants to push onto Brugges, which make it another long day. He seems impatient to get to Amsterdam. The fact that I am injured pisses him off, and he tunes out when I ask him to be considerate. I think he wants to go farther because I am hurting, as if he is trying to leave me behind. He is pushing me into a corner.

Our route today takes us through the Vimy Ridge Memorial grounds on the ridge north of Arras, the famous battle that Canadian soldiers won in spring of 1917 that proved to be a turning point in the Great War, the first significant defeat of the German army. 120,000 French had died in vain trying to capture this key central point of the ridge that the Germans used to defend the coal fiends in Belgium, and after them 40,000 Brits died without gain. The Canadians had a victory in Sommes earlier that year and now faced the same ridge. It was their turn to try to take it, which must have seemed like a death sentence at the time. It was the first time in history that Canada had ever fielded a complete army on their own. Though I had learned in school that Canadians had won this critical battle, I had never learned any details about it.

It begins to rain about half the way up to Vimy, only ten minutes after we set out. There is no shelter nearby and I am wet in no time. Mike takes a mysterious turn just before the ridge without waiting for me. I search for him in vain, getting wetter and wetter each passing minute. Frustrated and angry, I head for the memorial and there catch a glimpse of his neon-lime green Gortex jacket and hot pink sunglasses popping in and out of the trenches. There is no pint losing my cool now. I lock up my bike and join him.

We explore the refurbished and recreated trenches with their sandbags and gun sights, and then go on a free, half-hour tour of the chalk tunnels funded by the Canadian government. Our tour guide is a young law student from Quebec City, a real cutie, named Eric. He leads us into the chalk tunnels and explains how they were built to capture the ridge.

The Canadian army, having seen the slaughter the French and British troops at the hands of the German guns, decided to expand the tunnels under Arras, that were used once to mine chalk, up to the German lines 7km away. There were three tunnels built through which all Canadian troops had to pass to get to the lines. The Germans knew something was up but had no idea where they were building the tunnels. No air vents could be used as the steam from all those soldiers would be visible in the cold winter air and the Germans would bomb them. It was also the rainy season and the porous chalk walls let the tunnels fill up with a foot to a foot and a half of water. The day before the Canadian attack 250,000 soldiers had to stand in the water over-night as there was no place to lie down. There was one faint light bulb every 50 feet and the rats well out-numbered the soldiers.

The tunnels led up to and under the first German line of defense. Large rooms were built beneath them and filled with explosives. After heavy artillery attack, the Canadians blew up the first German line, and because the officers communicated wit the soldiers, they were able to synchronize their watches and pour into the bomb craters before the Germans could man their machine guns again. That was the toe hold, the first of 12 lines of defense captured. Over the next 16 hours, the coordinated artillery and charges broke through the next 11 lines and severed the German defenses. The Canadians lost 3500 men that day, but they had control of the highest point of the ridge and they never relinquished it.

The small part of the tunnel that is open to visitors is well-lit now, but it still makes me claustrophobic. The vast majority of the tunnels are too unsafe to enter. In one place an unexploded shell pokes its nose through the chalk ceiling. I can’t imagine surviving a dark night in standing water with rats crawling everywhere, knowing that Death was your probable reward. I am sure many lonely, scared boys were clinging to each other that night.

There are apparently an estimated quarter million unexploded shells on this ridge the French government has set aside to honour the fallen Canadians. Even 75 years later the battle no one is not allowed to hike through the park. The following song haunts me the rest of the day:


THE GREEN FIELDS OF FRANCE

Well, how do you do, young Willy McBride?
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside
to rest for a while in the warm summer sun?
I’ve been travelin’ all day and I’m nearly done.
I see by your gravestone that you were only nineteen
when you joined the Great Fallen in 1916.
Well I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean,
or young Willy McBride was it slow and obscene?

[chorus] Did they beat the drum slowly? Did they play the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fire ov’r as they lowered you down?
Did the band play The Last Post and chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of The Forest?

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And though you died back in 1916,
in that faithful heart are you forever 19?
Or are you a stranger without even a name
encased now forever behind a glass frame
in some old photograph, torn, battered and stained
and faded to yellow in a brown leather frame?

[chorus]

The sun it now shines on the green fields of France.
The warm summer breeze makes the red poppies dance.
The trenches have long vanished under the plough.
There’s no gas, no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard it’s still no man’s land.
The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand
to man’s blind indifference to his fellow man
and to a whole generation that was butchered and damned.

[chorus]

I can’t help but wonder, young Willie McBride,
do all those who lie here know why they have died?
Did you really believe them when you answered the Call?
Did you really believe that this War would end war?
For the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame,
the killing and the dying was all done in vain,
For young Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again and again and again and again.

[chorus]


After a brief stop to photograph the huge war memorial paid for by the Canadian government, we move on. Mike is moves along at a crawl. I pass him just to set a faster pace to warm myself up. As we drop down the steep north side of the ridge, he zooms past me to reassert his dominance. He feels in control when he is leading.

As we approach Lille he stops to consider the map. It will be shorter to cut through the heart of the city. I suggest we take a longer route around the city to avoid the traffic and cobblestone streets since he is not interested in the sights, but for the sake of having the upper hand he disagrees with me. Fine, I say. I will go around and meet you on the far side if you must go your way, initiating our first separation. I choose a route 10km longer than his but I end up waiting for him several minutes on the far side.

He admits I was right when he finally reaches our meeting point, but instead of respecting me a bit more, it pisses him off. After I tell him again that my knee is paining too much and I cannot push it today, he decides we must keep going to Brugges in Belgium. It is mid-afternoon by this point, and we have covered 50 km so far. I am willing to ride further but Brugges is still 100 km away and we are tired from yesterday. I can’t go that far today, I say to him, shaking my head in disbelief. Here, he says impatiently, handing me his remaining French coins and stamps. He tells me he’ll stay in Brugges for a day and that I can meet him there tomorrow night at the hostel. OK, I say. He throws his leg over his bike and pushes off without asking what I will do. He is getting back at me for choosing to take a route around Lille and not following his instruction. I am glad to free of the asshole for now. I am not even sure if I’ll try to meet him tomorrow night. I decide to cycle back into Lille and find the local youth hostel.

Lille is largely modern but it still has few architectural treasures. The modern buildings are generally tasteful too. I get lost looking for the youth hostel. I go to the train station to get directions, but before I can ask a young Chinese guy comes up and asks me, in a Canadian accent, if I could help him with some train information. I know nothing but still try to help him look for it. His name is Wai Sing and he’s from Montreal. He is staying at the youth hostel so he leads me there.

He is limping badly, worse than I am. It turns out he is also on a self-made cycling trip but he was hit my a taxi here in town yesterday, and now he is recuperating at the youth hostel with a sprained knee. His rear wheel was also destroyed. In spite of this, he is cheery and optimistic about the rest of his trip. I find this both funny and incredible. I like this guy!

I check into the hostel, which opens an hour late at 6pm. On my own now I find it easier to meet the other hostellers. First, I meet Ram, a Chinese American from San Diego who asks me to go for something to eat with him. On the way, we meet three others from the hostel, Carla, who lives in Namibia, Gerard, a heavy-set blond with a hearty laugh and quick wit, and Serge, a young man from Strasbourg who has come to Lille to look for work. Serge has a brush-cut with beautiful, high cheekbones. We are all in excellent, playful spirits. Gerard is snapping pictures of Carla is various poses and I sprinkle confetti I find on the street on Serge’s brush cut. He makes no effort to remove it.

Ram returns to the hostel after we eat, and the remaining four of us look for a coffee bar. An hour later, we return to the hostel. Gerard says good night. Carla stays up another hour talking with us in the dining room. When she leaves it’s just Serge and I, and we talk another hour and a half. I steer the conversation towards a sexual discussion to see if he might be game. Unfortunately, he is very straight, but comfortable with gays. He doesn’t mind sharing about the girls he likes most and what he likes to do with them.

We finally say good night, but I run into him five minutes later in the bathroom. He is brushing his teeth naked, except for a sexy pair of striped designer briefs. As I resumed earlier, he has a lovely physique. I’m at the sink beside him. He smiles at me coyly, maintaining eye contact with a broad grin. He knows he’s easy to look at. The bulge in his briefs is round and somewhat enlarged. My palm is begging me to reach out and cup it in my hand, but I hold myself back. I hate teasers who seek ego boosts, offering nothing in return. He probably wouldn’t even kiss, and besides, his mouth is full of toothpaste. But for sure, while lying in my bed afterwards, I am not thinking about Mike.


PHOTO 1: signage to Canadian-maintained Vimy Ridge Memorial
PHOTO 2: off limits: only sheep allowed - unexploded shells
PHOTO 3: Vimy Ridge Memorial to fallen Canadians
PHOTO 4: graveyard for 3500 Canadians
PHOTO 5: grieving 'Mother Canada' at the Memorial
PHOTO 6: statue of grieving soldier
PHOTO 7: renovated trenches from spring of 1917
PHOTO 8: garden near Lille
PHOTO 9: old Lille
PHOTO 10: Grand Place in Lille
PHOTO 11: Grand Place from another angle
PHOTO 12: cannonballs (black dots) in facade of Grad Place building
PHOTO 13: Chamber of Commerce, Lille