Low Flight of Angels in the Benelux Read online

  After looking at the map and glancing around, they decided cutting across country would risk getting them lost on some of the poorly marked trails and delaying them. Leaving the station, they stopped to consult the map posted in a large, freestanding display case beside the street. The main road to Roetgen was a fairly simple route wandering out the southeast corner of the village and it turned out to be well marked. But once outside the municipal boundary, the generous paved walking and biking path disappeared where the woods began.

  The clouds drifted apart, allowing the sun to peek through in places. Damp surfaces glistened in the dappled sunlight. They shed their rain parkas. Walking from behind, it dawned on Preston that he had never seen Angie wear anything close fitting. She did have a feminine shape, but was nonetheless a bit stocky for her height.

  For a while it was a simple matter to avoid the vehicular traffic by walking just off the road in the trees, but eventually the thick underbrush drove them back onto the narrow crumbling pavement. This was about the same time the other hikers pretty much disappeared, and they were alone with the sparse vehicular traffic.

  When possible, they walked holding hands. “You are a heart of sweetness coated in delicious milk chocolate. Why do I get the feeling you haven’t had a long string of lovers before me?” Her blushing grin was worth the time it took to think that one up, Preston decided.

  She thought for a moment. “Most men I’ve met aren’t half so interesting as you.”

  “Good answer, Babe. I get along well with Dutch men, and they can be quite adventurous, but there is definitely something missing in most of them. Fellows like my friend Harry are quite unusual. But most Dutch women are, in many ways, the same. American women can be quite materialistic too, but it’s a different flavor of materialism. Your lack of it makes you a rare treat.”

  “Maybe I spent too much time hanging around nuns. They are like that.”

  Preston kicked at a fragment of broken asphalt in the road. “For some reason you never felt the call to be one of them,” he surmised.

  Her face took on a more serious aspect. “The Catholic Church has always been a good place to find spiritual warmth and commitment, but the institution itself is...” she paused, looking for the word. “I think it’s broken, misguided. It’s like good things happen despite the system and some of the people.”

  Preston pursed his lips a second. “So you stayed working in the system because you understood its flaws and knew what to expect.”

  “Yes! It’s like belonging to another country. Wherever you go in Europe, you have all the advantages of whatever government rules, along with the insulation of the Church.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Preston agreed. “You mentioned the threat of molestation. Did that decline as you got older?”

  She kept her eyes down the road in front of them. “It was worst right around puberty. I always kept my hair short and played lots of sports. Those who wanted boys could always get them and those who preferred girls seldom had interest in a Tomboy. Once or twice it was simply my turn. It wasn’t so much the actual sex that hurt as the sense of having no escape. Everyone pretended nothing happened even when they saw it, so we tried to deny it to ourselves.”

  She was silent for awhile. Preston figured it might be the painful memories as much as the thicket of passing cars and trucks. Eventually she started talking again. “Once I was no longer a captive of the system and left the orphanage, the threat changed to an entirely different kind. The priests were all about power – you had to obey. But the other predators were simply manipulative. It was less a world of fear and more of being smarter. I decided to let my hair grow out.”

  The road was mostly straight, rising slowly toward a wooded crest. There were a couple of sharp switchbacks at the peak of the climb, then a long straight decline toward the border. While hiking the Belgian backcountry could be a lot of fun and some of the facilities surprisingly extravagant, most of the time it was just a bit dreary. There was simply nothing pleasant about how most of the houses sat almost on the road, little or no gardens and parking laid out with no intent to please the eyes. The weeds grew thick and tall everywhere. There were nicer homes and well-kept properties, but usually off the main routes.

  They were holding hands again as the street offered more chances to avoid the vehicles. “I’m still surprised you apparently never found anyone worth stalking until I came along.” He emphasized the word “stalking” in a comical way.

  Angie laughed. “I had a couple of flings before, but they were typical boring Dutch men. Really, I was just trying to keep my head down and work with the children and teachers. Last year they talked about budgeting problems in a staff meeting, and it was serious and long-term trouble. I started checking other jobs but it seemed like the Church was ready to abandon me altogether. The secular jobs didn’t appeal to me. I had been really praying and thinking a lot about it. Took a lot of long bike rides up and down the coast. When I stumbled across you that day in Katwijk, it was as if you were the only solid thing I had seen in ages. I don’t know why it felt like that, but I decided to fight for it.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders. “Baby, I’ll try to be as solid for you as anything in this crazy world can be. You make it worthwhile, and then some.”

  She wrapped her arm around his waist and squeezed.

  Chapter 13

  The border crossing had become wide open since the Eurozone countries had unified their customs structure, so they were largely ignored as they turned south along a much wider highway. They had crossed the Venn Bahn once already, but it looped around and was in front of them again. Upon crossing the physical boundary, there was a subtle but distinct change as things were much better maintained. It wasn’t much farther to one of the larger bike shops in town. Preston and Angie stood looking in the windows because they had actually arrived a little before the place was opened.

  Angie confessed she had only ever ridden the standard Dutch commuter bikes with one speed, and would have to learn how to handle these multi-speed machines. They had time to discuss the merits of one kind of bike over another, but by the time the doors were unlocked, Preston had convinced her that the hybrids were probably the best, most versatile choice for as-yet unknown uses. Preston figured the mountain bike he had picked out in Margraten was waiting back at the orchard and there was no sense duplicating it here. And while they still had generous funds left, he suggested they stick with the middle price range. They eventually found a matched pair in their respective sizes. They also picked out matching helmets, gloves and other accessories useful for touring. He saw no reason to shift their luggage onto the bikes, having spent so many years riding with a backpack. He hoped Angie could also get used to it.

  The clerk didn’t hesitate to speak English. Once they were ready to pay, he first asked for their names for the warranty forms. “Forttensie,” Preston said.

  “Oh, yes,” said a young woman working at a desk near the counter. She turned to her computer and did some mousing and keyboarding. She asked Preston to spell the name and she repeated each letter under her breath with the German pronunciation. She turned and said something in German to her colleague as the printer on a counter between them whirred to life and spat out a few sheets. The man gathered them and brought them back to the counter.

  “Yes, Mr. Forttensie, your employer sent a purchase order to cover all this. We’ll just transfer the information from that. All you have to do is sign here and you can ride off into the morning sun.”

  Preston took his copy of the order, and then showed it to Angie. The address was in Luxembourg City.

  Rolling their bikes outside, Preston set the packs down at the corner of the building. He parked his bike in front of them while he talked Angie through the logic of derailleur gears. It wasn’t really twenty-four speeds, but worked out to more like thirteen with some overlap. She was more worried about riding with her body down between such large diameter wheels, but found it quite comfortable
. As she circled the parking lot playing with the shifters, Preston made a couple of laps ensuring the seat and handlebar heights were okay for him.

  After a few minutes, she stopped and said, “So where are we going on these things?”

  Preston stopped and picked up their backpacks, handing Angie hers and shrugging into his own. “You saw the address on the order.”

  “I thought you would say that. There are a lot of mountains between here and Luxembourg City.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “You remember I mentioned the Venn Bahn? That will carry us most of the way there in comfort. When I first explored this area twenty years ago the Bahn was a very rough gravel path and covered with weeds and other greenery. The map says it’s now mostly paved, just like the part we saw in Raeren, and crossed twice hiking down here.”

  He pointed her in the direction to the nearest crossing point. She started turning around to head that way. “How long do you think it will take?”

  “I’m willing to bet we can do it in two days. I could make it in a day, but it would be a long, hard day. I haven’t seen you ride, and there’s no reason to push that hard in the first place. I would hate to interfere with our honeymooning.”

  She giggled at that.

  “Take the lead,” he said. “I need to get used to your pace until you feel confident with the gears. Just remember: The objective is to find a comfortable cadence and shift the gears to keep it.”

  In less than a kilometer, they were thick in the woods.

  Chapter 14

  “Angie! Hold up a minute,” Preston called.

  She slowed, and then stopped and put her feet on the ground, partially turned to look back at him. He was looking off to left along one of the straight logging cuts through the trees, pulling the camera out. He took a few shots, and then quickly unfolded the map.

  Angie turned around and pedaled back to where he stood.

  “Darnedest thing I ever saw,” he said, shaking his head as he gazed at the map. He passed the camera to her. She understood and rolled back the last few shots on the view-screen. Her eyes widened just a bit.

  “We’ve got tour buses all over the place around here during this time of year.” He chuckled as he went on, “But I’ve never seen one pulled that far off into the woods. The map shows a limited paved surface in there and what looks like a camping spot cleared. But a tour bus?”

  “Well, it looks like a German charter. A little older than most you see these days. Looks like it lists a handful of cities down by the Swiss and Austrian borders.” She looked up and handed the camera back. “I can’t imagine what they would want to see here.”

  “I suppose it could be history buffs. The Hürtgenwald Battlefield is just a few kilometers that way,” Preston said pointing ahead and off to the left a bit. Technically these trees are part of the same woodland. Plus, we are on the far northern tip of the Battle of the Bulge area. It wasn’t all just Bastogne; that was simply where the war correspondents were hanging out. Those were two of the nastiest battles in World War II.”

  Angie shrugged. “That would mean old people, because my generation hardly knows anything or cares about that stuff. Younger folks even less. What kind of camping do old people do?” She was itching to get going again.

  Preston put his camera away and prepared to ride off. “Big tents and lots of equipment, I’m guessing. I don’t intend to stay around and find out. Let’s go. Monschau awaits us.”

  The route swung around the countryside and it was almost distracting in beauty. Preston didn’t want Angie to feel pushed; he wanted her to feel that in full control of riding. She was quite surprised at herself how quickly they reached Monschau. While the Venn Bahn led around the picturesque city, they decided to take the main street down into the busy town center for an early lunch. Preston also wanted to find a wifi hot spot.

  He managed to get a good connection and checked the dropbox. The script found a short message. It contained an email address on a service with the Luxembourg TLD. The message told him it was his new address and that he was to create a password and check his mail ASAP.

  So he logged into the server with his new account name. The system demanded that he create a new password and had a couple other hoops to jump through. The service was essentially a plain text operation with no pretty graphics at all. There was a message waiting for him and the subject was simply the numeral one with a couple of leading zeros. The message was brief:

  Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Forttensie. Got any pictures of your travels yet? I assume you are making your way here.

  Preston had left his previous camera chip with their hosts near Valkenburg and started with a fresh blank. Up to that point, all he had were shots of himself and Angie in a few picturesque places. Plus he had the shots of that tour bus completely out of place in the woods. He doubted his boss had any interest in that. Still, he would offer them. He typed a reply:

  We guessed the PO showed our new business address. So far, all we have are some honeymoon shots and something I thought strange: an aging tour bus out in the woods between Roetgen and Lammersdorf. What would you like to see?

  He sent the message, and then poked around the interface a bit. Very Spartan it was, indeed. He was about to log out when a new message arrived. Naturally, the subject was zero-zero-two.

  Very interested in the bus shots. Upload to the dropbox ASAP.

  Hm. That was odd. Still, this was presumably the people paying the bills, so Preston complied. But first he removed the camera ID information from each of the images before encrypting them.

  “Do you suppose there is something spooky to do with buses out here in the Ardennes?” She had a puzzled smile.

  Preston chuckled. “In this, our new career field, nothing surprises me any more.”

  Chapter 15

  Lunch was great and Preston waited around a bit to see if anything changed on either the email or dropbox, but there was nothing. He repacked the laptop and shrugged into the backpack. Through the window he spotted a tourist shop with a rack on the sidewalk in multiple languages: “Bike Routes.”

  Once outside he hurried across the street with Angie. He began poking around and pulled out a moderately thick booklet. “Here we go. I wish they had had this at the bike shop. This covers the entire Benelux with graded bike routes and how they are marked. Perfect!”

  After paying for it, he handed it to Angie. “Where should we go, my blushing chocolate bride?”

  She looked surprised. Opening the book, she looked it over a bit. Suddenly she lowered the book and looked up at him. “What’s wrong with getting back on the Venn Bahn? Doesn’t it go where we are headed?”

  “Yes and no,” Preston replied. “The map I’ve been using indicates the nice asphalt we’ve been riding will disappear in just a few kilometers. Our two primary choices are to parallel the Venn Bahn until we get somewhere around Saint Vith, or we can strike out south from Monschau and zigzag across the German countryside until we get to the start of the Our River. Either way, we’ll end up on that river because it takes us down some gorgeous scenery on the eastern border of Luxembourg.”

  She shoved the book back at him playfully. “Stop playing with my mind. Let’s go to Saint Vith; I’ve always wanted to see it.”

  He grinned and took the map book. They crossed the street and unlocked their bikes from the crowded rack. He directed her to ride south out of town, essentially chasing the Rur River upstream. The well-worn path ran parallel to the river through some woods, winding around the steep hills in that area. Just behind Reichenstein Monastery, they crossed the river on a small bridge and rejoined the Venn Bahn.

  A kilometer on, the pavement came to an abrupt end in the middle of a village. A couple of mountain bikes were ahead of them picking their way along down what as now a rugged gravel track.

  Preston consulted the new map book. “If we take the official advice, we face a couple of steep climbs on muddy tracks. Not that much better, if you ask me. I think we should go left here
and take the main road, since it goes pretty much the same place and will be easier to climb. I recall it’s narrow but the traffic is slow enough they can usually work around us well enough. The first part will be just a bit dreary at times, but once we get past the military base, it should be a lot nicer.”

  He ran through a quick reminder about how to anticipate down-shifting for hills. They rolled a few hundred meters to the N669 and began the gentle climb up the Elsenborn Ridge. Almost immediately Preston regretted it. The traffic was heavier than he expected. While it seemed the drivers took it with grace, he was uncomfortable impeding their normal operations. However, things got even a bit hairer when a small group of serious road racing riders passed them, as well.

  Over the hump and around out of the woods, they could see the Venn Bahn track on their right, just across the Rur, but it was no more inviting than dealing with heavy traffic. The two routes diverged at a last stand of trees and the Venn Bahn swung east and out of sight. A thin tree line on the left suddenly opened onto the end of the airstrip at the Elsenborn base. They slowed enough to glance back up the strip and at some of the buildings. The terrain rolled up and down a bit now as they passed through more trees, and then they began seeing a large number of military structures.

  In the grassy center of the traffic circle stood an armored vehicle. They stopped to admire it for a moment. Angie asked if he knew what kind of tank it was. “Actually,” he said, “it’s an armored cannon. The proper term is ‘self-propelled artillery.’ It has to stop and set up in order to properly fire. My understanding is that this is the prime artillery training ground for Belgian forces. During the Battle of the Bulge, it was the artillery in this area that did so much to prevent the German advance, so artillery has a really strong legacy here.”

  They headed south, and then dropped off the main highway. The direction signs indicated they were headed to Weywertz. The tall pines gave way to a mixture of broad leaf trees, and then opened again onto farm fields. A tiny village served almost as a suburb of Weywertz. The route sloped down to a stream valley. He called out for Angie to stop at the bridge. A small sign indicate it was called La Warche.