Tank You Very Much

I had a dilemma this weekend. As previously mentioned, my dad was coming across, but not specifically to visit me; rather to attend Tanks in Town, a weekend event to commemorate the liberation of Mons, Belgium in 1944. My wonderful (she might be reading this) girlfriend also suggested coming over that weekend, as it was a Bank Holiday in England. As The Beard would be staying two nights of the four, the good lady and I decided it wouldn't be quite the same. It's not as if I can send Daddy dearest to the West Wing and make sure the butler takes extra-special care of him.

Nevertheless I tidied up (why does the current trend for laminate flooring automatically mean that landlords need not supply a vacuum cleaner? I'm not a great fan of repeatedly pushing a cloud of dead skin and the previous tenants' hair from corner to corner) and prepared for my dad's imminent arrival. Much as I love the military excursions, I've grown to dread them at the same time. The main reason for this being a complete lack of day-to-day planning.

As usual, we've reached that point where I need to inject some back-story. I'll try to keep it brief. As a kid I went to all of the shows with my dad. We even went to Czechoslovakia (it was still called that then) in that 37 mph beast you can see in the previous post. That truck, an AEC Matador, is basically my dad's mistress. In fact it's more like his wife and lifelong friend. At about 13 my interest waned; I got into drugs and avoided my dad as best I could for years. When I had my mid-twenties crisis last year and quit my job, I had a lot more spare time and a renewed interest in WWII history, so I tagged along to the UK's biggest military vehicle gathering in Beltring, Kent. You may have seen it on last night's Panorama, under the innocuous tagline 'Kent: a hotbed for Neo-Nazism?'

It's virtually a family holiday, as last year the members in attendance were my dad, my 10 year-old nephew, his mother and her new husband, my other sister and her fiance and lil'old me. My sister is a tourism manager of some sort. She organises things with a tyrannical precision. Now I'm a man of simple pleasures. But if I'm not fed with alarming regularity, I get tired, ill and irritable. This wasn't a problem, as my sister had cool-boxes, booze up the ying-yang (they went to Calais for the day), even fresh basil hanging from the tail-board of the truck. Having not taken a holiday for about 3 years, it was absolute bliss.

So it was a given that I'd be attending the Arnhem commemoration in mid-September. This of course proved to be a very different affair. We had no plan or itinerary, and my dad had decided to shun the supermarket, as he had picked up some ration packs in Kent. So we basically ate dog-food every night and stopped wherever we could. Don't get me wrong, it was still good fun, and dipping off the motorway to sleep in the heart of a German trench complex was better than paying for a campsite with a bunch of A Bridge Too Far-disciples in replica Para smocks. But the comforts were gone, replaced by a kind of Littlest Hobo bonhomie.

So I was a little edgy about this weekend- at least with the Matador, we definitely have somewhere to sleep- this event was tracked vehicles only, so we would be travelling with a low-loader. Accommodation had not yet been arranged, and was being handled by those masters of organisation, the Dutch Army. I had visions of spending two days half-starved and exhausted, having slept in a rose-bush with a cupful of cabbage and ham turning into an acid-ball in my gut. But, not wishing to put my dad out, I went along.

We unloaded the tanks and headed into Mons, where we would be staying at the Auberge de Jeunesse. Sounds great in French, eh? It means Youth Hostel. However, it was clean, spacious and well-designed and I breathed a sigh of relief. We headed into town for a late dinner (yay!) to be greeted by this...

Yep, I'm a lucky fuck. We had an unnecessary early start the next day but I stocked up at the buffet breakfast and we made our way to the offroad site in the woods where the Saturday event was to take place. It was well-attended and I've never seen so many different tanks out of a museum setting. Of course, the Auberge was fully booked for that night but there were rumblings of accommodation at a sports hall somewhere in the area. For some reason I wasn't holding my breath. As for the food situation; there were two choices- a burger-trailer or a pita-bread trailer. No doubt if anyone has made it this far, they'll be wondering what's going on at Hot Chicks with Douchbags about now so I'll suffice to say that I ate 2 cones of chips and a hot-dog and my dad and I slept on the bare floor of a Dutch Army van. Somewhere in the distance a hobo whistled for his trusty companion. Maybe tomorrow would bring better tidings...
And, I've gotta say, it did. The organisers had planned a 13km route, some on country roads through towns, some through woodland and stubble fields, culminating in a line-up in the square in Mons, shown above. After a taxing woodland section ("Let's Offroad!") we stopped for a hearty roast-pig lunch followed by a 'charge' across the field. As the tank we were travelling in is Dutch Army, the gun is still active and so we led this charge with a blank shot. It was terribly 'Boy's Own' but I have to say I enjoyed it. If I had more knowledge I'd but some video footage here, but you'll have to settle for a photo.

Europeans have a far greater sense of the history of WWII. Every town bears the scars of the conflict in their area. And so they're far more active when it comes the time to commemorate events.However, the event has been irrevocably affected by what I'm coining as Band of Brothers Syndrome. Whilst being a great show, and succeeding in highlighting a part of history which the education system simply skirts around, Band of Brothers has forever changed the face of vintage vehicle gatherings. It's no longer about restoration of vehicles. When I went as a kid, there were always a few fellas who liked to show off their uniform collection, but they carried a degree of knowledge about the different regiments, their badges, flashes and so forth. There were very few young people at the events- young kids like myself mostly, and only a smattering of lads in their late teens or their twenties.

Post Band of Brothers, however, the demographic has changed somewhat. Demand for replica uniforms has grown astronomically. Specifically, of course, 82nd and 101st Airborne uniform. So now, as soon as you pull the handbrake on your vehicle, there is a swarm of uniformed ''G.I's" reaching into their webbing for their digital cameras to take snaps of each other in the driving seat. Every piece of kit, every swatch is now available in repro. You can have an Airborne Officer's dress-uniform tailored in two weeks for about 300 quid, complete with insignia (I dont have a pound sign, sorry). Of course, some people prefer the more elegant German gear. No problem; an SS officer's uniform won't cost you any more.

This is where the main problem arises, I think. Put someone in uniform, and it's not long before they start to believe they belong in it. Yanks hang out by the camp-fire, chewing gum and listening to 'Rum and Coca-Cola' But German re-enactors set up check-points to make sure you have the correct wristband and go on drill practice.This guy even carries a satchel with 'Gen G S Patton' written on it, in case someone hasn't figured it out. Im curious to know what people think about the whole dressing-up thing. I can see the advantages, but at the same time it's a weird concept to me. At an event last year, I saw one guy change into at least 4 different German uniforms. He even had the same dog as Rommel had. The same prick turned up at the Eindhoven torchlight parade with a Union Jack draped around his 1950's sand-coloured VW Beetle. He was in a US Military Police uniform that time, of course. So really the argument that they're bringing history to life is not valid; you could be forgiven for thinking that the 82nd Airborne won the war, given their ubiquitous presence at events.

And if you were on the way to the local shops on a Sunday morning, hungover to hell and keen to get back to watch the Grand Prix, how would you react to this little fella? I reckon I'd accelerate...