The Silk Road and Beyond E-Book

Ivor Whitall

• Herausgeber: Old Pond Books
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 522

Beschreibung

True accounts of one man's long-distance trucking career that began in the late 1960s, these adventurous anecdotes are told by one of the first pioneers in long-distance trucking to the Middle East, Ivor Whittall. From traveling overseas to Kuwait, driving the desert trek between Jordan and Saudi Arabia, and surviving the infamously dangerous (and sometimes deadly) Tahir Pass in Eastern Turkey that has claimed the lives of truckers with its haphazard landslides and avalanches and tricky mountainous terrain, readers get a driver's seat perspective to Whittall's daring career. With 72 contemporary color photos of trucks, drivers, passports, visas, and custom forms, readers will be thrust into what it was like being a long-distance trucker in the 1970s. Full of disastrous near misses, border control mishaps, intense home sickness, mechanical failures, cultural misunderstandings, and so much more, this book will urge you to buckle up.

Leseprobe

THE SILK ROAD AND BEYOND

Treacherous road in Imranli, Central Anatolia, Turkey (1978).

THE SILK ROAD AND BEYOND

Ivor Whittall

Revised and edited by Paul Rowlands

The Silk Road and Beyond

Old Pond Publishing is an imprint of Fox Chapel Publishers International Ltd.

Project TeamVice President–Content: Christopher ReggioAssociate Publisher: Sarah BloxhamLayout: Keystroke, Neville Lodge, Tettenhall, WolverhamptonPhotos by the author

Copyright © 2019 by Ivor Whittall and Fox Chapel Publishers International Ltd.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Fox Chapel Publishers, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

Print ISBN 978-1-912158-35-5eISBN 978-1-912158-67-6

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Fox Chapel Publishing903 Square StreetMount Joy, PA 17552, U.S.A.

Fox Chapel Publishers International Ltd.7 Danefield Road, Selsey (Chichester)West Sussex PO20 9DA, U.K.

www.oldpond.com

We are always looking for talented authors. To submit an idea, please send a brief inquiry to [email protected].

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 From Small Beginnings

Chapter 2 Married to the Girl of My Dreams

Chapter 3 38mph Flat Out!

Chapter 4 At Last, the Future Beckons

Chapter 5 Talk About a Vertical Learning Curve!

Chapter 6 Why Didn’t I Learn German in School?

Chapter 7 Things are Getting Better

Chapter 8 Into the Unknown!

Chapter 9 Turkey, Another World

Chapter 10 So This is the Desert?

Chapter 11 A Disaster Averted . . . Just!

Chapter 12 Job Done, Homeward Bound!

Chapter 13 Home is Calling

Chapter 14 Play by the Rules . . . or Else!

Chapter 15 Aydin, Not Quite the Magician After All!

Chapter 16 There’s Always Someone that Wants Assistance

Chapter 17 What a Bloody Fiasco!

Chapter 18 A Rather Testing Turkish Winter!

Chapter 19 A New Beginning

Chapter 20 The End of an Era

Chapter 21 An Epilogue . . . of Sorts

A long way from my small beginnings — travelling through Austria on my irst trip to Kuwait.

chapter one

FROM SMALL BEGINNINGS

According to my dear old mum, babies that would fit into a pint pot and were born prematurely weren’t always likely to survive in the pre-NHS days of 1946.

But not me! Here I was, early as usual, bawling my way into this world via Leek maternity home. Ivor, a small baby with a small name.

While still very young, my family, including my brand new baby sister Patricia, were uprooted to go and live next door to an Ansells pub in Tenford, Staffordshire. The name of the pub still baffles me to this day, The Ship Inn . . . The Ship Inn! For crying out loud, there wasn’t even a culvert near the pub, let alone somewhere to park a boat, and we were at least 100 miles away from the sea.

As with many working class families in the 1940s and ’50s, life was hard, not that us kids knew it.

A cold tap and a tin bath filled with hot water boiled on the kitchen stove were the norm. Depending on your seniority and status in the family hierarchy, you might be the last person to ‘enjoy’ the, by now, lukewarm, grimy and less than salubrious bath water. How come Pat was senior to me? An unlit outside toilet that was emptied once a fortnight completed the rosy domestic picture.

“A cold tap and a tin bath filled with hot water boiled on the kitchen stove were the norm.”

Then, in 1957 we had a ‘change of fortune’ when Dad was asked if he’d be interested in managing The Ship, as the landlord and 11 of his ‘honest’ tenants had decided to abscond without paying the rent, and to add to the ignominy, pocketed the takings! Within a week we were installed in the comparative comfort of the pub. Blimey, as well as the beer on tap downstairs, we’d got hot water on tap in the bath upstairs! And . . . luxury of luxuries, it came with an indoor toilet and a chain pull flush! For us kids it was a different world as we also had unfettered access to a 2-acre field and large wood to play in.

For a while life seemed good, but Dad wasn’t a well man, having a history of pancreatic problems. To add to his woes, in 1960 he was diagnosed with gallstones and taken into hospital for a routine operation to remove them. Seemingly on the mend, a month later, once again feeling poorly, he was re-admitted. At five in the evening, Mum phoned to ask how he was, to be told, ‘He is doing well Mrs Whittall,’ and, happy with the news, she went back to running the pub. An hour later the phone rang. It was the hospital, and I could literally see the blood drain from her face as she was informed her husband, my father, had died! Poor Mum was distraught; Dad, with his history of pancreatitis, had succumbed to a major haemorrhage.

I was 14 years old and without a dad. To add insult to injury, facing my final year in school, Mum decided to move us away from all our friends and family to Pelsall, near Walsall. I felt like it was one disaster on top of another and it had a really negative effect on me. So much so that I had become an extremely angry young man. Without my mother’s knowledge, I left home and headed for the ‘bright lights’ of Blackpool, managing to find accommodation in a ‘doss house’ and a job at the infamous fun fair, working on the waltzer and big wheel. I’m not saying it was the making of me, as I was always independently minded, some might even say cussed, but my growing up was a short, sharp learning curve. I was not long a boy among men. In November, at the end of the 1961 season, my anger had dissipated enough for me to try and make a go of it back home with Mum.

“Bloody hell! I certainly knew how to pick the jobs. Still, I was as fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog.”

I hadn’t the foggiest idea what I wanted to do but I had a good work ethic and was keen to earn money. For the next two or three years I tried my hand at anything and everything, which usually involved hard manual labour. From an ‘improver plasterer’, a posh word for a specialist labourer, to bread rounds man, where I passed my driving test, to delivering heat-treated metal fabrication in a Mini Pick-up, and the realisation I loved driving.

Maybe the die was cast! I was still flitting from job to job and somehow found myself driving a small Thames Trader lorry, working as a coalman at the local Co-op coal yard. Hard work doesn’t begin to cover it. With soaking wet hessian sacks dribbling rivers of black dust down the back of your trousers and pointy lumps of steam coal trying to gouge a hole in your kidneys, bloody marvellous it wasn’t . . . But at least I was driving!

Still unsure as to what I wanted to do employment wise, but certainly deciding that life as a perennially dirty coal man wasn’t the profession for me, I answered an advert from a local builder, Joe Giles, for a labourer/driver. Offering me nine old pence an hour more than I was already being paid, I jumped at it and one week later found myself at the wheel of a dilapidated petrol-driven four-wheeler. I was carting everything from sand and ballast to slabs and cement; this was fine until I realised it hadn’t any tipping gear and everything had to be shovelled or handballed, on and off!

Hell! I certainly knew how to pick the jobs. Still, I was as fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog.

Slowly a hazy career path was opening up in front of me as my next job also entailed driving, this time for a steel stockholder. Once again I found myself delivering metalwork in an asthmatic four-wheeler. Loading and unloading was a serious business and executed by an ancient crane that would have done credit to a 1950s Meccano set. This was bolted to a static lorry parked at the back of the yard and was a serious danger to life and limb. Operated by compression, you wound it up with a cranking handle and then flicked over the lever hoping it would start. A puff of smoke and the distinctive sound of a single pot Lister meant it was up and running. It would lift relatively heavy objects with apparent ease, but try putting them down again! The operation required nerves of steel and perfect judgement as the cargo’s descent was only controlled by the operator, in this case me, working a manual choke brake attached to the cable. The whole kit and caboodle could quite easily, and often did, end up crashing onto the deck! It was a nightmare, and not for me as I valued my extremities too much.

chapter two

MARRIED TO THE GIRL OF MY DREAMS

By now I was 19 and had left my youth behind. Although tall was never my thing, more like stocky, the attribute I was most proud of was my mane of dark, shoulder-length hair. It was 1965 and I’d moved back to the place I regarded as my spiritual home, Tean in Staffordshire. There I ‘renewed’ an acquaintance with Jenny, a girl I’d fancied when we’d both travelled on the same school bus five years earlier. Using the word ‘renewed’ is a bit of journalistic licence on my part, because when I first tried to engage her in conversation all those years ago, she totally ignored me and that, I’m afraid was the beginning and end of ‘our relationship’! This time, however, my endeavours were not to be denied. She was as beautiful as I remembered her; slim with long wavy blonde hair and blue eyes. She was perfect and agreed to meet me in the Gardeners Arms for a drink. I must have done something right because seven weeks later we were married!

Our lives were changing and not long after the wedding, Jenny’s mum bought a guest house, in, of all places, Blackpool. My new wife was going to help run the place, so it looked as if I was going to have to find yet another new job, this time a ‘proper’ one, not working the fun fair dodgems and chatting up the girls.

Casting about in the local Blackpool rag for driving jobs, I randomly selected an advert from the many on offer, John & C. Lowes, Builders Merchant and, rather than phone, I turned up at their yard asking if they had any driving vacancies.

‘Just a moment,’ smiled the receptionist. ‘I think we do, I’ll give Alf a call.’

Alf Pye was a real old-school character. Born during the First World War, he always wore a worsted blazer and tie, and judging by the grilling he gave me, was going to make sure I was the right man for the job. He quizzed me about anything and everything until finally;

‘Right young man, have you driven tipper lorries?’

Of course, I hadn’t.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘OK, Ivor isn’t it? The pay is 5s 7d (27p) an hour, with overtime at 7s (35p) an hour after 50 hours.’

Once again I was driving another old banger – I seemed to attract them – and the job was carting mostly sand and bricks around south and central Lancashire. As it was a tipper, of course, I didn’t have to do a huge amount of shovelling!

The one company artic was driven by a bloke called Derek, who was forever handing in his notice when his temper got the better of him but was back at work the following morning! It was a ten-year-old bonneted Leyland with vacuum brakes and air-operated windscreen wipers. You know, the ones that the faster you drive, the slower they swipe the screen clear, and conversely the slower you drive, the faster they operate. Then, when you’re nearly at a standstill, all you can see out of the screen is a blur of rubber screeching across the glass, setting your teeth on edge. Whose ridiculous idea was that? It was hooked up to a four in line flatbed with what’s called a Scammell coupling; the older guys will understand. It’s where you reverse under the trailer and the legs fold up automatically as you click onto the pin. There were no air lines to connect, just a bolt that when you depressed the foot brake it activated a mechanism that ‘applied’ the trailer’s brakes. For all the good they were you might as well have chucked a rubber anchor out of the window and hoped for the best. Fully loaded, driving this beast required a great deal of forward planning. Luckily they’ve been consigned to the annals of history now, as technology has moved on.

I’d often looked at it and wondered. Then one afternoon, when once again Derek had stormed past, having handed in his notice for the umpteenth time, Alf collared me and asked me to pop into the office before I went home.

‘Derek’s handed his notice in again, and we need a load collected from Ribble Cement in the morning, do you think you could drive the artic?’

‘I don’t see why not Alf,’ I responded tentatively. ‘It’s just another lorry,’ wondering if he realised I was actually too young.

I loved driving, so could this be a turning point in my fledgling career? I hardly slept with the worry and excitement, but at 5am next morning I was firing up the old Leyland, aiming to be in Clitheroe by six. All I had to do was make sure I reversed the trailer in a straight line, keeping the elevator roughly above the centre of the bed. It was all handball and the loading gang kept calling me to pull forward as they stacked the 14 tons of hot cement bags.

“Off you go, park over there and collect your paperwork from the office.”

‘Righto driver,’ called the foreman. ‘Off you go, park over there and collect your paperwork from the office.’

It was a beautiful sunny morning and I’d seen how Derek had roped his load, so with a couple of cross ropes holding the rear end in, I walked nonchalantly across to the office to collect my notes.

‘No Derek today then?’ came a female voice from the other side of the glass. ‘The miserable old git hasn’t jacked in again, has he?’

‘Dunno,’ I replied, not wanting to get involved.

“Yeehaa, I thought, I’ve done it. Mind you, the sweat was pouring off me, so worried was I that I’d cock it up.”

Yeehaa, I thought, I’ve done it. Mind you, the sweat was pouring off me, so worried was I that I’d cock it up. I stayed with Alf and J&C Lowes for the next 18 months, until I reached my 21st birthday and I could finally drive articulated lorries legally!

It was time to broaden my horizons and move on. For the last few months I’d been keeping my eyes open, looking for a better driving job, and near at hand was a company called Titchener & Brown. I knew they did ICI stuff to Liverpool Docks and they’d also got a reasonably new fleet of vehicles. So, organising an interview with the transport manager Frank and his assistant, the boss’s adopted son Martin, I turned up in my best bib and tucker ready to sell myself. It was all very weird and vaguely off-putting, in that after nearly every comment Frank would add, ‘on the other side,’ or, ‘on that one,’ even when it made no sense! It was almost like a verbal impediment!

‘Well my boy, on that one, you’ve got the job starting a week Monday.’

‘What time do you want me in?’ I asked.

‘On the other side, it’s normally a five o’clock start and that should get you to Liverpool Docks for around six.’

The money was about the same but with more hours my wage packet should look a little plumper.

Monday week, at five o’clock on the dot, I was drawing out of the yard and heading for the infamous Liverpool Docks. I’d heard all the horror stories about being delayed for weeks, starving to death, growing a beard and whiskers, all while waiting to load or unload, and now I was about to find out the truth of it. Strange that I hadn’t seen the other lads in the yard; they must have left a little earlier. A little earlier! Huh, turns out they’d left at four o’clock and were at least 200 yards ahead of me, right at the front of the queue! Dammit, this wasn’t going to go down too well with Frank.

The boat I wanted was the MV Mystic and, as I watched, a docker walked down the line of trucks chalking MVM on their tyre walls. That must be my boat and I decided to take a chance on jumping the queue, a lifetime ban if caught and it could mean the end of my fledgling career before it even started. Pulling out of the dock, I drove around the perimeter until I was out of sight, and then got out to look for an old stub end of chalk. Fortunately, I didn’t have to look long and scribbled MVM on the sidewall of my tyre. Drawing into the next gate, which luckily was empty, I pointed to my front wheel and shouted the name of the boat.

‘That’s two gates along,’ came back a broad Liverpool accent. ‘Why aren’t you in the queue?’

‘I was feeling a bit queasy and had to find a bog mate. If I go back I’ll have lost my place, there were five of us together.’

‘Go on then and don’t make a habit of it,’ he said, giving me a quizzical look.

Turning right, I drove along the inside of the dock wall hoping I’d be able to get into the queue further forward. Then, the lorry god smiled on me, as the queue shunted forward and in through the gate rolled the other four Titchener wagons! I just tagged on the back as we made our way to the shed where the chemicals discharged from the ship were stored.

There’s always a catch, and being the new boy normally meant learning the hard way. The reason they’d all left at four and not five was that pallets were handed out on a first come, first served basis and we got paid threepence for each empty pallet we collected. More importantly, if there weren’t any pallets in the yard it meant handballing the bags on at ICI, and off again at the docks, all by yourself!

Occasionally we’d reload from the docks with groundnuts, 15 tons in 100 kg sacks; that’s nearly 225 lb! That was 150 massive hessian bags dropped down in a sling, which you then had to manoeuvre into position on the bed of your trailer. I can tell you, nobody volunteered for that little number.

“I gave them a call, wondering if I could blag this one . . .”

On the way home after work, I’d often see a Leyland Beaver artic with a makeshift sleeper welded to the back. Sign-written on the door was the company name, and under it, UK–Italy. Intrigued and deciding nothing ventured nothing gained, I gave them a call, wondering if I could blag this one . . . Being put through to the manager, his first question was, ‘Buongiorno, parliamo Italiano?’

‘What?’ I spluttered. ‘Pardon?’

‘I said, “good morning, do you speak Italian?” To which you replied, “what,” then, “pardon.” From that response, I can only deduce that you don’t.’ And then the phone went dead.

My renowned blagging skills weren’t going to work there then.

‘Si’ was about my limit, so with the best will in the world I wasn’t fluent.

Interestingly I got to know the driver of that truck ten years later.

chapter three

38mph FLAT OUT!

In 1970 I called it a day with Titchener & Brown and again found myself searching through the jobs page of the Blackpool Gazette. The name P. Hottersall & M. & J. Cadman caught my eye, so I made the call. A guy called Wilfred answered and it transpired that he owned the company. It also turned out he had his fingers in numerous other pies in the area, one of them being Seagull Coaches, famous in the 1960s and ’70s for their ‘Mystery Tours’. He seemed a genuine bloke and, even though he drove a Ferrari, was more than happy to get his fingernails dirty in the workshop. Once again I ended up with ‘a shed’. What is it about me, do I have ‘Gullible Ivor’ tattooed on my forehead? It was a six-year-old Atkinson with a 150 Gardner engine and six-speed David Brown gearbox, the original ‘guvnor’s wagon’. On my first day there I recognised John, an old work colleague from T&B, and quizzed him as to what to expect.

‘It’s alright Ivor, Wilf lets you get on with it. Most of the work is Sealand or Ferrymasters out of Preston Dock, and you’ll be expected to organise your own work, especially backloads. His stepson is supposed to be in charge of that, but is bloody useless.’

It wasn’t always the old Atki that I drove, but generally it was regarded as ‘my’ lorry. Other than the fact the old girl struggled to do 40 mph and had a heater that hadn’t read the instruction manual, only blowing out cold air, I quite enjoyed the variety that the job offered. All the while I was gaining experience in this dog eat dog world of road haulage.

“What is it about me, do I have ‘Gullible Ivor’ tattooed on my forehead?”

It was the end of 1973, I’d been there over three years and at the age of 27 considered myself a skilled and professional driver, having covered most of the country, albeit very slowly!

Then, in the following January, standing by the cubicle in Sealand’s office, Mike the transport co-ordinator gave me a load for Dufftown.

‘Dufftown?’ I queried. ‘Where the heck is that?’

He passed me the delivery notes, a load of oak slats for a cooperage at Glenfiddich whisky distillery in Dufftown, Morayshire. Looking at the map, it was way up past Aviemore on the A9 and turn right. I just knew this wasn’t going to be fun; summertime yes, but this was a particularly cold winter, there was heavy snow in Scotland and I’d never been to Dufftown before! The whole trip was horrendous; I had no heater and my sleeping accommodation was a piece of hardboard laid across the cab. Even though I’d got plenty of warm clothing, the interminable cold worms its way through the layers to your very core. They were four of the worst days I’d had in my driving career to date and very nearly put an end to me wanting to continue in this occupation. Heavy snow on the A9 and A95 had me slipping and sliding all over the place, struggling to make any progress. We had no snow chains back then and at one time I thought I was going to be snowed in, until a plough appeared from nowhere and I was able to tag on behind. To top it all, the questioning, ‘where have you been?’ barbs when I got back pee’d me off so much, I stormed into the garage to have it out with Wilf.

“I get sent out on a job in the middle of winter, in a bloody lorry that has no effing heating and no effing bed, to a place where it’s 15 degrees below freezing.”

‘Do you realise what a crap trip I’ve just had?’ I shouted. ‘I get sent out on a job in the middle of winter, in a bloody lorry that has no effing heating and no effing bed, to a place where it’s 15 degrees below freezing. It’s a bloody joke Wilf. I’ve had enough.’

He was bending down tinkering with something mechanical. I raised my voice another notch.

‘Are you listening to what I’m saying?’

‘I don’t understand the problem Ivor?’ he said, stretching up from his position. ‘Nobody else complains about the old girl.’

‘That’s because I’m the only one stupid enough to drive the antiquated old shed.’

‘Now, now, now,’ he said placatingly. ‘There’s nowt wrong with the old girl, I appreciate she’s a little slow and I’ll get the heater sorted. You get yourself on home, there’s a good lad. You’ll feel better for a night’s sleep with the missus.’ He winked, turning back to his job in hand.

What he really meant, of course, was that he didn’t want to understand, and within a moment appeared to have forgotten my outburst. The old Atki had better fuel consumption than an Isetta bubble car, and Gardner engines have as long a career as Frank Sinatra.

‘Pick up another trailer Ivor, you’ve a Sealand to Milford Haven tomorrow.’

‘Right, that’s it, I’ll pick up my cards and any outstanding money at the end of the week,’ I said, as I stormed off.

Suddenly his hearing was working again, as he stood bolt upright.

‘C’mon now Ivor,’ he called out. ‘No need to be hasty son, I’m sure we can work something out. Just deliver that load to Milford Haven and we’ll sort it when you get back.’

‘No Wilf, I’ve had a gut full. Either we sort it now or I’m off.’

‘OK, OK, so what is it you’re after then?’

‘Right, I’ve been driving that old bus for three years,’ I said. ‘All I want is a lorry with a working heater and won’t struggle to do 40 downhill! I’ll even buy my own transistor radio.’

‘OK, how’d you fancy the old Silver Roadways unit? John has handed in his notice and it’ll be available in a fortnight.’

‘Is this on the level Wilf?’ I demanded.

‘Never more so boy,’ he replied.

True to his word, after a seemingly endless two weeks of dragging the old Atki up and down the road, John left and I was the proud ‘owner’ of a beautiful cab-over Mercedes LP1413, not new by any stretch of the imagination, but the performance was in a different league, 60 mph easily. For the next few months I was as happy as a pig in the proverbial . . . as I roared up and down the M6, M5, and any other motorway that took my fancy. At last I was really enjoying my job. Then, out of the blue, the long-distance Sealand work dried up and I was back doing local deliveries, pulp paper or timber out of Preston Docks and I was lucky to do 150 miles a day!

“Bloody hell! Hello Ray, how nice to see you. Must be a couple of years at least”

Now I’d had a taste of proper driving with the little Mercedes, I wanted more, and once again started looking around. None of the established hauliers like Northern Ireland Trailers or Ferrymasters appealed to me; NIT because I’d had my fill of Atkinsons with Gardner engines and Ferrymasters because it was too structured and regimented for my liking. I suppose I was a bit of a ‘free spirit’ and happy to push the boundaries. Maybe I should call it a day and look for a proper job. Yeah, right!

The need to find something more ‘interesting’ had been playing on my mind for a couple of weeks and one morning, having loaded my trailer with yet more packs of wood from Preston Docks, I stopped at the office to write myself a gate pass. It being close to the dock canteen, the siren smell of fried breakfast accosted my sensitive nostrils. Not a bad idea, I thought to myself as I parked up and wandered in. Just 3s/6d (17p) bought you the full menu; four bacon, three sausages, two eggs, a heap of beans, fried bread, toast and tea. This should set me up for the day . . .

‘Well, hello young Ivor. Long time no see.’

‘Bloody hell! Hello Ray, how nice to see you. Must be a couple of years at least,’ he said as he sat down to join me for a cuppa.

Ray was an old workmate from Titcheners who’d left to try his hand elsewhere. One of life’s good guys, we spent the next half hour or so sorting out the rights and wrongs of the transport industry, and the world in general. Lorry drivers are particularly good at that sort of thing.

‘You don’t seem too happy with the job,’ noted Ray with his tooth-free grin.

‘No mate, to be honest with you I’m totally hacked off. It’s a struggle to earn a decent crack as it’s near enough all day work. I haven’t done any Sealand containers for six months or more. I’m actually thinking about packing it in.’

‘Aye, sounds like you need a change, I don’t remember seeing you this down before.’

‘I know.’ I said despondently. ‘But where do you go Ray? They’re all as bad as each other.’

‘Well . . . tell you what Ivor, how do you like the idea of driving a brand new lorry?’

‘Ha, and pigs might fly.’ I countered. ‘Wouldn’t we all, don’t know when I last saw a new truck in this part of the world. Most of them are as old as Methuselah’s second-hand chariot.’

‘Look son,’ fishing a crumpled bit of paper out of his well-worn jacket pocket and handing it over to me. ‘Try this number. They’re a major building contractor who’ve made a huge amount of money developing these new estates and, so I’ve heard, need to spend a ‘little’ to reduce their tax liability. For some reason or other they’ve decided to invest in transport.’

‘You sure of all this Ray?’ I asked. ‘Seems too good to be true, and you know what they say about that?’

‘Listen, I wouldn’t tell just anybody, but you’ve always been a good lad, and yes, it’s as true as I’m sat here. Money’s tidy as well, £55 a week plus 10% of the vehicle’s earnings and £5 per night out.’

‘Blimey,’ was all I could say, as I stuffed the already crumpled piece of paper in my trouser pocket.

Little did I realise how on such small events one’s life can turn . . .

‘Thanks for that, but I’d better be off mate,’ I smiled, shaking his hand. ‘I’ve still got four loads of timber to deliver.’

By the end of the day the nub of our conversation had slipped my mind, probably because, being a realist, I didn’t think it was true. The following morning, a Saturday, found me turning out my trouser pockets ready for the weekly wash and the crumpled scrap of paper drifted to the floor. Picking it up, rather than throwing it in the bin, I carefully unfurled it and looked at the number. Shall I, shan’t I? Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound and I went out to the phone box and rang the number.

‘Can I speak to Brian please?’

And that was it, done. A truly momentous moment in my life, and I didn’t even know it . . . yet!

As the new depot hadn’t officially been opened, a meeting at his house was arranged for 10.30am the following morning. Brian was going to be my new transport manager and we hit it off straightaway, being offered a start on their first day of trading, Tuesday week. Not only that, he’d collect me from my house at seven thirty. I couldn’t imagine Wilf or any of my previous employers offering to do that! Everything was as Ray had told me, good old boy. Of course, Wilf was less than happy as I gave him the ‘good’ news, running past me all the ‘favours’ he’d done me over the last four years. I’ve never found it a pleasant experience jacking in a job, but sometimes you have to move on and this was definitely one of those times.

chapter four

AT LAST, THE FUTURE BECKONS

The week, which just happened to be Easter, dragged by interminably and as the days trickled past I felt a nervous tension building inside me, one I’d never felt before, and by Tuesday morning I was like the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof. Poor Jenny didn’t know what to do with me.

To the minute, Brian was collecting me from my front door and he must have sensed my nervousness; either that or my very sweaty palms gave me away, as he wiped his hands on a tissue!

‘Relax Ivor,’ he said encouragingly. ‘It’ll be great working together.’

Eighteen miles later we were rolling into W. Jackson Haulage Ltd’s new yard. At the top end there was a brand new brick-built office and at the bottom a workshop with some warehousing.

‘No lorries?’ I enquired, feeling a little less tense.

‘Well spotted,’ he laughed. ‘They’ll start to arrive on Thursday. Meanwhile, for the next couple of days, if you wouldn’t mind running a few errands?’

‘No problem, just let me know.’

‘Right,’ said Brian after a pot of tea – well, tea in a strainer with boiling water poured over it. ‘Here’s a shopping list for you to be getting on with. We’ve accounts at most of the places, but here’s a couple of hundred in case you need cash for bits and bobs. Just make sure you get receipts.’

I walked out the door straight into my new boss, Billy Jackson.

‘Well, ’ow do son, tha must be Ivor. Pleased to meet thee,’ as he stretched out a gnarled hand. ‘Tha’s leaving already?’ he smiled.

‘Off to do some shopping Mr Jackson,’ I mumbled.

‘Billy, call me Billy.’

Over the next couple of days I visited every truck-related business in the area, buying dogs and chains, rope, tarpaulins, lenses, bulbs and anything remotely associated with a road transport operation. Oh, and a teapot! Then, on the Thursday morning, this time sharing a proper pot of tea with Brian and Billy, into the yard rolled UTJ 645M, an absolutely brand spanking new DAF 2600 in yellow. I was gobsmacked.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I blurted out.

‘Well, as tha’s our senior employee, it’s for thee,’ said Billy, with a grin on his face. ‘Go on, go and ’ave a butchers at tha new toy.’

Trying not to look too much like a bloke that’s won a million on the pools, I tried walking nonchalantly across to my new wheels. It was stunning, so futuristic compared to anything I’d driven previously. A full double sleeper, proper heater, suspension seat, fitted radio; there was just so much to take on board. Mind you, the gearbox took a little getting used to as it was a back to front six speed ZF with a splitter, giving 12 gears. The cab was vast; with this little beauty I felt I could drive anywhere in the world, little realising that, in less than a year, I literally would be!

The next few months were some of the most enjoyable I’d experienced in the industry. The job was so much more satisfying with a decent seat beneath your backside, and the envious looks of other drivers didn’t dispel that feeling either. There’s no doubt this was a smart bit of kit and Jenny certainly noticed the difference in me. Me and Billy, despite his millionaire status, had become good mates and often had a drink together after work. Then, on one such occasion, without warning, he asked, ‘’Ow does tha fancy a trip to the Persian Gulf Ivor?’

“What! I spluttered, taking a mouthful of beer, and trying to stop it dribbling down my chin.”

‘What!’ I spluttered, taking a mouthful of beer, and trying to stop it dribbling down my chin. ‘What did you say Billy?’

‘’Ow does tha fancy a trip to the Persian Gulf?’ he repeated with that lopsided grin of his.

My mind was already racing. I knew roughly where it was, but how do you get there? In milliseconds a thousand questions flashed through my mind. There was an enquiring look on Bill’s face.

‘Well?’

An involuntary ‘yes’ slipped out of my already slack-jawed mouth.

‘Good, that’s sorted then. One of my mates, Edgar Jenkinson, has his own haulage company and is involved with a bloke called Jim Woods from Salford who does overland deliveries to the Middle East. Now, I’d heard of the Middle East run as it had been covered in the Daily Express not too long before, but I needed to know more.

‘What’s it all about then Bill?’ I asked, sounding a bit like an excited school kid.

Patiently, like a schoolteacher, Billy proceeded to give me a potted history of the oil crisis, the formation of OPEC and the resultant huge increase in prices.

‘In simple terms,’ he continued, ‘what’s happened is that the oil-rich countries of the Middle East – Saudi Arabia, Iran, Iraq and a few others – have so much cash to splash that they’re buying up the world! Well . . . so far, so good, but the ports in the region can’t cope and there are literally dozens of boats standing off shore with no chance of being discharged for weeks or even months. Can you see where I’m going with this?’

‘I think so. I assume an overland route is the only viable alternative?’

‘Got it in one Ivor, and I’ve already guessed your next question. It’ll pay £800 a trip, of which only £200 will be taxed, the remainder treated as expenses. How does that sound?’

It sounded more than reasonable. Best I calm down, go home and talk to Jenny. There’ll be so many unanswerable questions, I won’t know what to say! All I knew was that I’d never felt so excited and elated all in one go. Billy broke into my reverie.

‘Listen, one thing at a time. Firstly, organise your passport and we’ll take it from there.’

The following morning, a Saturday, I was down at the Post Office and picking up my application form 10 seconds after they opened. By the end of the day it was completed and posted recorded delivery! Impatient, I’d never been so impatient. It was a struggle to keep my mind on the mundane daily routine of pulling Northern Ireland Trailers. Then, six weeks later, on 12 December, there it was on the front doormat; 94 pages and a face like a convict!

“Listen, one thing at a time. Firstly, organise your passport and we’ll take it from there.”

For the next few months I pestered Billy relentlessly about whether it was still happening or not. To be honest, I think Jenny might have been quite happy if I had been off to the Middle East. She was more worried by the fact that I was doing the odd trip to Northern Ireland during the Troubles.

Time drifted on; it was now early in 1975 and I was seriously beginning to wonder whether it was ever going to happen? I’d even stopped chasing Billy about it, when, there it was!

‘You and Damien are off to Kuwait in a week or so. Edgar is finalising all the details as we speak.’

It was now that all the questions that had lain dormant for months came flooding back. How do we get there, what ferries, food, visas, inoculations, currency, how long, etc, etc, etc? Judging by the blank look on Billy’s face, he’d not the foggiest idea either, but it turned out he’d organised a meeting with a Jenkinson’s driver called Clyde, who was going to give us the benefit of his vast knowledge and a run down on all the nuts and bolts. That evening I told Jenny, who took it remarkably calmly and even offered to go into W.H. Smith and buy me some maps.

A week later we were sat in Edgar Jenkinson’s office nervously waiting for Clyde’s pearls of wisdom. Having just returned from Turkey he’d have the latest information. I’d got a pen and paper handy and after the introductions it was, ‘OK Clyde, it’s over to you.’

‘So you’re the drivers that are going to Kuwait?’ He said with a certain air of superiority.

We nodded in unison.

‘Which way are you going?’

I looked at Damien, he looked at me.

Edgar interjected, reading from a piece of paper.

‘The route is Belgium, Germany road/rail, Austria, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.’

There was a long drawn out silence as we paused for Clyde to impart some of his infinite knowledge and wisdom. We waited with bated breath until finally, as if someone had wound him up, it came out like a torrent.

“The Austrians are like the SS and the Yugo police stick out their lollipops to stop you and administer fines.”

‘I hope you’ve got tankschein.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

It lay unanswered as he continued unabated.

‘Watch your speed in Germany and don’t go over your hours, it’s a 1000DM fine. The Austrians are like the SS and the Yugo police stick out their lollipops to stop you and administer fines.’

It came thick and fast. Was this a wind up?

‘Make sure you get a Bulgarian visa as they don’t always issue them at the border.’

He was talking so rapidly, it was impossible to write anything down.

‘Make sure you don’t stop for Turkish police as they are all bandits. Don’t stop in lay-bys or you’ll get broken into and the Kurds all carry rifles.’

With that he got up, picked a cork-strewn hat off the peg and walked out. It was only then I spotted what I later came to realise was, for some, the Middle East drivers’ ‘uniform’: fake leopard skin clogs, large wallet hanging from a silver chain attached to his waist plus an ‘Ozzie’ hat!

‘Well I’m no wiser now than when we arrived,’ I said to Damien.

‘No worries lads,’ said Billy, more in hope than expectation. ‘You’ll be fine.’

We eventually got our booking through for a Felixstowe–Zeebrugge sailing on 16 April.

chapter five

TALK ABOUT A VERTICAL LEARNING CURVE!

This is it, one of the most exciting days in my short life. I’m off to Kuwait. My mind was in turmoil as I drove down to Jenkinson’s yard to collect my load and the associated documentation.

The trailer, a tilt, was already packed with 20 tons of ‘special’ cement for the oil industry. Over the past week me and Jenny had purchased over £30 of assorted provisions, including tinned food, dried milk and sugar, along with a new Calor Gas cooker and a large water container. The bedding was ‘pinched’ from home, and I’d packed enough clothes for at least a month away. As a special present to myself, I even spent £180 on an eight-track cassette player, not realising what crap they were! Finding sufficient room to stow it all away was the real tester.

Standing in Edgar’s office as he proceeded to hand over a pile of documents from a tick list, to say I was confused would be the ultimate understatement. The sheer volume was more than enough to distort the shape of my brand new imitation leather briefcase! There were transit permits for a variety of countries, a Euroshell card for fuel, a carnet for the load, a carnet for the unit and one for the trailer. There were completed CMRs (Convention Relative au Contract de Transport de Marchandises par la Route), a type of international transport delivery note, and blank CMRs, also a manifest and manifest translations. There were numerous ancillary documents that I hadn’t a clue what they were for and, of course, my pristine new passport with the newly franked Bulgarian visa.

‘Edgar?’ I asked, as he proceeded to hand me £755 in traveller’s cheques. ‘Just one question. What’s this about a train across Germany?’

I knew there was little point in browbeating him about the rest of the trip, as he appeared to know as little as me.

‘Ah, right,’ he said, digging in a drawer. ‘According to my information you make for Eifel Tor Goods Terminal. I understand it’s near Cologne. Tell them you are on account for Jenkinson’s, we have a block booking on that service. Then you drive on the train and it travels overnight to a place called Ludwigsburg in southern Germany. There you disembark, and Bob’s your uncle.’

Damien hadn’t turned up, which didn’t surprise me, so it was a shake of the hands and good luck wishes all round as I set off on my great adventure.

‘Tell Damien I’ll meet him at Felixstowe,’ I shouted out of the window as I drove past Billy standing on the office steps.

I had an uneventful trip down and, other than a feeling of apprehension, I also felt a frisson of excitement at the thought of facing the unknown. A coffee break in Corley Services didn’t do me any favours as a couple of ‘know it all’ likely lads spotted the TIR plates and decided to regale me with a particularly negative tale about a mate of theirs who had been involved in an accident in Turkey. ‘Not his fault mind you. Was imprisoned in an Istanbul jail for two months, didn’t get back for seventeen weeks and the final nail in the coffin, his wife had divorced him. Almost suicidal now, poor guy.’

Feeling the same and thanking them for their joyous tale, I made my excuses and a hasty exit.

“Within a few months I’d realised that it’s usually the guys who’ve not done the job that tell the most lurid tales.”

Within a few months I’d realised that it’s usually the guys who’ve not done the job that tell the most lurid tales. Arriving at Felixstowe Dock at eight thirty that evening, I followed the signs for Transport Ferry Services, the precursor to Townsend Thoresen, and parked up for the night. Sleep didn’t arrive easily, as my mind was awash with the ‘dangers’ of the unknown, circling, like Red Indians around a wagon train waiting to attack.

I must have drifted off eventually because, as I pulled my curtains in the morning, parked alongside was Damien. It was seven o’clock as I tapped on his door and waited, and waited. Finally, a pair of bleary bloodshot eyes peered out from behind the curtain.

‘C’mon, we’ve gotta book in,’ I said.

‘Be with you in a minute,’ he responded lethargically. ‘I didn’t get here till four.’

The curtains closed and he disappeared from view. After a quick swill down, and still no Damien, I fetched my briefcase and headed into the TFS office, explaining I was shipping on the account of J. Woods of Salford, while at the same time opening my briefcase and dumping the contents on the counter.

‘According to the ship’s manifest there are two of you,’ stated the clerk. ‘If I could deal with you both together it’ll be easier for us.’

A quick return and thump on Damien’s door elicited a load of verbal abuse from behind the curtains as he once again pulled them back and wound the window down. Before he could continue to vent his spleen I said, ‘Either you give me your paperwork so I can book you on, or I’ll leave you to it Damien.’

‘Sorry Ivor, you know how it is mate, spent an extra few hours with the missus,’ as he sheepishly handed over his sheaf of papers.

‘No briefcase then?’

But he’d already wound the window back up. I certainly did know how it was with the old so-and-so . . .

The booking clerk rifled through our paperwork, withdrawing the two load carnets, CMRs and passports.

‘This’ll do for now,’ he said. ‘If you could drive your vehicles into the shed round the back, Customs will want to check how many seals you’ll require.’

‘How many seals?’ I looked at him with a puzzled expression.

‘Customs will explain.’

Damien was nearly dressed, though I’d seen him look better.

‘Follow me,’ I said as I drove into the shed.

By half eight, no one had arrived.

‘What’s going on chief?’ I asked as we walked back into the office again.

‘Ah, I was just coming out to see you,’ he said. ‘Problems I’m afraid; your carnets have no CAN numbers.’

‘What! What does that mean?’ I asked him exasperatedly.

“Bloody hell! I haven’t left the country yet and there are problems I don’t understand.”

‘It’s a Customs Assigned Number that has to be on every carnet,’ he explained patiently.

Bloody hell! I haven’t left the country yet and there are problems I don’t understand.

The upshot after numerous phone calls to Brian, Billy and Edgar, which I imagine elicited much head shaking and ‘it’s never happened before’ comments from Edgar, was to finally hand the phone to the clerk so he could speak directly to the man. It transpired that J. Woods had assigned their CAN but no one had entered it! To top it off we’d missed our booking slot and had to rebook on the 1pm sailing. This was going like a dream . . . talk about a vertical learning curve! Finally, the papers were handed to Customs and it was just a case of awaiting their appearance with the relevant seals.

Maybe things were starting to look up as within 5 minutes they were at the front of the trailers, ‘pliers’ in one hand, along with numerous round grey bits of metal and six-inch lengths of fine wire in the other.

‘Right driver,’ he said. ‘It’s most probably best to not seal the unit TIR plate.’

Perplexed, I looked at him as if he was talking gibberish.

‘Should you get problems in some faraway place,’ he responded patiently. ‘Legally you’ll not be able to detach yourself from the trailer.’

‘Ah, that’s worth knowing.’

‘So, it’s one on the front of your tilt,’ and with that he slipped the wire through a hole in the thread holding the TIR plate on, then through two holes in the bit of grey metal, which I now realised was the seal, squeezed it with his special pliers and that was it done. As I looked at the now squashed piece of metal I saw what looked like an imprint in the metal, aaah . . . so that’s a seal!

Walking towards the back he was checking to see that the securing TIR cord was intact.

‘Excuse me driver,’ he called out. ‘You don’t appear to have a rear plate.’

I scampered to the back.

‘You what!’ I exclaimed.

Sure enough, there it wasn’t.

‘Oh no.’

Panic, that’s what I’ll do, panic. The bloody ferry goes in less than an hour. We can’t miss another one. I rushed back in to see our friendly clerk.

‘Where can I get a TIR plate?’ I panted.

‘Blimey, that’s a bit short notice mate.’

I was rapidly becoming a headless chicken.

‘There’s a trailer park round the corner,’ he winked.

Of course, of course, unaccompanied trailers, very naughty, but when your need is greater than a faceless trailer . . . Within 10 minutes, once again sweating like a pig, I was screwing a ‘borrowed’ plate onto the rear of my trailer. This is ridiculous, surely it must get easier, I certainly wasn’t expecting this level of amateurism. Scooting around to catch the Customs guy before he disappeared, I came across a very distraught Damien. Seems things were going swimmingly until our Customs friend spotted a hole in the roof of his tilt.

“Not having a great deal of luck with this continental lark, are you?”

‘You’re joking,’ I exclaimed.

‘No I’m bloody not and I can’t leave till it’s repaired.’

Once again we explained the situation to our very willing clerk . . .

‘Not having a great deal of luck with this continental lark, are you?’ he smiled. ‘Wait a sec while I phone the tilt repair bloke.’

Of course, he wasn’t answering his phone, well there’s a surprise. Meanwhile, totally frustrated, I’d been watching truck after truck passing unhindered through the shed making their way to the loading lanes.

‘Listen guys, what’re you going to do?’ he asked. ‘One of you can board and if you want I can rebook the other on tonight’s boat.’

Me and Damien looked at each other.

‘You go Ivor, I’ll catch you in Zeebrugge tomorrow,’ he said despondently.

With carnet, passport, tickets for cabin and food shut safely in my briefcase I headed across the dock to the Linkspan that accessed the ferry.

‘Back it on driver,’ said the loadmaster, collecting my boarding pass.

In 10 minutes we were inching away from the berth as I looked over the rail, took a deep breath, and collected my thoughts.

chapter six

WHY DIDN’T I LEARN GERMAN IN SCHOOL?

Filling my rucksack with the essentials for an 8-hour ferry crossing, plus a few maps to study, I climbed the six flights of stairs to the main deck and sought out the reception kiosk, exchanging my ticket for a cabin key. Best go and tidy up first as I wandered along the corridor looking for the number. Twin bunks and a shower cubicle. Blimey, don’t even have that at home. Twenty minutes later, feeling rejuvenated, I headed for the drivers’ restaurant and bar.

Looking round for somewhere to park my bum, there was a call from a guy at a window table.

‘Here you are mate, there’s a seat here.’

Turns out the guy’s name was Bill, around fifty, and obviously an old hand at this continental game.

‘First trip son?’

‘Aye, does it tell?’

‘Well, you looked a bit lost,’ he said, shaking my hand.

The conversation ebbed and flowed for the next hour or so as we ate our dinner, while Bill gave me the benefit of his extensive knowledge of European haulage. Now why couldn’t Clyde have been this helpful?

Disappearing back to my cabin for a few hours’ shut-eye, we arranged to meet for a cuppa an hour before docking in Zeebrugge.

Bang, bang, bang! Bloody hell, I thought, they don’t take any prisoners do they, as the call, ‘Wake up, wake up, docking in 45 minutes’ echoed down the corridor. Bill had said he’d show me the customs paperwork trail once we’d parked and, sure enough, following a tanker off the boat, there he was standing by his truck.

‘C’mon young’un,’ he laughed. ‘Let’s go and face the music.’

Showing me the formalities and putting me in the right queue for getting my TIR carnet stamped, he disappeared to organise his own clearance as he was tipping in Belgium.

‘Which border are you entering Germany?’ asked the customs officer in impeccable English. ‘Aachen or Heerlen?’

‘It’s my first trip, which would you advise please?’

‘I would say Heerlen, it’s normally much less busy,’ as he stamped the counterfoil and tore out the voucher.

I watched with studied concentration as I needed to learn these procedures rapidly if I was going to become a successful Middle East driver.

‘How many seals?’ he asked.

‘Three,’ I replied.

‘Yes, that is good,’ as he returned my carnet and a gate pass for exiting the dock.

I wandered off to find Bill, who had processed his paperwork and was sat in the port restaurant.

‘What now then Ivor?’

‘Well, I told Damien I’d wait for him till tomorrow morning, so I suppose I’ll have a bite to eat and a couple of beers, how about you?’

‘I’ll join you then, haven’t got to tip till tomorrow morning.’

He was an easy guy to socialise with and we eventually retired to our respective bunks about midnight.

“I was the solitary lorry in the whole parking area. Where the hell was he?”

Waking up to a chill damp morning, I pulled back the curtain expecting to see Damien’s DAF parked next to mine. No such luck, I was the solitary lorry in the whole parking area. Where the hell was he? A visit to the booking office and a check of the overnight ship’s manifest confirmed Damien hadn’t shipped over. Not only that but he wasn’t booked on the next ferry either! Now what to do?

A cup of coffee might help me to gather my thoughts.

I hadn’t got to be at Eifel Tor till half five this evening. Let’s see, it’s 8am here – I could hear my brain chuntering away making the calculation – so it’s seven o’clock in the UK. They won’t be in for a couple of hours yet so I might as well head off towards Heerlen (Little Aachen) and get this trip under way.

The journey across Belgium, through the Kennedy tunnel and around Antwerp into Holland, was pretty much featureless and interesting only because it was my first time. Any concern I’d had about driving on the right proved groundless as I’d taken to it like a duck to water. Around eleven I followed the large ‘Trucks in Transit’ sign into the customs parking area at Heerlen.

Picking up my briefcase, quite the professional continental trucker, I headed towards a large office block that appeared to be split into two sections, Dutch one side, German the other. Edging slowly to the front of the queue, I opened it up.

‘Carnet or T2,’ asked a pleasant voice from the other side of the screen.

‘Carnet,’ I responded, pushing it through the gap.

‘You will need to also complete a Laufzettel,’ he said, pointing to a tray across the aisle.

Of course, they were in Dutch or German and, only just having got a grasp of English, I wasn’t quite ready to tackle a foreign language yet . . . maybe I should.

Seeing I was in difficulty, the kindly Dutch customs officer called me back over, pointing out where to put the vehicle registration and that it had an anhanger (trailer). In a couple of minutes I was going to wish I’d picked up a second one and copied the information across. Stamping the counterfoil and Laufzettel, he tore out voucher number three, handed the carnet back and wished me a pleasant trip. Well that was easy enough, as I walked down the corridor to join a short German queue. Once again passing my carnet through the gap under the screen, it was immediately passed back.

“It didn’t sound too complimentary and I could feel my own embarrassment rising.”

‘Zahlkarte, Laufzettel, Genehmigung, unt carnet,’ he demanded.

‘I don’t understand,’ I replied.

Zahlkarte, Laufzettl, Genehmigung, unt carnet.’

‘Sorry, I can’t speak German, do you speak English?’

It probably wasn’t the most diplomatic thing to say, as I visibly watched his blood pressure rise to the few follicles of hair he still had left.

‘Englander, du bist ein s . . . h . . . !’ It didn’t sound too complimentary and I could feel my own embarrassment rising. ‘Varoom kanst du nix Deutch spracht?’

‘Can I help, Englishman?’ boomed a loud voice as I turned away from the counter, wondering what to do next.

Looking up, literally, I was introduced to Johann, a larger than life Dutchman, who must have been all of 6 ft 6 in tall.