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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.

      ‘Ah, would you mind? That would be brilliant, thanks very much.’

      We shook hands and he took me over to an unoccupied section of counter and explained the process to me in words of single syllables, or so it seemed.

      ‘First you must fill in the Zahlkarte. It’s quite simple, but I suppose if you don’t speak German then it must seem like Double Dutch,’ he said, smiling at his little joke. ‘Look, here you write your vehicle registration, and here, where it says Anhanger, your trailer number. Then a tick here if you are transiting. Finally here you must declare how much diesel you are carrying.’

      ‘Thank you so much,’ I responded.

      ‘Do you have tankschein?’ he asked, and before I could respond, ‘Ha, I suppose not if it’s your first journey!’

      I was thinking, didn’t Clyde mention something about tankschein?

      ‘Well,’ continued Johann, ‘the first time you come into Germany you can have no more than 50 litres in your tank. Do you know how much diesel you have, Ivor?’

      ‘I’m not sure, maybe 150 litres.’

      ‘Well, don’t declare 150, maybe write 100 litres so you pay tax on only 50.’

      ‘Ok Johann,’ I said, filling in the form. ‘So how do I get tankschein?’

      ‘Right, the best way is to fill up before you leave Germany, so you can show a full tank on your exit form, the Zahlkarte. That way the next time you enter ‘The Fatherland’,’ raising his eyes to the heavens, ‘you can come in with a full tank and pay no tax. They will stamp your papers to confirm the amount.’

      ‘Thanks for that Johann.’

      ‘Ah, but don’t forget that if you are caught telling an untruth, you will be made to pay the duty and a large fine!

      Now all we need is your Genehmigung, your permit, I hope it’s not a ‘Mickey Mouse’ one?’

      ‘Eh? I don’t know, what’s that?’ showing him it.

      ‘Ah, Road/Rail, that’s perfect,’ he said, going on to explain how the British have a reputation for running on ‘false’ permits.

      This, I was to find out later, was because there were not enough genuine ones available to meet the requirements of our burgeoning haulage industry. Historically, permits were only issued on a reciprocal basis, one British trip to Germany for one German trip to the UK.

      ‘Well, I can’t thank you enough Johann,’ I said, shaking hands. ‘Hopefully we’ll meet up again sometime in the future.’

      It was to be sooner than we realised! Producing all my completed documentation at the counter, our ‘friendly’ customs official appeared to have calmed down, nodding his head and muttering ‘gut, gut,’ as he checked off each completed section. Changing a few traveller’s cheques into Deutsche Marks, I paid the excess duty charge and returned to collect my carnet and the ancillary documents from ‘Eva Braun’s husband.’ Somehow, in the last 20 minutes or so he appeared to have acquired a semblance of English!

      “Ah, but

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