What really happened to Belgium’s infamous car graveyard?

By Ronan Glon

A small Belgian town named Chatillon was once home to one of the largest car graveyards in the world. Global politics brought them there, a series of photos made them Internet-famous, and small-town politics got rid of them.

For the first time ever, here’s the true story.

There’s a good chance you’ve seen an article online over the past few years with pictures – usually heavily Photoshopped – that show hundreds of rusty, half-dismantled, classic American cars parked in a clearing. The shots are usually accompanied by a vague article explaining that they were parked in a Belgian forest by American soldiers who went home after World War II and couldn’t take them back for financial reasons. The story seems plausible at first, but it doesn’t add up once you look at the pictures: The vast majority of the cars were built after World War II, so they were evidently not left there by American soldiers in the middle of the 1940s.

The Chatillon graveyard has intrigued me for years. I’ve been photographing abandoned cars nearly my entire life, so I jumped at the opportunity to take a Tintin-like trip to Belgium and dig my way to the bottom of the graveyard.

This is the full story.

Walking through the clearing defines the term “sobering,” there are thousands of parts scattered all around, it looks like the site of a plane crash.

Rust, tires, and needles (pine, that is)

Chatillon is a small village in southern Belgium located a stone’s throw from the border with France and, in the other direction, Luxembourg. It’s your average quiet town in the Belgian countryside, and nothing struck me as unusual when I drove through it for the first time in mid-May. The remains of an abandoned hangar hunker down right in the middle of town, but run-down buildings aren’t exactly a rare sight in Europe.

The clearing the cars were in was easy to find because all of the cars are still there on Google Maps; nothing had changed the last time Aerodata International Surveys took the satellite images above the region. It’s on the outskirts of Chatillon, surrounded by fields, dirt roads, and a farm, but the forest is so thick that you can’t see what’s behind the trees unless you walk through them.

Walking through the area today defines the term “sobering”; with thousands of parts scattered absolutely everywhere, it looks like the site of a plane crash. Gone are the dozens of rusting air-cooled Volkswagens, the 1953 Pontiac Chieftain, the Renault Dauphine, the Studebaker Champion, the Ford Thunderbird (!). Gone are the Peugeot 202, the Buick Century, the Opel Olympia, and the Panhard PL 17.

Virton adapted to the Canadian way of life: An ice-skating rink was built, bars started serving Canadian beer and huge American cars became common.

Opel Kapitan 1953

What exists today are parts, most no more than a foot or two long -- you’re not going to find a hood or a full frame, and they’re so rusty that it’s almost impossible to tell what car they came from. Much to the delight of automotive archaeologists there are a few exceptions, including a brake drum from an early Beetle, a Fiat 850 valve cover, and the remains of a mid-1960s Citroën 2CV bench seat. Tires are a dime a dozen, and anyone looking to put their steel wheel IQ to the test would have a field day. The only car left is an early-1960s first-generation Ford Cortina whose front and rear fascias have been cut off.

The clearing was eerily quiet, the only noise came from the tall trees creaking in the wind and a couple of curious cows eyeballing me from a nearby field. However, a few minutes after I arrived I saw a man in a red shirt walking towards the forest – was he the owner? Could he even see me? I was technically trespassing, there are a few “private property” signs and the clearing is admittedly surrounded by barbed wire.

When the man carefully crawled under the barbed wire I noticed he was holding a sandwich and a camera so he was undoubtedly not the owner. He looked around with a stunned expression on his face, saw me and immediately yelled out in French “where are all the cars?!” They’ve been gone for years, but it seems people still haven’t gotten the memo.

Walking through the clearing was fascinating but it didn’t explain how the cars got there. Clearly, the World War II story wasn’t correct: The Cortina that’s left was built 20 years after the war. What happened?

Timeline

1948

Twelve countries including the United States and Canada founded the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO)

Let's talk over fries

There is quite literally only one place to eat in Chatillon, a food truck that makes delicious French fries -- a dish that Europeans more commonly associate with Belgium than with France. While the owner was energetically chopping up potatoes, he mentioned that I was the 11th person to ask him about the cars since he moved to Chatillon four months ago. We’re not talking locals, either, he’s seen people come in from Poland and Ireland, and he even served food to two intrepid adventurers who flew in from China.

As luck would have it, a local man I stumbled upon while eating my fries gave me a few basic but precious tidbits of information that pointed me in the right direction. The abandoned hangar in the middle of town that I initially wrote off as yet another countryside relic actually all but explained the cars’ provenance. The building was once a repair shop, and the owner of it used the clearing to store the cars that he kept for parts.

By talking to historians, government and city officials, other enthusiasts, and the shop owner’s son, I was able to trace the entire story from beginning to end.

1951

Canada builds 2 strategic air force bases in France one in Grostenquin and another on a former German airstrip located next to the Belgian border town of Marville. The two bases were less than 100 miles apart.

1955

Canadian soldiers arrive bringing with them ice skating, canadian beer, and a taste for big American cars. An auto shop in Chatillon is one of the only one’s around that specializes in cars.

The Marville army base has been abandoned on and off since France left NATO.

1966

In 1965 he publicly announced plans to pull out of NATO, and on March 11, 1966, he went to the American embassy in Paris to announce France’s resignation from the group, asking all NATO forces to leave the country as soon as possible.

1967 - 2008

By 1967 most soldiers had left Virton. Without a steady diet of American cars to fix, the owner shifted the focus of his shop to European cars. The owner began winding down his business as he got older but he never fully retired. The cars that were new in the 1950s were now classics so his collection began to attract enthusiasts from Belgium and from a handful of neighboring countries. The shop was still opened when he died approximately eight years ago.

Sponsored by Nato

On April 4, 1949, twelve countries including the United States and Canada founded the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO), an alliance whose ultimate goal was to avoid World War III at all costs. Lord Ismay, NATO’s first Secretary General, summed up the Organization’s raison d’être rather bluntly when he said it was created to “keep the Russians out, the Americans in, and the Germans down.”

At about the same time NATO was formed, Canada was making plans for the construction of several Air Force bases in Europe, a decision that marked a drastic change of foreign policy for a nation that had been relatively quiet during the first part of the 20th century. These bases had to be strategically located in order to quickly respond in the event of a German or Russian attack on France, the Benelux countries (Belgium, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg), or any of the NATO bases that dotted the Old Continent.

They settled on France in 1951, building one in Grostenquin and another on a former German airstrip located next to Marville, a small town in northeastern France that’s not very far from the border with Belgium. The two bases were less than 100 miles apart.

A thorough book about the history of the Marville base written by historians Philippe and Pierre Baar indicates that construction work lasted from 1952 to 1954, and that the first soldiers arrived in early 1955.

Soldiers who came over with their families were encouraged to live in the Permanent Married Quarters (PMQ) that were built specifically for the RCAF in nearby Longuyon. However, at the time the French countryside was still very rural and Canadians had difficult time adapting to the way of life. Belgium, on the other hand, was a lot more industrialized and the standards of living were closer to what Canadians were used to so families began to move across the border to a town named Virton. Housing was a little scarce, and often times local residents moved into their own basement and rented the ground floor of their house to Canadian families. The town quickly prospered, many local residents still call the Canadian period the golden era of Virton.

Located in the Province of Luxembourg, Chatillon is just south of the Ardennes, a region renowned for its rolling hills, its winding rivers and its dense forests.

The mechanic continued hanging on to cars, and at one point there were nearly 400 run-down cars scattered across Chatillon.

Virton residents quickly adapted to the Canadian way of life: an ice-skating rink was built, bars started serving American and Canadian beer and, of course, huge American cars with Canadian Air Force license plates became a common sight. Generally speaking soldiers didn’t ship the cars over from Canada, they purchased them directly from independent American car dealerships who went through the hassle of importing them from the other side of the Atlantic.

The shop in Chatillon was one of a handful of dealers that specialized in selling and fixing American cars. A neighbor who is well into his 80s today told me the garage opened up in the early 1950s and gradually began to sell and repair American cars when the Canadians arrived. It became particularly successful over the second half of the 1950s because it was relatively close to Virton, especially for Canadians who were used to driving long distances, because the owner had learned how to speak English in order to better communicate with his customers and because he knew American cars far better than anyone else in the region. Parts proved to be a little problematic to find so cars that were wrecked or deemed too old to repair by their owners were usually saved. A collection had begun.

French President Charles de Gaulle was worried that NATO would make France and the rest of Western Europe dependent on the United States and Canada for defense. In 1965 he publicly announced plans to pull out of NATO, and on March 11, 1966, he went to the American embassy in Paris to announce France’s resignation from the group, asking all NATO forces to leave the country as soon as possible.

Most Canadian soldiers stationed in Marville were transferred to an RCAF base in Lahr, Germany, and the Canadians had all but left Virton by the spring of 1967. Local army officials asked the owner of the shop to consider moving to Lahr with them because they didn’t think they could find a good mechanic on location. The owner considered the proposition, but his son was still in school so he decided to stay in Chatillon. Without a steady diet of American cars to fix, he shifted the focus of his shop to European cars.

It was easier to find parts for, say, a Fiat 600 than a Chevrolet Biscayne, but the mechanic continued hanging on to cars, and at one point there were nearly 400 run-down cars scattered across Chatillon. The clearing in the forest was full of them, the land around the repair shop was full, there was a small plot of land located next to a farm about 500 yards away from the forest that was chock-full, and the last batch was stored next to a garage on the opposite end of town. The owner began winding down his business as he got older but he never fully retired. The cars that were new in the 1950s were now classics so his collection began to attract enthusiasts from Belgium and from a handful of neighboring countries. The shop was still opened when he died approximately eight years ago.

Killing the graveyard

I briefly caught up with the owner’s son in a bid to get his side of the story. He wasn’t terribly interested in helping me piece together the story of the cars in the clearing but it’s hard to blame him, people have been bugging him about them on a regular basis for nearly a decade now. Although I wasn’t able to convince him I wasn’t yet another paparazzi hoping to score a free split-window Volkswagen Bus carcass, he agreed to provide some insight into what’s happened over the past few years.

After his father died the cars sat essentially un-touched, he wasn’t a mechanic and he had no interest in taking over the business. The world didn’t know about them yet, the clearing was little more than an overgrown regional junkyard, but everything changed when a Flemish TV station got word of the cars and went out to film a documentary about them in which the host disclosed their exact location. The owner’s son was quick to point out that the documentary wasn’t authorized, his family didn’t find out about it until it after it aired, and he never received a dime in compensation. Almost immediately after the documentary aired throngs of enthusiasts and photographers drove out from all over Belgium to see the cars in person. Pictures were posted on various sites and forums, and all of the sudden people from all over Europe were lining up in a tiny village that’s barely on the map to get a glimpse of the cars into the clearing. What was once essentially a private collection gradually snowballed into a world-famous tourist attraction.

The owner’s son initially tolerated car-savvy photographers treading lightly and taking a few pictures, but things quickly got out of hand and he frequently had to kick groups of over 15 individuals out of the woods. Collectors trekked out to Chatillon in the middle of the night to steal parts, and people went to the clearing to party, leaving litter on the ground and in neighboring fields. The small house next to the repair shop was broken into more than a few times, too. A city official who asked to remain anonymous told us there was another, perhaps more insurmountable issue to deal with: the owner’s son was the mayor's assistant on environmental matters and his opponents used the cars against him. How can you be credible as a environment-focused politician when you own an open-air junkyard with over 200 cars? The clearing that the cars were parked on was classified as farm land so the junkyard was illegal. The owner’s son’s political opponents took advantage of the zoning issue to take the matter to court and won. Faced with the prospect of getting fined by the region of Wallonia, he decided not to appeal the lawsuit and instead get rid of all of the cars and move on.

An old Mercedes-Benz Unimog fitted with a snow plow was used to push the cars out of the forest. They were all crushed, though the owner’s son first invited a few of his father’s good friends and long-time customers to pick out any parts they needed and buy anything that was salvageable, either for parts or for restoration. The whole process took about two weeks. The owner died about eight years ago, as mentioned above, and the cars have been gone for roughly five so the graveyard didn’t stay abandoned for very long.

The legacy of the Chatillon cars

A vast majority of the Chatillon residents I talked to said the cars didn’t bother them in the slightest, though a few said they weren’t too happy about the people that showed up to see them six or seven years ago. Residents of all ages unanimously said they’ve forgotten about the cars, except for the few that still have to tell strangers “nope, they’re gone, you came out here for nothing.” It’s life as usual in Chatillon.

There are still some signs of the Canadian presence in the area. Notably, there’s a huge totem in downtown Virton that the RCAF gave to city officials before they left in 1967 to thank them for their hospitality. A few of the cars driven by soldiers during the 1950s and the 1960s are still around today, it’s not uncommon to see classic Pontiacs and Lincolns in the area. The Marville army base has been abandoned on and off since France left NATO. Currently, many of the buildings are unoccupied, though a few businesses have set up shop there and – contrary to what city officials like to admit – a handful of families have transformed old army buildings into houses and actually live on the base. Overall it’s turned into a rather decrepit and depressing place, the French version of the Hills Have Eyes could be filmed there.

The owner of the shop wasn’t the only Chatillon resident who liked hanging on to old cars, and there’s an abandoned early-1990s Renault Super 5 in a field not too far from the forest. I consider it a consolation prize for those who take a trip out to Belgium to admire 200 classics and find nothing but tires, rims and pine needles.

Ronan Glon

Resources

Ran When Parked: a classic car-focused side project I started in 2008.

Eric Balloco: an extensive collection of pictures taken by a Marseilles native who travels across France in search of all things rusty, old and abandoned.

Ronan Glon is an American auto journalist and historian based in France. When not behind his computer or his camera, he can generally be found tinkering with one of his vintage European cars. He is currently working on a book that showcases pictures of abandoned cars.

@EuropeanCarNews