—HERRESBACH, BELGIUM—
DECEMBER 17, 1944
The eleven men from the 333rd rest a few minutes in the little village of Herresbach.
“Okay, we’ve rested long enough. It’s 1200 hours, and we’ve got to keep moving,” Stewart tells the men.
“Sergeant, my feet are froze,” Davis says. “Need to change my wet socks before my toes drop off.”
“Go ahead, Davis, just hurry,” Stewart says.
“Anybody have an extra dry sock or two?” Davis asks.
“I’ve got two pair,” Pritchett responds, pulling the socks from his blouse and tossing one pair to Davis.
“Anybody else got dry socks?” Stewart asks.
Leatherwood, Moss, and Bradley have extras. The men take off their boots and wet socks, rub their feet to get the blood flowing, and pull on dry ones. Wringing out the water, they place the wet socks inside their blouses against their chests, hoping their body heat will dry them.
“I’m starving,” Davis says. “Anybody have food?”
The men shake their heads. “Sorry, no food, not even a ration chocolate bar.”
“I’ve got some chewing gum,” Stewart says.
“No, thanks, Sergeant,” Davis says. “I need something more filling.”
Corporal Bradley slips the wedding ring off his frozen finger, stuffing it in his pocket. “Too cold to wear metal,” he says.
Above them a tree branch, laden with snow, breaks, falling to the ground with a loud thud and startling them.
“At ease, men,” Stewart says. “Just a branch. Not a German. Let’s get going.”
• • •
Frozen and hurting and far from Allied lines, the eleven continue their journey northwest, avoiding the roadways, clawing and climbing through trees and thick forests, stopping and dropping into the deep snow whenever they hear a suspicious noise. With each turn and around every hill, they expect to run into Germans.
After several hours of hiking in the battering sleet, they come to a small hamlet surrounded by woods and snow-covered fields. The small white sign posted at the entrance reads WERETH. Nine modest houses form a line. At the end of the street, they see a large cow pasture.
“Do we dare ask somebody for help?” Stewart asks.
“Can’t just go up and knock on the front door,” Forte says. “House might be filled with Kraut soldiers.”
They hide in the woods while they decide whether to take the risk.
“If we don’t get help,” Adams says, “we’re gonna freeze out here. All of us are soaking wet.”
“Adams is right,” Pritchett says. “It’ll be getting dark in a few hours, and the temps will drop even lower.”
Stewart looks through the trees. A stark white house stands on the corner of the narrow road, a small red-roofed shed behind it. He sees two small eyes peeking from a window in the house.
“Looks like a boy inside. Don’t want to frighten him or his family.”
Stewart pauses, rubbing his face and blowing on his hands. “Anybody have a white flag?”
Private Adams pulls a wound dressing from his web pouch. “Here,” he says, handing it to Stewart.
Raising the white bandage above his head, Stewart steps out of the trees. This could be a huge mistake.
The other men join him, moving forward slowly. Taking several steps toward the house, they stop often, scanning the neighborhood.
• • •
“Papa,” Hermann Langer calls to his father as he peers out the window of his family’s home. “There are some soldiers outside—Americans, I think—with black skin. One has a white flag. They look very cold. May I invite them inside?”
Mathias steps to the window and calls Maria. Her friend Maria Mertes and daughter Anna are visiting.
“Maria, take the children into the bedroom and wait there,” he tells her. “Hermann, you come with me.”
Mathias opens the door. “Come in quickly,” he tells the men, closing and locking the door behind them. They step inside. Water drips off their clothes and boots onto the wooden floor. A tall, thin man with a kind face speaks first.
“Sir, my name’s Sergeant Aubrey Stewart with the U.S. 333rd Field Artillery Battalion. We jus’ escaped from Germans who ambushed us. We’re on our way to American lines to meet our troops. We’re cold, hungry, and exhausted. Would you please help us? We won’t cause any trouble.”
Mathias and Hermann stare at the shivering men standing pitifully at their front door, dressed in wet, filthy uniforms, layers of mud and snow caking their boots.
“Yes, of course, we will help you!” Mathias says. “Hermann, call your mother and tell her to bring blankets.”