—WERETH, BELGIUM—
DECEMBER 17, 1944
Private Davis takes his granddaddy’s old watch from his pocket, checking the time. “We’ve been sitting here half an hour,” he says. “We’re gonna freeze before they come get us.”
“They’ll be coming soon,” Stewart says. “We can’t do nothing but wait.”
“We can make a run for it,” Forte says.
“Do you see that guard in the Schwimmwagen pointing his rifle at us, Sergeant?” Stewart says. “He’ll shoot us the minute we stand up. And if some of us did escape, he might get mad enough to shoot the Langer family. Can’t take that chance.”
Georgie Davis holds his granddaddy’s watch, sitting quietly in deep reflection. He is no longer the immature kid he was back in Bessemer, Alabama. He closes his eyes, recalling the previous summer and fall—the months of war that grew him up, made him a man. He wonders if he’ll ever forget the images and smells of combat in France and Belgium—bloated, rotting bodies covered with flies and rats. He puts his hand to his nose as if to block out the mental stench of dead men and animals lying on battlefields and roads. Never before has he been so cold, so hungry, and so tired. War has tested the limits of his human endurance, and somehow he has served his country well and survived.
He opens his eyes and stares at the pocket watch in his hand, thinking about his parents. He can hardly wait to go home. Smiling, he remembers sitting with his parents in the warm, cozy front room, his belly filled with his mama’s home cooking, familiar family photographs watching him from the wall. He returns the watch to his pocket.
Daylight begins to fade in the tiny village of Wereth as the eleven men sit helpless and freezing in the snow.
“Your bandage’s coming off,” Adams tells Forte. He reaches over to the sergeant, takes his hand, and rewraps the gauze. Forte slides his injured hand inside his jacket.
“My feet’s frozen,” Pritchett says. “My toes ain’t never gonna thaw out.”
“Don’t wanna get frostbite,” Adams says. “Take off your shoes and socks. Let’s get the blood flowing to your toes.”
Adams cups Pritchett’s feet between his cold hands, massaging them forcefully.
“Won’t be long till the Krauts come back and take us to a POW camp,” Stewart says. “We can tend to our feet there.”
“We’ll be war heroes when we get home,” Davis says. “My parents’ll be so proud of me.”
“They sure will be, Private First Class George Davis,” Stewart says. “They sure will be, son.”
“Bet we get some medals for this,” Davis says. “Maybe even a promotion. Can you hardly believe we got written up in Yank?”
“Don’t care much about medals or promotions or magazines,” Adams says. “More concerned about staying alive, getting back to my family.” He pulls from his pocket the photograph made at Camp Gruber and for a long time stares at the smiling faces of Jesse and Catherine.
“We’re all gonna make it,” Stewart tells Adams. “Me and Jesse gonna play baseball one day. Want to teach that boy how to pitch for the major league.”
Sergeant Forte frowns at Stewart, who is opening his mouth to speak.
“No, Sergeant Forte,” Stewart interrupts, his voice raised. “Don’t you say that coloreds won’t ever be major leaguers. You jus’ keep quiet. I’ve got a feeling our children and grandchildren’ll be pitching with the whites before long. Jus’ be a crying shame if they don’t.”
“I wasn’t gonna say that, Sergeant,” Forte says, his face sullen. “I’m just hopin’ the Langers don’t get hurt for takin’ us in. They’re the nicest white folks I ever met.”
“There’s lots of good whites like the Langers,” Stewart says. “Captain McLeod’s another one who’s been real kind and encouraging to us. People are people, Sergeant. There are good ones, and there are bad ones. Don’t much matter what color skin’s on the outside. More important what kinda heart’s on the inside.”
“I’m beginnin’ to see that,” Forte whispers. “I’m really beginnin’ to see that.”
“Captain McLeod’s a straight-up guy,” Green says. “Hope he and the other boys are safe.”
“Probably eating hot kraut and sausage in a warm German POW camp,” Stewart says.
The men huddle closer together, their bodies shivering uncontrollably.
Adams changes the subject. “You ever find Angelina that diamond wedding ring in Paris, Forte?” he asks.
“Sure did.” He takes a thin gold ring from his pocket. “Real diamond, too.” The men strain their eyes, trying to find the chip of diamond in the center of the ring.
“Real nice, Forte,” Adams says.
“Wish we were still sitting inside by that warm stove with the antelopes on it,” Forte says. “Never saw one like that before.”
Long minutes tick away in silence. Davis closes his eyes, and with a soft voice and a steady rhythm, he begins to sing the old spiritual he had heard all the mothers before him sing. “Roll, Jordan, roll. Roll, Jordan, roll. . . . I wanter go to heav’n when I die, to hear ol’ Jordan roll. . . .” Some of the other men join in. After the first verse ends, they again sit quietly.
“Remember when George taught us that song at Camp Gruber?” Stewart says, breaking the silence.
Some of the men smile, remembering the days when they struggled to learn how to operate the 155.
Forte gazes deep into Stewart’s eyes, tightly wrinkling his brow. “They’re gonna kill us, aren’t they, Sergeant?” Forte asks. “Why would they keep us alive? We’d just be extra mouths for ’em to feed.”
Stewart takes a deep breath, looking into the face of each frightened man. “Whatever happens, men, we did our jobs the best we could. We served our country. That’s what’s most important right now.”
Adams reaches into his pocket, wrapping his hand around Catherine’s childhood Bible. He begins to say softly from memory, “The Lord’s my shepherd; I’ll not want. He lays me down in green grassy pastures, and leads me to still waters—”
Davis joins him, whispering the words of the psalm he learned as a child: “He restores my soul. Leads me along paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”
The other men, searching old memories, blend in with low voices: “Yes, even when I walk through the valleys, and the death shadows hang long and heavy over me, I won’t fear no evil and no Krauts; for God is right here with me. . . .” Their voices fade with each word, finally growing quiet, the shadows of death too real, and hanging too heavy over them.
Private Adams continues. “God sets a table before me with my enemies all around. . . .”
He pauses for several seconds. “We certainly got enemies all around us now,” he says, and continues. “Surely goodness and mercy’ll follow me—and follow all of us—all the days of—” His voice choking, Adams stops.
“All the days of our lives,” Stewart says. “And we will go home and live in the house with our dear loving Lord—where’s it’s warm and we’re at peace—forever and ever and ever.”1
Tears fall from the men’s eyes, freezing to ice on their cheeks as they wait, as each deeply contemplates the psalm’s timeless message.