American soldier Buford “Doc” Fry is stranded deep in Nazi Germany in early May of 1945. As the only remaining survivor of his platoon, he must sneak to safety from Hamburg to just beyond the border of Denmark where he can find the Danish Resistance, slightly over 101 miles away. During his escape, he happens upon a very unlikely ally, a young German, Rolf Shultz. As a team, they encounter many obstacles and dangers along their journey to Padborg…
Buford struggled to breathe, even more so to maintain some semblance of composure. Alone, covered in grime and dried blood, he could barely hold his arm steady to read the time on his dirt-encrusted, hazy-glass wristwatch. Everyone around him lay dead, with a few seemingly staring up at him, their lifeless eyes wide open.
His mission had failed. And now, it was 06:31 and the sun would be up in mere minutes. Any concealment given by the fading darkness would disappear, leaving him exposed and worse yet, almost totally out in the open.
Just a few moments earlier, Buford was among a six-troop squad, men who valiantly volunteered to break away from their 20-soldier platoon to cut off an approaching German advance team and set up a risky ambush. The game plan didn’t work and his compatriots paid the ultimate price. It was a chance they had to take — the Nazi regime and its military — were teetering on the cusp of total defeat. And, a desperate enemy is an unpredictable and cruel one.
Buford checked his gear under the waning moonlight and sought cover in a nearby forest. But, he couldn’t remain there long. A larger group of Germans would be moving through soon enough — surely finding him. It was the same enemy company he and his small platoon tried to elude before the enemy’s advance crew killed his break-away tactical squad. In no time at all, at least one-hundred-plus enemy troops would be marching right by to their next assignment, desperate to help turn the war back to their Fatherland’s favor.
An only child, Buford stood just under six feet tall, slightly over five foot ten. His blonde hair caked in mud and blood, his blue eyes still burning from the firefight only minutes ago. Trying to calm down, he took a big swig from his canteen, then poured a little water over his face, wiping it as clean as he could.
The dense underbrush would provide adequate cover, so long as it remained dark. But once the sun rose, he’d be detectable and that meant a cruel fate. Now, Buford had to decide. Should he make his way across the open terrain or hide deeper in the woods?
If he doubled back, there was a small chance of rejoining his platoon ahead of the approaching German company. But, that also meant potentially running directly into the enemy with no guarantee his unit would be there. Or, he could hide out in the forest and wait hopefully for his buddies to pass by. Neither was a good choice, yet the only two options he had. After all, Buford didn’t know who was where — whether his detachment was continuing along its route, staying safely ahead of the Germans, or if the enemy forces had already caught up and wiped out the remainder of his group.
Buford didn’t want to believe he was totally stranded on his own in enemy territory. But that was the stark, cruel reality he faced. The sunlight threatened to break any minute, forcing him to choose between hunkering down in the woods or taking off across the open field to who knows where.
He could faintly hear a tank approaching and voices chatter loudly in the distance behind the machine. It was too late. He had to camouflage quickly and pray none of the Germans would notice while passing by. The voices grew louder, but the rumble of the tank drowned them out almost entirely. If could only hear more clearly, perhaps he could make something out. Buford didn’t know much German, but enough to give him a clue.
The tank roar grew louder and as the cross-talk became progressively distinct, he became increasingly confused. He knew the sound of a Panzer when he heard it, but he still couldn’t make out a thing being said. So, he carefully parted the brush in front of him to gain an unobstructed view.
Suddenly, he could hear what sounded like another tank approaching from a perpendicular direction though even further away from his position. It was moving slowly, stealthily as it could, inching toward the oncoming Panzer.
In an instant, thunder cracked the sky, the Panzer shockingly destroyed, engulfed in flames. Buford slowly realized his good fortune — it was a Sherman that fired the shot — the red, white, and blue had come to the rescue!
Then, another volley, this time targeting the German troops scattering in retreat.
“Run, run you bunch of sorry Krauts!” He yelled exuberantly, waving his hands in the air, shouting, “Hey, over here; over here!”
The American tank turned toward him, but peculiarly, no one followed on foot or even in a general-purpose vehicle. This perplexed Buford, who began to approach the friendly machine, many yards away, confounded by the absence of accompanying personnel. It was an unusual sight, but definitely a welcome one.
The Sherman stopped in its tracks, shortly thereafter, a GI popped his head out of the hatch, greeting Buford, “Any more of yous guys around? We could use some extras!”
“Nah. I’m the only one left from my squad…maybe my platoon. Sure thought I wouldn’t make it out of here alive. Glad you came along when you did!” Buford replied, abruptly pausing in alarm, as the sound of approaching enemy aircraft rattled throughout the air.
Gunfire erupted from two low-flying Messerschmitts, the rounds penetrating the ground, sending huge chunks of earth into the air. Buford ran for cover back toward the forest as the planes maneuvered back around for another pass, their MG 17 machine guns firing relentlessly, nearly cutting the GI in the tank cupola in half.
Oil dripped from the big machine onto the ground and smoke rose out of practically every opening — the Sherman totally disabled, its crew surely dead. Buford couldn’t believe what he just experienced. Astonishingly, the rest of the crew emerged, one by one, jumping to safety off the turret, all injured, but alive.
Buford ran to render first aid as the Messerschmitts flew away, their pilots confident of destroying the Sherman and its crew. The men quickly ran into the woods to take cover, fearful of another air attack. Nothing but silence followed. So, they took the opportunity to attend to their wounds and inventory their gear and weapons.
It was a bleak scenario, just a couple of M1911 sidearms, Buford’s M1 Garand rifle, a small amount of ammunition, and a few Cattaraugus 225Q knives among the four survivors.
“Whatcha doin’ out here alone?” The tank commander asked Buford.
“Like I said before we nearly got blown up, my squad was wiped out this morning. I don’t even know if my platoon is alive or dead.”
“I’m Commander Berlusconi. This over here is my gunner Gentry, and that’s our driver, Killian.”
“I’m Fry, Buford Fry, but everyone calls me ‘Doc.’ So, what do we do now, Commander?”
“Well, we can’t just stay ‘round here, too risky. If we move together, we stand a better chance. But, we’ll have to be prepared to split up on the fly and rendezvous later on — you got a map there, Doc?”
“Sure do…haven’t had much of a chance to look at it, though. I think we’re in the beech rose forest, south of Hamburg in the Harburg Mountains,” pointing to Buchenwälder im Rosengarten.
“Well, if that’s accurate, we’ve got one hell of a hike ahead of us, about thirty kilometers. That makes it a good five hours away from Hamburg — unless we happen upon an operable jeep or some other reliable transportation, which would cut the journey down to about an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. Now, from what I know, no matter how we get there, Monty’s got his troops clearing out the Krauts, so we might find some friendlies there. It’s not exactly the best plan, but it’s the only shot we’ve got.”
The other three men agree, nodding their heads, accepting the risks, and readying the little gear they possess.
“Let’s get going, we’ve got a long way to go. I’ll take point, and we’ll rotate every hour on the hour,” Commander Berlusconi ordered, leading the men toward their destination, “Killian, you’re up next, Gentry goes after, and ‘Doc’ is it? You’ll take point last.”
“Yes Sir!” The men replied in unison, following Commander Berlusconi’s lead, their heads swiveling from one side to another, ensuring no enemy forces were present, while Doc turned around, scanning the landscape to their rear.
The terrain was rough but didn’t slow their pace too much. Dead cows occasionally appeared alongside the dirt roads and abandoned horse wagons appeared from time to time. Each of the men thinking if only they’d happen on a couple of good horses, those relics could be put to good use. About five kilometers into their journey, they spotted a deserted Volkswagen Kübelwagen.
The men immediately ran to it, each one inspecting the unoccupied vehicle from front to back. “Well, well gentlemen, looks like we may have ourselves some German-engineered transportation!” Commander Berlusconi proclaimed. “Killian, why don’t you hop inside and see if she’ll fire up.”
The engine slowly cranked up, sputtering while idle but purring when Killian pressed down on the accelerator.
“Okay, jump in!” Commander Berlusconi said jubilantly hopping into the passenger’s seat, thumping his hand on the outside of the door, prompting Killian to take off, the men cheering as the vehicle wound down the road at a fast clip. But their collective exuberance came to an abrupt end just outside Hamburg when they encountered a German checkpoint ahead.
“All right, Killian, pull off to the side. Anyone got any ideas?” Commander Berlusconi asked, seeking proposals. “My first inclination is to ditch the Volkswagen and sneak around their flank. Once we get past, inside we’ll find Monty’s men.”
The men discussed a few options but ultimately decided their best plan of action was Berlusconi’s. They pushed the Kübelwagen well off to the side of the road, still out of sight of the sentries stationed at the checkpoint. Stealthy, they carefully fell into line, following Berlusconi’s lead around the inspection post.
They managed to get past the border, finding temporary refuge in a heavily damaged, empty church. “This is as good a place as any for you guys to hold up for a little while. Stay here, I’ll go out and do some recon, so we have a better idea of where we stand,” Berlusconi said, disappearing into the small town. A short time later, he returned, explaining, “Okay, here’s the deal. I found some Tommies down the road and around the corner. They’re in a fortified position where we can hide out and help them fight. So, break’s over, let’s get going.”
The men shimmied along a narrow alley, then down an empty street, gunfire occasionally erupting, forcing them to crouch down before cautiously continuing on toward the Tommies’ safety spot. “No one fire, unless it’s directed straight at us, you’ll give away our position,” Berlusconi whispered. “Gentry, stay right behind me, Killian, fall back a little, and Doc, bring up the rear — and keep an eye out — don’t want anyone sneaking up behind us.”
A few harrowing moments later, ducking past a group of German soldiers, they arrived at their destination, Berlusconi lightly knocked, the door gently swinging open to an empty space, Doc lingering far behind the other three, around a corner, looking out for anyone suspicious who might creep up.
Doc poked his head around the corner, watching Berlusconi, Gentry, and Killian enter, disappearing off the street. He began to go around the corner when suddenly, he heard voices yelling, “Ami! Ami! Ami!” Followed by several rounds of gunfire. Soon after, a group of German SS enforcers walked out, congratulating one another on their successful ambush.
The next thing he knew, a stranger abruptly grabbed his uniform from the side, pulling him into a small shop, pushing him into a closet, cautioning “Shhh!” his forefinger pressed tightly against closed lips, while quickly closing the door.
Doc wrestled to stand on his feet, fumbling in the small space, with so little light, he could barely see a thing. Fortunately, he could hear the noises outside and snapped to attention when the store door opened, ringing a bell hung above it.
“Guten tag, Herr Schultz! Wie geht es dir heute?” (Good afternoon, Mr. Shult! How are you doing today?)
“Bußgeld. Was kann ich für dich tun?” (Fine. What can I do for you?)
“Wir suchen jemanden – einen Amerikaner.” (We are looking for someone — an American.)
“Ein Amerikaner?” (An American?)
“Ja, es ist möglich, dass in diesem kleinen Dorf ein Amerikaner auf freiem Fußist.” (Yes, it’s possible an American is on the loose in this little village.)
“Wirklich? Nun, wenn ich jemanden Verdächtiges sehe, lasse ich es dich wissen!” (Really? Well, if I see anyone suspicious, I’ll let you know!)
“Danke, Herr Schultz; wir suchen weiter.” (Thank you, Mr. Shultz; we’ll keep looking.)
The door slammed shut and Doc froze, standing completely still, not knowing what to expect next. The momentary silence that followed was interrupted by soft footsteps that drew closer and closer to the door.
Slowly, the door opened, and as the daylight crept in, a small silhouette stood in front of Doc.
“Don’t worry, you’re safe for now. But, there’s no way you can stay here,” a middle-aged German man said, his English proficiency surprising Doc.
“I suppose I owe you more than a mere ‘thank you,’ because you just saved my life!”
“I haven’t saved your life yet. They’ll be back, I assure you — they don’t trust me. Actually, they don’t trust anyone, not even their comrades. Sie sind alle Schweine!” (They’re all swine!)
“Well, thank you anyway!” Doc said with sincere gratitude, walking over to the nearest window to peek outside. “Say, why did you help me?”
Before the man could reply, the SS group started shouting, briskly walking back toward the store, following the pointing fingers of two women on the street, who clearly witnessed Doc being pulled into the shop.
“See! See! I told you! Quick, climb down here!” The man exclaimed, pulling up a rug, revealing a hidden trapdoor in the floor, leading to a secret hideout underneath. Doc didn’t have time to flee or argue, so he leaped inside, pulling the trap door closed over his head as the shop owner positioned the rug back in place.
This time, he could barely hear what was being said above. Unlike the closet, this wood was much thicker with a rubber lining acting as a seal and the rug further muting any sound.
“Wo ist der Amerikaner?” (Where is the American?)
“Welcher Amerikaner?” (What American?)
“Die Frauen haben ihn hier reingehen sehen! Wo ist er?” (The women saw him go in here! Where is he?) The SS leader exploded, throwing the closet door open, then looking behind the shop counter and into the storeroom in the rear.
“Hier ist niemand – die Frauen müssen sich irren.” (There’s no one here — the women must be mistaken.)
“Durchsuchen Sie die Rückseite gründlich und sehen Sie draußen nach!” (Search the back thoroughly and check outside!) The SS leader commanded.
The group obeyed, looking throughout the shop, around the outside, before relenting. The store owner stood still the entire time, right on the rug over the trapdoor.
“Ich hoffe für dich, du lügst uns nicht an. Lass uns gehen!” (I hope for your sake, you’re not lying to us. Let’s go!) The SS leader threatened, before he and the others left in disgust.
Silence filled the store, Doc anxiously watched the trapdoor open, emitting creaking sounds from the old wood floor. “You see! You see! I was right, they trust no one!”
The shop owner disappeared into the back of his store, Doc listening intently from near the entrance, looking out the front door window, hearing the proprietor rustling around. Moments later, the storekeeper appeared, holding men’s clothing, a couple of towels, a bar of soap, and a comb.
“This should fit. It’s the best disguise I’ve got. Now, go in the back — there’s a sink you can use to clean up and get out of that uniform. Quickly, quickly!”
Doc immediately complied. He even felt normal for a moment. Now, he had to formulate a plan and part of that meant relying on the shop owner. Though his actions certainly pointed to him being an ally, Buford still did not trust the older man entirely — the distinct possibility of ulterior motives couldn’t be ruled out totally.
Doc had to keep his wits about him and a healthy cynicism would serve him far better than blind faith. But, he’d also take what he could, when he could and this was the perfect attitude for the sticky situation at hand. “Thanks again. I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t go thanking me too soon. You’ve got to get out of town and right away,” the shop owner repeated, putting a map on the counter. “We’re here,” he said, pointing at the village. “But, as long as you’re anywhere in the country, you’re in mortal danger. Your best shot is to get to here, Padborg, across the border in Denmark.”
“Wait, wait a moment! Denmark? The Krauts…uh…I mean the Nazis, they control Denmark, right?”
“Actually, the Danes maintain control but yes, the Nazis are present. Now, what you need to do is get to the Danish resistance. And, Padborg is where you’ll find it.”
“But how do I get there? I don’t have any transportation and I don’t speak very much German, so taking a train…” Doc stopped suddenly, interrupted by an elderly woman walking into the store. He quickly ducked out of sight, hurriedly making his way to the back.
“Guten Tag! Was kann ich Ihnen heute bringen, Frau Claus? Das Übliche?” (Good afternoon! What can I get for you today, Mrs. Klaus? The usual?)
“Ja, ja, danke!” (Yes, yes, thank you!)
The shop owner retrieved her item, wrapped it up, and handed it to her, “Ich lege das einfach auf Ihr Konto und bis Ende des Monats.” (I’ll just put this on your account and see you at the end of the month.)
She took her item and walked out of the store and down the street.
“You’ve got to leave right now!” The shop owner exclaimed with worried alarm. “If she saw you, the SS will be back any moment!”
Buford immediately snuck out the back door, hearing the SS shouting as they returned to the shop, storming in through the front door, the distinct sound of the bell smacking the floor after being disjointed from above. Doc instantly ran into an adjacent alley, taking temporary refuge in a place where he could still see what was going on.
Suddenly, fire erupted from the shop, smoke pouring out of the windows and open doors as the SS walked outside, announcing through a bullhorn, “Lass dir das eine Lektion sein. Wenn du den Feind versteckst, verlierst du deinen Lebensunterhalt, dein Leben!” (Let this be a lesson. If you hide the enemy, you forfeit your living, your life!)
Buford realized the old woman had betrayed the store owner. He peered around the corner, hoping the proprietor would emerge at any moment. But, no such luck. Doc ran back, rushing inside, seeing the shopkeeper lying motionless on the floor, flames threatening to encircle him. The smoke thickened, causing Buford to cough enough to nearly choke, but he managed to pick the store owner up, throwing the proprietor over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry to the outside.
Doc gently laid the storekeeper on the ground, in the alley where he stood moments before. Buford grabbed the store owner’s wrist, “Okay, he’s got a pulse,” Doc thought to himself. “Can you hear me?” Buford asked, gingerly slapping the shopkeeper’s cheek.
The proprietor didn’t answer, lying limp on the ground. Buford asked again, repeatedly slapping the man’s cheek, trying desperately to wake him. The store owner twitched and took a shallow gasp of air, followed by a deep cough, then a weak whisper, “Now, it is you who I should thank.”
“Just returning the favor!”
The shop owner slowly sat up, coughing, trying to catch his breath and stay aware of the surroundings as best he could. “We’ve gotta get out of here,” he observed while standing up, “Follow me!”
Carefully, they snuck out of the alley onto a narrow street, then down another road. Soon, they came to a small house, near the northeast outskirt of the town. Inside, it had been ransacked, furniture thrown onto the floor, dishes lay broken in the kitchen, and all cabinet drawers open. Clearly, the SS had rifled through everything, leaving no space untouched. The man’s eyes welled with tears, picking up an old broken picture frame containing a photo torn in half. “My dear wife! They took her away many months ago…accused her of being a communist sympathizer…it was all lies — lies to strike fear into anyone who dared go against the regime. This humble house and my little shop were all I had left. Now, it’s all been destroyed.”
“I’m sorry…it’s a terrible tragedy…Mister…uh…Mister…”
“Shultz, Rolf Shultz. Yes, but it doesn’t have to be in vain. Let’s gather what we can of what we need — it’s a long way to Padborg there…uh”
“I’m Buford Fry, but people call me Doc. And, did you just say ‘we?’”
“Yes, yes. There’s nothing left for me here now. I can’t stay, even if I wanted to. We’ll go tonight, after dusk. That should give us plenty of time to get far enough away where no one knows my face.”
“Okay, but how far is it to Padborg and how do we get there?”
“By train, it’s under two hours to travel 163 kilometers. Unfortunately, that’s not an option — they’ll ask for papers. I don’t have an automobile so that only leaves us with one option.”
Doc’s heart sank into his stomach as he converted kilos into miles in his head, “163 times point six-two equals about one-hundred and one.” He knew walking was the only way — all one-hundred and one miles. But, Buford was confident he could walk 25 or more miles per day — putting them in Padborg in approximately four days total. Still, that left him wondering if the store owner could keep up or will they have to take it slower? “By my math, we’ve got at least four days ahead, maybe five.”
“Probably. To improve our chances of getting across the border, we’ll travel at night, when it’s dark, and limit our movement during the day.”
They followed their initial plan, waiting until dusk to leave the house. The darkness provided enough cover for them to get out of the town without detection, avoiding officials enforcing the curfew, stopping only once overnight to eat a small portion of their rations. But, it did make the walk all the more pleasant, the cool air of the evening was definitely preferable to risking sunburn.
They took shelter the next day in a bombed-out area, inside a small, abandoned residence to rest. After napping a few hours, the men decided to resume their journey to Padborg, confident they wouldn’t encounter anyone for the next several hours. If they could keep their pace, they’d be across the border in two more days.
As the two walked that afternoon, Doc, bored by the monotony, asked, “So, you never did tell me why you helped me in the first place, suppose now is as good as time as any to tell me, don’t you think?”
The man just shook his head and continued walking, only chuckling once, looking off into the distance, then sighing. “Well, I guess I should give you an explanation.” The man replied, taking a drink of water from his canteen. “You probably think I’m German, huh?”
“Yeah…uh…for sure.”
“I’m not. I’m a Luxembourger. The Germans invaded my home country in May, five years ago, in 1940. But, I’ve been in Hamburg for the last twelve years. The little shop was given to me by a relative in thirty-two and I arrived in thirty-three. My wife moved from Luxembourg shortly after, and we ran it by ourselves — just the two of us. When Hilter invaded Poland in thirty-nine, we knew Luxembourg wouldn’t be far behind. The lockdowns came swiftly. So, we thought we’d bide our time. But, the Nazis had different plans. They accused her of being a communist sympathizer and our only remaining family gypsies. All of it lies…lies…lies. The store was my lone saving grace. Keep the people fed and supplied with necessities, and they won’t dare revolt.”
Doc knew exactly what the man meant. “My dad used to say ‘war brings out the worst — and the best — in people.’ Guess I never got the true, deeper meaning until now.”
“Yes; such circumstances reveal a lot about human nature, mankind’s ability to turn on one another and still triumph over tragedy.”
Doc and Rolf continued to chat as they walked late into the evening, stopping briefly to eat along the way before encountering a small village, outside of the town of Rendsburg. As they approached the entrance of the community, Doc saw a poster, containing a sketch of a man’s face. He walked closer, curious to see what the bill contained, “Oh no!” He said in a loud whisper.
“What? What is it?”
“It’s…it’s you!”
“Verdammt!” (Damn it!) Rolf bellowed, staring at the wanted poster in disbelief. “Clearly, the Nazis know I’m alive!”
“Du da – halt!” (You there — stop!) A German soldier shouted, pointing directly at Rolf and Buford, his comrades running toward the men, with their rifles at the ready.
Doc and Rolf quickly ran into the village, trying to evade capture. Gunfire followed, shot after shot ringing out. They managed to elude their pursuers, running and weaving fast as they could through the narrow streets, eventually hiding in an empty stable.
“Rolf, you’ve been shot!”
The storekeeper pulled away his clothes, exposing the wound, “It’s alright, I just need to stop the bleeding,” he said, pushing a handkerchief against it.
“Let me take a look. Turn around. Okay. Luckily, the bullet went right through. So, we don’t have to dig anything out. But, we’ve got to close it up soon or you’ll bleed to death.” Doc hurried to work, retrieving their first aid kit and sewing the wound shut. “That should do it. We’ll have to hide out here for at least a day until you’re able to walk. I’ll go into town — get some more food and supplies in the meantime.”
Suddenly, the stable doors swung open, “Los, komm rein, großer Kerl. Ich hole dir frisches Wasser und fülle dann deinen Futtersack auf.” (Go ahead, get in there big fellow. I’ll fetch some fresh water for you, then fill up your feed sack.)
Doc and Rolf froze in place, waiting for the man to leave. “We need to find somewhere else to hide,” Rolf whispered, listening as the man pumped water into a bucket out of a well just outside.
“Yeah. As soon as he’s gone, I’ll help you sneak out of here.”
The man returned, watering and feeding the horse, “Jetzt genießt du das. Ich hole deine Bürste und säubere dich, während du isst!” (Now, you enjoy that. I’ll get your brush and clean you up while you eat!)
Rolf and Doc stayed as still as they could, waiting for the man to finish up caring for his horse and leave. But, the animal refused to eat or drink. “Was ist los Junge? Ich weiß, du musst hungrig sein!” (What’s the matter boy? I know you’ve got to be hungry!) “Trinken Sie wenigstens etwas Wasser, Sie brauchen es.” (At least, drink some water, you need it.) But the horse wouldn’t eat a bite or drink any water. The man shook the feed shack, hoping to entice the animal, to no avail. “Nun, vielleicht später, ich komme später wieder und sehe nach, ob Sie noch etwas brauchen.” (Well, perhaps later, I’ll come back later and see if you need anything else.)
As the man began to walk out of the stable, the horse neighed in fright, the uneasy sound caused Buford and Doc to panic, afraid they’d be discovered.
“Okay, was stört dich jetzt, Junge?” (Okay, what’s bothering you now, boy?) The man said, reentering the stable. “Was hat dich erschreckt?” (What’s got you spooked?)
The man pet the horse, gently stroking its neck, trying to comfort the equine. But, the stallion wouldn’t calm down. Surely, it sensed the intruders’ presence as it pushed against the gate, attempting to get out of the stall, causing its owner to examine the immediate area for an explanation.
“Was ist das? Blut?” (What’s this? Blood?) Concerned over the discovery, the man looked over his horse, trying to pinpoint the source but found nothing. Alarmed, he asked aloud, “Ist jemand hier?” (Is someone in here?) Then paused, waiting briefly for an answer. “Ich kann Ihnen helfen. Bitte lassen Sie mich Ihnen behilflich sein!” (I can help you. Please, let me be of assistance!)
“What did he say?” Doc whispered to Rolf.
“He’s offering his help.”
“Bitte haben Sie keine Angst. Ich kann dir helfen.” (Please, don’t be afraid. I can give you aid.) The man waited again for a response but when none came, he walked out of the barn, only to return moments later with bread, water, and bandages, placing them on a shelf near the entrance, inviting, “Sei mein Gast!” (Be my guest!) before leaving the barn and closing the door.
“Wait here — I’ll get it,” Buford said to Doc, quietly standing and gingerly tiptoeing over to retrieve the items. As they ate, they could hear someone approaching the barn. Doc quickly ran to the door, peeking through the gap, and saw a woman walking toward the stable. She stood outside the door, “Ich hoffe, es geht dir gut. Bitte machen Sie Schluss und kommen Sie ins Haus!” (I hope you’re alright. Please, finish up and come into the house!.)
“I say we take them up on their offer,” Doc suggested, “After all, you need a little more care and somewhere comfortable to rest for a little while.”
“Okay, okay. But, don’t give them any details — we don’t know who we can trust. You’ve already seen what can happen,” Rolf sternly warned.
They agreed and knocked on the door of the little farmhouse, “Danke für Brot, Wasser und Verbandsmaterial. Ihre Hilfe wird gerne in Anspruch genommen!” (Thank you for the bread, water, and bandages. Your help is greatly appreciated!) Rolf expressed his gratitude.
“Bitte, bitte, komm rein!” (Please, please, come inside!) The wife said, inviting the two into her home.
The wife immediately attended to Rolf’s wound and then set the table with bread and rolls, along with cheese, meats, and sausages. Doc and Rolf thanked the man and wife for their hospitality and ate heartedly, enjoying the food and sense of normalcy.
After the meal, the couple set them up in a room with two twin beds. “Bitte ruhen Sie sich etwas aus!” (Please, get some rest!) The wife said, closing the door behind her.
“So, tell me, how did you get the nickname, ‘Doc’?”
“Well, my friends started calling me that back in elementary school because I was so emphatic about growing up and becoming a doctor. I even dressed in a white lab coat with a stethoscope every Halloween. And, since my father is a physician and my mother is a nurse, it was the perfect fit, I guess. When I graduated, I trained as a paramedic and was trying to get into a college that would put me on track to go to medical school. But, the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor, and the next thing I know, here I am.”
“Well, this war won’t last forever and when you go home, you can always pick up where you started. But for now, let’s get some rest and we’ll continue on our way to Padborg in the morning.”
“Herr Schultz!?” (Mr. Shultz!?) A tall SS officer inquired, standing in the doorway, in front of three more men, all four dressed in black Waffen-SS uniforms, ready to enter when given the order. “Nehmen Sie sie in Gewahrsam!” (Take them into custody!)
The men rush into the room, dragging Doc and Rolf out of their beds, pointing Walther P38 pistols at their stunned captives.
“Nein! Nein! Nein! In diesem Haus wird kein Blut vergossen!” (No! No! No! No blood will be shed in this house!” The husband yelled out, bursting into the room with his wife, both of them stepping between the SS and their houseguests.
“Aus dem Weg, alter Mann! Sie und Ihre Frau täten gut daran, sich an Ihren Platz und Ihre Treue zum Vaterland, zum Führer zu erinnern!” (Out of our way, old man! You and your wife would do well to remember your place and your allegiance to the Fatherland, to the Fuhrer!) The lead officer barked, grabbing the wife by her arm and shoving her off to the side. “Nimm sie sofort weg!” (Take them away immediately!)
The men promptly obeyed, prodding and pushing Buford and Rolf out of the room and then out of the front door to a waiting car.
Suddenly, the husband charged out the front door, waving a rifle, yelling, “Ihr seid Barbaren!” (You are barbarians!) Then, opened fire, killing two of the four SS, while the remaining two pulled their guns, returning fire, striking the husband, and wounding the wife, who ran to her spouse’s aid.
Rolf and Doc took advantage of the chaos, fighting their way free from the SS officers, jumping into the parked car, and driving off hastily to narrowly escape capture yet again. As they drove down the road, Rolf grabbed his side in pain.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I think so…don’t worry about me. Just keep driving! Schleswig is only thirty-seven kilos away — we’ll find a place to hide there, outside of town.” Rolf reassured Doc, observing their next destination was only about a half-hour away, then settling into his seat, clenching his wound, only to slowly wake to an unfamiliar face a couple of hours later.
“Can you hear me Rolf?” The unknown man said, standing over him, checking the beleaguered man’s side. “Your friend here saved your life!”
“You saved my life again?” Rolf asked.
“Actually, the Doctor here saved your life,” Buford interrupted, pointing at the man standing over Rolf, patting the physician’s back in gratitude.
“He’s got a long way to go yet. We’ll know more in the coming days. I’ll be back to check on him in a little while, you should get some rest in the meantime, too.”
“Good thing he speaks English, because I wouldn’t know what’s going on!”
“Yes, that is fortunate. What happened?”<br /><br />“Around five minutes after we sped away, you started to blackout. So, I pulled over and got you patched up just enough until I could find a doctor. The fellows here say the Danish resistance is operating in Flensburg — 42 kilometers down the road — only a hop, skip, and jump from here! Now, you go ahead and rest up. You and I are headed out tomorrow to meet up with a guy named Bjarke — he’s supposed to be the fellow in charge. I set my watch alarm for 05:45m, if all goes to plan, we’ll be in Padborg in no time at all. I’ll be across the room, right over there if you need me.”
Hours later, Buford awakened to the sound of his alarm, fumbling to turn it off in the dark. He quietly walked across the room to a dresser with a lantern on top. Feeling around the surface, he picked up a matchbox, lit a match, and then the lantern, which emitted a dim light.
“Rolf,” He said softly, nudging at his friend. “Wake up, we need to get on the road as soon as possible.”
But there was no response. Doc nudged him again, with a little more force, and still, no response or movement. He realized Rolf didn’t make it through the night, “Sorry buddy. I wish I could have done more.” he mourned, tears streaming down his face, feeling deep grief over the tough loss of his friend.
“I’m sorry. No matter how many times I’ve seen people slip away under my care, it never gets any easier. But, you still have to get to safety. Without a native guide, you’ll have to make the rest of the journey by yourself, just not how you came in. Besides, it’s almost out of fuel and there’s none around here. Plus, an American driving alone would certainly attract attention. The good news is you won’t have to walk. The Doctor led Buford outside to a horse and buggy. “We’ll get you in some fresh attire so you’ll blend in.”
“Thank you, thank you so much for all you’ve done. But, there’s a little problem, I don’t know how to…”
“It’s simple. Flick the reins and say ‘giddy-up’ to go, pull back to stop, pull right to go right, and left to go left. And, don’t worry about your friend, we’ll give him a proper and respectful send-off. Here, this is our latest intelligence. Give this note to Bjarke immediately.”
Buford reluctantly hopped on the wagon, “Will do and thanks again. I appreciate the good night’s rest and the traveling provisions,” referring to the food and water in the back of the buggy. “Okay, here goes… ‘giddy-up!’ The horse promptly pulled the wagon on cue, causing Doc to snicker. But his amusement was short-lived, spotting a burned-out Sherman tank just off the road. If he could manage to get to Flensburg from Schleswig without stopping, it would be nearly a three-hour ride to cover the 37.5-kilometer distance, roughly 23.3 miles.
The first half of his journey was relatively uneventful. Buford even took to talking to the horse out of boredom about a half-hour in, sharing some anecdotes about his life back home, “Then, there was another time when I thought it’d be a good idea — for some reason — to load up the neighbor’s mailbox with a bunch of envelopes covered in honey. My parents didn’t think it was so funny, though. But, I did manage to get back at Old Man Hanson for throwin’ my baseballs that landed in his yard onto the road — the mean guff he was.”
But, that didn’t last. With almost forty-five minutes to go, he could clearly see an oncoming enemy platoon, easily consisting of thirty, maybe thirty-five men. Marching in a strict formation, following a Sonderkraftfahrzeug half-track, loaded with infantry, they were headed right for him on the opposite side of the road, no doubt they saw him.
“Okay boy, now’s the time to stay calm — don’t panic.” Buford knew at this point a desperate army on the brink of defeat was entirely capable of unbelievable cruelty. At the very least, they’d commandeer the horse and buggy, sending him on his way without any transportation and no food or water. He clenched his pocket containing the message to Bjarke, worried the Germans might stop him and discover it.
If he tried to elude them, he’d surely become a target, so it wasn’t worth the risk to trek off the road or to turn around. Doc had to merely pass by, hoping and praying the German troops wouldn’t interact in any meaningful way. All he had to do was keep a casual composure, not showing any apprehension. Instead, Buford should simply pass by nonchalantly, perhaps even give a friendly wave.
And that’s precisely what he did, as the German platoon drew closer, Doc took a long, calming breath, whispering, “We’ll just stroll on by. Okay, big guy?” The horse snorted, seemingly affirming the tactic. As the troops passed, Buford silently nodded and waved once, staying quiet all the time, even when some of the men returned the gesture, waving back, with smiling faces.
“We did it! We did it, boy!” He whispered to the horse in glee, gently slapping his knee as the enemy platoon continued along its way, not giving him a second look. “All right, next up Flensburg, let’s keep going!”
Arriving in Flensburg’s outskirts, Buford stopped the wagon to assess the situation as best he could. “So now, we’ve got to find this Bjarke fellow. The Doctor said the folks at the local pub would know where to find him. So, let’s find that bar and we’ll get you some food and water.”
Buford rode into town, looking for the local pub, being careful not to draw unnecessary attention to himself, despite the fact he occasionally saw German soldiers and SS men about. But, it gave him a surreal sense of confidence, his clever disguise allowing him to move freely.
Having located the bar, Buford dismounted, petted the horse while looping the reins around a post, and walked inside. He was immediately met with stares, the locals obviously knowing a stranger was in their midst. A few stared directly at Doc, causing him to pause in his place.
A young, stoic couple approached him, looking him up and down. “Willkommen – was können wir für Sie tun?” (Welcome — what can we do for you?)
“Hmmm?” Buford muttered, unsure how to answer.
The man repeated himself, this time in Danish, instead of German, asking “Velkommen – hvad kan vi gøre for dig?” (Welcome — what can we do for you?)
“I’m…I’m sorry, I don’t speak…” Buford stopped, realizing he had just given his identity away.
“It’s okay, I speak English,” the woman said, putting Doc at ease.
“I need to speak with Bjarke right away. I have something for him.”
“Hvad sagde han?” (What did he say?) The man asked the woman.
“Han vil gerne møde Bjarke.” (He wants to meet Bjarke.)
“Bed ham vente her.” (Tell him to wait here.)
“Wait here, we’ll get Bjarke.”
Buford tensed up, apprehensive of what might happen next. So he took a seat at a table, positioning himself close to the door where he could see everyone who came in or left and to give him a quick escape route, if necessary.
The woman took a seat next to him, “So, you’re an American? Where are you from? New York or Texas?”
“Well, neither, actually. I’m from a little town, one you’ve probably never heard of.”
“I see. How did you get all the way over here?”
“You mean across the Atlantic or into this village? Because both are really long stories.”
“You pick. I’d like to hear about the experience!”
“I don’t know where to begin. And, I’d like to tell you, but I’m here to speak with Bjarke.”
Just then, the man returned, a short, slim, blue-eyed, blonde-haired middle-aged gentleman standing behind. “Det er Bjarke. Fortæl ham, hvorfor du er her.” (This is Bjarke. Please, tell him why you’re here.)
“Nice to meet you. Name’s Buford, but people call me ‘Doc.’ I have something for you,” he said, presenting the note.
Bjarke politely accepted, unfolding the paper and reading the message, passing it back to the young man, “Godt. Giv det nu til Malthe, han tager sig af det.” (Good. Now, give this to Malthe, he’ll take care of it.)
“Thank you for carrying that. I know your travels have been treacherous. How is it that we can return the favor?”
“I’ve been told the Danish resistance has a substantial presence in Padborg. I’d like to get there, if possible.”
“I understand. It’s not wise for an American to hang out in German-occupied territory, such as ours. Padborg’s organization will help you get to safety — perhaps to France or England, where you can rejoin your American compatriots.”
Bjarke leads Buford out the back of the pub and into a quaint retail shop, where the proprietor greets them, “Hej med dig. Jeg har brug for en ‘billet’. (Hi there. I need a ‘ticket.’)
The store owner nods in agreement, she walks from behind the counter over to the storeroom and gently knocks in a distinct pattern. As the door opens, she whispers something to the people inside.
“Follow me,” Bjarke says, motioning to Buford to enter the storeroom. “Denne unge herre har brug for en ‘billet’. (This young gentleman needs a ‘ticket’ please.)
“Of course, we have just the thing. Where’s his destination?”
“Padborg. You want to go to Padborg, right?”
Doc nods his head, smiling at the men, who lead him and Bjarke outside, across an alley, and in between houses.
“Here’s the perfect form of transportation!” One man exclaims, pointing at a German Zündapp KS 750 motorcycle with a sidecar attached.
“Yes, it’s ideal,” Bjarke boasts. “But, you can’t travel dressed like that on a German bike. Fortunately, we have just the thing!” He continues, reaching into the sidecar and pulling out a German officer’s uniform. “This should fit fine. Oscar here will drive you to Padborg.”
“Thank you, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help!”
“Anything in the name of the cause. Besides, one more American means more trouble for Hilter and his demented, idiot, lemming followers!”
Buford wasted no time, suiting up and hopping into the sidecar. After a couple of misfires, a bit of rumbling and shaking, and the bike took off, the whipping wind caused him to put on goggles tucked under his seat to help shield his eyes from the dirt and dust flying through the air.
The motorcycle was so loud, Doc didn’t even attempt to make conversation. Besides, he didn’t know if the driver spoke English at all. But, he didn’t care much about that. In less than an hour, he’d be in Padborg, among friendly allies, with the real prospect of returning home not long after.
Buford thought about getting back home and how lucky he’d been. His platoon mates lay dead in a hostile environment, with no chance of them being returned to their families to be laid to rest. Daydreams of home filled his head and before he knew it, saw a sign with the word “Padborg” on it, an arrow pointing the way. It wasn’t far off now.
Out of nowhere, gunfire flew, machine gun rounds cutting through the air, rudely startling Buford and causing the driver to veer off the road, narrowly missing a ditch.
“Overgivelse! Overgivelse!” (Surrender! Surrender!) Voices demanded, coming from the ground, the shooters laying prone, camouflaged, and threatening to shoot again, “Overgiv os eller vi skyder!” (Surrender or we’ll shoot!)
The driver stood up, thrusting his hands in the air, shouting back, “Vi er danskere! Vi er danskere i tyske uniformer! Skyd ikke! Skyd ikke!” (We’re Danes! We’re Danes in German uniforms! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!)
Doc immediately followed the driver’s cue, putting his hands in the air, while yelling, “I’m an American! I’m American! Don’t shoot!”
The driver dismounted, jumping off the motorcycle, keeping his hands raised, repeating, “Jeg er dansker, han er amerikaner! Skyd venligst ikke, vi er kun iført tyske uniformer som en forklædning!” (I’m a Dane, he’s an American! Please don’t shoot, we’re only wearing German uniforms as a disguise!)
The shooters slowly rose to their feet, recognizing their ingenious charade. “Godt! Godt! Vi troede, du var fjenden!” (Good! Good! We thought you were the enemy!)
The fighters explained they had been situated in such a tactical position to intercept and ambush German reinforcements, who were arriving to suppress the Danish resistance. Buford couldn’t understand a word but he did know that he was among friends. Although, one of the insurgents did tell him in very broken English that he wasn’t out of danger yet. Judging by the rough distance and time they traveled on the bike, doc figured that they were still a good ten to fifteen minutes ride to town.
But Doc’s attention abruptly refocused when he noticed a German softskin troop transport truck approaching, way off in the distance, “Guys, guys, we’ve got trouble headed our way!”
The Danes didn’t completely understand what he was saying but definitely got the gist when Buford pointed to the vehicle headed toward them, speeding down the road, “Gør landminerne klar, og begrav dem så på vejen!” (Get the landmines ready, then bury them in the road!)
The Dane guerillas leaped into action, a couple putting together makeshift mines, while others dug holes in the dirt road to conceal the explosives. Doc helped, reloading rifles and readying natural camouflage, consisting of brush, fallen tree branches, and anything that could help them all blend in with the landscape.
Meanwhile, the truck grew nigh, the men scrambling to set their trap and disguise themselves to hide in the terrain. As the truck passed, the men put their heads down, covering them with their arms to avoid being hit in the face by the blast.
The truck roared by, but only triggered one of the makeshift landmines, enough to disable the vehicle and kill and injure most of the occupants, but not all. Those uninjured jumped out of the back of the truck, frantically pointing their weapons in all directions.
The resistance fighters followed their explosive ambush with a volley of rifle fire, which the German soldiers returned right back. When the smoke cleared, Doc carefully poked his head up, seeing the Danes all lying lifeless, and the remaining Germans down, he slowly got up, brushing off his camouflage.
One German soldier survivor reached up to him, “Bitte hilf mir! Helfen Sie mir, Kommandant!” (Please, help me! Help me, commander!)
Although Buford didn’t understand exactly what the wounded German said, he couldn’t suppress his humanitarian instinct. So, Doc ran over to the softskin transport and found a first aid kit, then began to help his mortally injured enemy, “Just take a deep breath and stay still.”
It was at that very moment the hurt soldier became aware the man in the German officer’s uniform was actually an American. As Buford kneeled to patch the fatal infliction, the German soldier pulled a knife, cutting his enemy’s forearm. Doc grasped the German’s hand and the two wrestled for control of the sharp-edged weapon. Buford finally took it, holding it in a stabbing position, the German yelling, “Nein! Nein! Bitte töte mich nicht! Bitte töte mich nicht!” (No! No! Please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!)
Doc stopped, responding, “Okay! Okay! I’m not going to kill you! But I don’t have to save you, either.” Then he threw the knife into the woods along the side of the dirt road, got up, and climbed onto the motorcycle he arrived on just a short time ago, kickstarting the engine, and riding away.
Though only a few days had passed, it felt like an eternity to Buford. As he drove down the rural road, he recounted many instances he’d experienced from the time he found himself alone, his squad slaughtered, to being shoved in Rolf’s storeroom and escaping the SS, to the death of his unlikely ally along the way.
Before riding into Padborg a little time later, he took off the German officer coat, tossing it to the side, exposing his dirty, soiled undershirt. But, he also wouldn’t be again mistaken as an enemy. When he coasted into the town, he quickly ditched the German bike, hiding it behind a building.
Buford made his way down a narrow street, hearing laughter and cheers erupting around the corner. Puzzled by the infectious excitement, he was compelled to locate the source, leading him around a couple of twists and turns, only to see a large group of people, waving Danish, British, Canadian, Australian, and American flags. As he approached the crowd, one man held a Danish newspaper high in the air, cheering loudly.
“Excuse me! Excuse me! Can anyone tell me what it says? What does it say?”
A young boy approached Doc, tugging at his shirt, “It says, ‘Allierede styrker vinder! Tyskland overgiver sig!’… ‘Allied Forces Win! Germany Surrenders!’”
Buford couldn’t believe what he heard. But when he looked around and saw the cheerful celebration continue wholeheartedly, he felt overwhelmed with joy, dropped to his knees, cradled his head in his hands, and wept uncontrollably.
