The second and third days found us moving to other areas, as Adrian warned us when the enemy retreated our way.

“This man really loves what he's doing,” I thought. I marveled at the Dutch. “Good men,” I yelled without speaking, “good men and brave!”

None of us could sleep at night. The terrible feeling of isolation would chill me as the cold night air settled over the forest. My thoughts wondered toward home. Those terrible words “Missing in Action” would crush my aging mother.

The fourth day, as if our difficulties were not great enough, the underground handed a German prisoner over to us. Now, in addition to our other problems, we had to watch him. We made him understand that he was to sit very still. We guarded him closely at all times. War on land, I decided was a damned sight more unpleasant than war in the sky.

On the fifth day, it happened! The constant gunfire began to get closer. Suddenly Adrian came running toward us. His face was ashen and he breathlessly cried: “The British are only a few miles away, but the Germans are retreating directly toward your hideout!”

My throat tightened. We all were gaping as Adrian sped away. Lieutenant Brassesco was the first to shake off the paralysis that ripped us. “Quick,” he said, “make a run for it and scatter. I'll only hinder you.”

“Fat chance of us doing that,” I retorted, “Quick, Harry, let's get busy and dig in.”

Harry and I quickly dug two foxholes. We carried Brassesco and helped Andrews (whose back was bothering him) into one of them. Grabbing branches and underbrush, we covered them completely. Then Harry, the prisoner, and I scampered into the other and camouflaged ourselves likewise. We weren't a minute too soon. About 30 Germans walked into the area, came within 20 feet of us, and built a machine gun nest! My heart felt as if an iron hand had clutched it.

Then, suddenly, I remembered. We had a German right there in the foxhole with us. One yelp from him and we were goners. With my knife at his throat, I made him understand that one sound from him would be his last.

My brain whirled frantically, seeking with no real hope, some Hollywood-style means of escape; but we were hopelessly trapped in our ready-made grave. I asked myself: “How do you explain to a mother that her son had died for his country?”

Breathlessly and in tense silence, we waited to die. Then I heard someone moving around near us, and I called upon God again.

Someone crouched right beside our foxhole. I sat motionless, hardly breathing, and I was trembling. Then I understood. A German soldier was concealing himself behind the pile of brush and branches that camouflaged our foxhole.

His rifle must have been only two feet from my head; and as he fired each explosive blast at the British my head seemed to explode and the vibrations shook my entire body. I braced myself to fight to the bitter end as I beckoned Harry to keep our prisoner at bay with his knife.

Suddenly a volley of British bullets was singing all around our foxhole. Then, either hit by the flurry or attempting to get to get better concealment under our brush, the crouching Kraut crashed right into our foxhole! Again and again I plunged the knife upward into his body, with frantic, superhuman strength. He lay quite dead, on top of us, half in our foxhold and half out. I replaced our shelter-giving, lifesaving branches; and, in a cold sweat , lay in wait for the onslaught of his buddies. But they were busy saving their own necks — and were soon retreating, routed by the British bedlam of fire.

We remained hidden as the firing continued. Then I heard someon shouting. I recognized Adrian's voice: “Come out. Come out. The British are here!”

We all leaped out and saw Adrian and a bunch of British soldiers. I was never so glad to see the British. We were saved! I wept with unabashed joy and hugged the first Tommy I saw.

I ran to Adrian and shook his hand, and there was something in that handshake that words could not describe.

I never forgot those people. After the war I sent them gifts, but somehow I couldn't do enough for them.

The years passed and in February 1953 Holland was struck with a disastrous flood. Many Dutch people lost their homes and were in dire need of food and clothing. The world turned sympathetically toward that tiny country. My concern for those people was deep. Here was my opoportunity to demonstrate my gratitude to those wonderful Dutch people who had befriended me.

I posted a large sign on our shoe-repair shop window, which read: “We will collect any old clothing, blankets, or shoes for Dutch flood relief. We boys will never forget the Dutch underground. It is our turn now.”

The response was tremendous. Sympathetic and kind people rushed to help me in my drive. With the help of my friends, customers, and just kind people, I collected two truckloads of clothing, blankets, and shoes. Through the Dutch consulate, I saw that my Dutch underground friends and those in need were aided.

The wonderful display of sympathy, kindness, and understanding renewed my faith in mankind. This was the good in people; this is what I fought for. I felt good — real good. I felt that I had done something good and concrete for the people to whom I'll always owe my sincerest gratitude.