War And Love The Foresters Lodge

War and Love - The Ardennes' Forester's Lodge

© JoeMo1619 - May 2025 ff.

Prologue:

The Wehrmacht's offensive in the Ardennes, in English named 'The Battle of the Bulge', was the last (part-)successful German attack of WW2 and surprised the US-American troops entirely. Starting on December 16

th

, 1944, massive German attacks through the thick forests of the Ardennes in Southern Belgium cut off many US units from their supply lines. In principle the German attacks - repeating the successful strategy of 1940 - could be stopped at December 27

th

, but it took another month fighting under strongest winter conditions with heavy snowfall and ice-cold temperatures to finish the German attack off.

The Battle of the Bulge was by far the largest battle of the US Army during WW2 and resulted in the largest numbers of US-American POWs captured by the Germans. Many US soldiers had to suffer in German POW camps until the final end of the war.

"Only seven days until Christmas," I said to my passenger, Corporal Charles Winters, as I carefully steered our Army truck down the partially snow-covered country road east of Bastogne in the Belgian Ardennes.

"That's right," grumbled the usually very quiet Corporal. We both belonged to a unit made up exclusively of soldiers who were Black or of other dark-skinned backgrounds. U.S. Army units were still largely segregated by race, but the rumor that Black units were more often assigned to especially dangerous missions was not something I could confirm from my own experience. "And I have to admit, I'm not feeling the Christmas spirit at all." Then the Corporal fell silent again, and I turned my thoughts inward as I gripped the steering wheel, which demanded a lot of strength.

I, Private First Class Omar Bendley from Parkersburg, West Virginia, was about to experience my first wartime Christmas far from home. Our unit had been moved from Britain to France two weeks after the Normandy landings. Since then, I had driven my truck as part of a supply battalion all across northern France and Belgium. I had even driven right through Paris, which had left a lasting impression on me. Unlike many of the large and small cities in France that our Army and its Allies had fought to liberate from German troops, Paris had remained completely unscathed. Even in the English towns where we had prepared for the liberation of Europe for months, I had seen far more war damage. Now, after nearly six months of continuous combat duty, our unit -- part of the 1

st

U.S. Army -- had been moved to quieter positions to recover, resupply with weapons, ammunition, equipment, and fresh personnel, and prepare for the continued advance across the German border. When we left the main depot in Bastogne, we had heard that there were heavy battles going on further east along the American-German front, but aside from a "drive carefully and stay alert," we weren't given any detailed information on our way back to base.

We were just driving through a rather remote forest area, typical of the snow-covered Ardennes landscape, when a pressing need from an overfilled bladder forced me to stop. "I'm pulling over at the next forest path to take a leak," I informed my Corporal, who grunted his agreement. Parking partially on the road, I jumped out of the cab and walked a few meters toward the edge of the woods to relieve myself. I had just finished and was buttoning up my pants when I heard a whistling sound behind me, followed by a powerful explosion whose shockwave threw me into the snow between the trees. When I lifted my head and looked toward my truck, I saw it destroyed and engulfed in bright flames. Just seconds later, from my hiding spot in the woods, I saw two German tanks coming up the road. They maneuvered past my burning truck and continued at high speed toward Bastogne.

"German tanks," I murmured in utter shock. "What's going on here?"

Seeing no further enemy movement, I tried to get back to my burning truck to check what had happened to Corporal Winters. But I could only get within ten meters of the vehicle--it was too hot, and the fire had now spread to the entire load.

It was late afternoon; we had maybe two hours of daylight left. Aside from my winter uniform and pistol, I had nothing with me. My rifle and small backpack were in the cab--and burning. I pulled back to the forest's edge for safety and watched the truck burn for several minutes. "Now what?" I asked myself, until I heard the sound of more tanks coming from the east and retreated deeper into the forest path. Then I saw four more German armored vehicles stop just short of my truck. Two German soldiers jumped down, circled the truck with their weapons at the ready, determined no American soldiers were alive, and climbed back aboard. Then one of the tanks pushed the now less-intensely burning truck into a roadside ditch, and the group continued westward.

I shook my head. "No one said anything about a counterattack," I said aloud in disbelief. "What the hell is going on here?"

It was immediately clear that I couldn't return to the road and march alone back to our position. "I don't want to end up as a prisoner of war," I kept telling myself as I began walking deeper into the forest along the path. There were no more than ten centimeters of snow under the trees, so I was able to move fairly easily. But I had no idea where this path might lead -- my road and terrain map had burned with my truck.

At a fork in the path, I flipped a mental coin and ultimately took the right-hand trail, which, based on visible tracks beneath the snow, looked like it was used more often. My decision paid off. As I reached the edge of the forest, I saw a relatively large, two-story house with several outbuildings about three hundred meters away. The distant sounds of battle -- clearly machine-gun fire and the blasts of tank shells or artillery -- made me approach the house carefully under the cover of the trees. Maybe I had a chance to hide there and find shelter to avoid freezing to death in the oncoming night. As a Mountaineer boy from West Virginia, I knew all too well that survival in open terrain in winter conditions wasn't guaranteed, even with a warm uniform.

I had just reached the yard, which I easily recognized as a forester's lodge thanks to the deer trophies mounted on the gable, when I heard the unmistakable sound of tracked vehicles approaching from the access road. Looking around hastily for a suitable hiding place, I spotted a partially open shed--apparently the lodge's firewood storage. With a few quick moves, I created a niche behind the front wall of firewood and squeezed into it. "If someone wants to find me, they'll have to stand right in front of me," I whispered to give myself courage. Through a small hole in the woodpile, I could even see into the yard.

Then I heard a German troop transporter, one of those special vehicles with front wheels and rear tracks, drive into the yard and stop. Through my peephole, I saw a young officer exit and ring the doorbell with a strong pull.

It took quite some time, and the officer was already loudly calling for the occupants, before the door opened. In the dim twilight, I saw a figure backlit by the hallway light--an elderly man leaning on a cane.

"What do you want, Lieutenant?" the old man growled.

"We are liberating Belgium for the second time. This time we're driving the Americans into the English Channel," the officer replied sharply. "We are systematically searching the region for American soldiers to kill or capture. Have you seen any soldiers around here today?"

The old forester shook his head. "As you can see, Lieutenant, I'm not very mobile anymore. With this weather, I don't leave the house. Too slippery."

"And you're not hiding any Americans in your lodge?"

The old man chuckled. "I know you can search my lodge anytime. Happened in the summer of 1940, too. No, only my family lives here. And I'm the only man, and truly no longer fit for duty."

Surprisingly, the lieutenant accepted the answer. After a pause of several seconds, he asked a question that caught me off guard: "Can your wife prepare a hot dinner for four hungry soldiers?" He laughed briefly. "We'll behave."

The forester called something toward the back of the hall, and shortly thereafter, a tall, wiry woman appeared beside him. "You want dinner?" she asked in the matter-of-fact tone of a seasoned innkeeper. Apparently, the forester's family had plenty of experience with German soldiers since the 1940 occupation of Belgium.

"Yes," the young lieutenant replied, surprisingly well-mannered. "We're really hungry. And it might be noon tomorrow before we reach our next supply station. Our advance is moving very fast."

"Then come in. We've got enough potatoes and venison for four hungry men."

The lieutenant whistled for the other three soldiers to join him from the vehicle, which they left unattended in the yard. They felt very safe.

The idea of the forester's wife preparing dinner for the German soldiers made my stomach churn. I hadn't eaten in hours and had no food on me. All I could do was go hungry.

An hour later, the four German soldiers left again. It was now dark--and more importantly, it was getting colder. Thankfully, there was still a thick cloud cover with occasional light snowfall, so extreme cold wasn't likely. But the thought of spending the night unprotected in this woodpile was frightening.

Still, I began to doze off, drifting into a short, vivid dream of a Christmas turkey in my parents' home in Parkersburg. Suddenly, the squeak of the front door startled me awake. Through my peephole, I saw a tall figure approaching the woodshed, holding a kerosene lamp in one hand and a large wicker basket in the other -- apparently bringing in firewood for the lodge's stoves. The figure, lit from below by the lamp -- probably a woman -- stopped about a meter from the woodpile, set down the basket, hold up the lamp and searched for any clues where I was hiding.

Hello? Stranger soldier? Are you still there?" the woman asked into the night with a bright voice and broken English, shining her light toward the stack of wood where I had wedged myself into my hiding place. "Come out! You're safe with us!"

I didn't think another second -- I knew I wouldn't survive a night in the winter cold under these conditions. "Yes. I'm here," I answered quietly, but loud enough to be heard.

"Come inside. We have a much better hiding place."

I immediately decided to accept the woman's invitation. Whether she was telling the truth or luring me into a trap didn't matter to me at that moment. I was already frozen stiff and had no feeling in my legs, which made my emergence from the hiding place a bit clumsy. Then I stood before a young woman who had raised the lamp high enough to illuminate both of our faces.

"Oh," she said briefly, probably because she had noticed my dark skin. Then she reached for the basket. "Please fill the basket with firewood. It's very heavy to carry when it's full."

I just nodded and carried out her request immediately.

"Come into the house," she urged me once the basket was filled. "I watched you when you came onto the yard and then hid from the Germans. Thank God they left again after filling their bellies and didn't stay overnight. Otherwise, you would've had serious trouble tonight."

"Thank you for saving me," I confessed, grabbed the basket of firewood, and followed the woman to the entrance. "I'm used to harsh winters back home. But that also means I know the dangers of the cold."

She closed the front door behind me, turned a large key in the lock, which clicked audibly, and pushed another bolt across. "There. Now only artillery fire could get in here." Then she looked at me, pulled off her wool gloves, and extended her right hand. "Juliette. Juliette Colaine."

"Very nice to meet you, Juliette. I'm Omar Bendley. From Parkersburg, West Virginia."

"Take the basket and come into the parlor. I spoke to my parents earlier, and they agreed that I could bring you in from your hiding place."

"Thank you." I followed Juliette and found the old forester I had seen at the front door earlier, and his wife, sitting in tall armchairs in front of an old fireplace stove radiating wonderful warmth. Juliette's parents looked at me with critical eyes.

"Then welcome," the old forester finally said, extending his hand to me from his seat. "It's a shame that the Germans are attacking us for the second time in five years. I had hoped this nightmare would end with you Americans arriving. Just like in the first war, when you helped us win." The old forester actually spoke reasonably decent English, even with a bit of an American accent.

"We were caught off guard," I admitted sheepishly. "My truck was hit by a tank shell on the road from Bastogne and burned out. I marched through the forest to get here."

"Then you were lucky not to walk straight into the Germans' arms. They take anyone they can get."

"If they don't shoot them on the spot," the forester's wife interjected for the first time. "Like Juliette's husband." Her tone was noticeably bitter. She got up from her chair, walked over to me, and extended her hand in greeting. "We're Isabelle and Gerard Vetrone. And we've spent all these years waiting to be liberated from these Nazi occupiers." She shrugged. "And now they're pushing through the Ardennes again, trying to drive out or capture you and your comrades, just like our troops and the French and British." She sighed deeply. "I fear it will never end."

"I don't believe that," I countered optimistically and resolutely. "The counterattack may be a surprise -- it certainly was to me. But we're strong enough to stop and destroy the Germans."

"God willing," the old forester replied. "That's what we thought four and a half years ago. Then we had a German army staff quartered in this forest house for weeks and were lucky they only used us as servants and didn't drive us out of our home." He sounded both grim and resigned.

Isabelle clapped her hands. "I suppose you're just as hungry as the four Germans who stormed into my kitchen earlier?" She looked at me challengingly.

"Yes, I truly am," I admitted. "I lost all my supplies in my burning truck."

"Then take a seat, Juliette will get you a beer, and I'll throw something hearty into the pan." With that, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Three-quarters of an hour later, I was full from fried potatoes, a piece of game meat, and nearly tipsy from a single bottle of beer. The exhaustion of the day slowly began to fade.

"We have an excellent hiding place in the house," Juliette said. "It proved its worth in summer 1940, though it might be a bit colder now in winter. But it's dry and frost-free. And we have very warm fur blankets that'll keep you cozy."

I followed her and was astonished when she opened a wardrobe in a large room upstairs and slid aside the back panel. "We don't know why this secret chamber was built into this 120-year-old forester's house. Probably for exactly the purpose we're using it now -- as a hiding place."

I looked around. The chamber was about five square meters, simply furnished with a bed, a table, and a chair. In one corner, there was a wooden toilet seat with a bucket underneath. The chamber was already prepared for my stay.

"I'm glad that you and your parents are taking me in and hiding me." I sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at Juliette. "I even have electric light here and don't have to worry about it shining outside."

Juliette nodded. "Yes, the window is cleverly disguised. From the outside, it looks like a closed shutter, and from inside it's completely dark. Blackout rules have been strict since the beginning of the war." She placed a jug of water next to the washbasin. "Now, get some rest." She took a deep breath. "I hope your comrades fend off the counterattack quickly and liberate us -- and you -- a second time." Then she left, slid the back panel closed again, and left me alone.

I fell into a deep sleep -- the kind that comes with complete physical and emotional exhaustion. I slept for eight hours straight until my painfully full bladder woke me. Just as I was relieving myself in the makeshift toilet, I suddenly heard the back panel slide open and Juliette entered the hiding place. I was infinitely embarrassed but had no choice but to stand up from my "throne," pull up my underwear, and shield my rather impressive manhood from Juliette's still-curious gaze.

"I brought you a little breakfast," the young woman greeted me with a mischievous smile and placed a tray with two slices of bread, a jar of jam, and a plate of delicious-smelling scrambled eggs, next to which were two slices of dark meat. "We don't keep pigs, so we have no bacon. But in my opinion, this breakfast meat is better anyway -- it's from wild boars we hunted ourselves."

I gave Juliette the warmest, happiest smile I could. "Thank you so much. If you keep taking care of me this well, I'd gladly spend the rest of the war hidden here."

Juliette laughed. "We'll see what happens in the next few days. I hope the Germans don't push through to the Channel again and trap your soldiers. The four and a half years of occupation were no fun -- even here in this remote forester's lodge." She was about to exit when she turned back. "I have four or five English books. Should I bring them later so you don't get too bored?"

I beamed at her. "More than happy." I paused, then added, "Do you have a French textbook or even an English-French dictionary? I'd like to use the long hours here to learn more of your language. So far, all I know is 'Bonjour' and 'Merci beaucoup.'"

Now Juliette smiled warmly too. "I still have my old schoolbooks -- even my English book, with translations in French." She nodded. "I'll gather them this morning and bring them up."

Two hours later, Juliette returned with an armful of books. "Here's our entire collection of English books -- four novels, though I'm not sure if you'll like them. They're typical women's novels." She stacked them. "And these are my old schoolbooks. You'll have to see what's useful." She took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eye. "The reports say the Germans have pushed deep west -- supposedly encircling Bastogne and advancing toward Namur. There are rumors about many American casualties and prisoners." She took another deep breath. "Looks like you'll be our hidden guest for a while. So I suggest I give you French lessons twice a day. The problem with books is that you need to

hear

the language to understand it."

I nodded thoughtfully. Juliette's news about the war in southern Belgium was concerning. I knew little about military strategy, but I remembered that in 1940 the Germans had crushed the Belgian, French and British armies in a matter of weeks. Juliette's assumption that I might be stuck in hiding for a long time seemed realistic. "How do you imagine the lessons going?" The prospect of this warm, kind woman spending hours with me daily was more than welcome.

"It's winter, so there's less work in the house and in the forestry," she said with a laugh. "I help my father feed the wildlife in the morning. Though 'help' is generous -- he tells me what to do, and I do it. Then I handle the firewood, the stoves, and help my mother in the kitchen, with laundry, and so on." She thought for a moment. "I could come up for an hour before lunch and two hours after dark. In the meantime, you can study vocabulary with the books and dictionary. I'll help with pronunciation and grammar."

I agreed. So we had a fixed schedule -- not knowing whether it would last days, weeks, or longer. We started that very day.

Our first lesson went as planned -- and was enjoyable for both of us.