However, he was disappointed to discover that most of the bottles behind the bar had been smashed where they stood by some nearby bomb blast. Any intact bottles had long since been liberated by thirsty GIs.
He noticed that the beer tap appeared unscathed. When he pulled the lever, beer ran out and spattered on the floor. This discovery delighted the paratrooper, who couldn’t wait to bring some back to his wounded friend. The question was, How was he going to do that? He looked behind the bar and around the floor for anything that might serve as a container for carrying the beer, but he gave up in futility. Everything was broken and smashed. He might have to hunt through the ruins of nearby buildings until he found a suitable container, costing him precious time. As a reminder that the bar might be reduced to rubble at any moment — and him along with it — a shell smashed into the street not more than a hundred feet away. The shock wave carried dust and the smell of cordite into the bar.
Rubble rained down and hit his helmet. That was when he got the idea.
Quickly, he took off his helmet and held it under the tap, filling it with beer. Once it was nearly overflowing, he started his return trip to the hospital. Mercifully, he seemed to have picked a time when the Germans were busy shelling another part of the city.
He reached the hospital and ducked inside, quickly locating his friend. No one bothered to question why a soldier was carrying a helmet slopping over with beer.
When his buddy spotted him, his eyes got big. “Is that helmet full of beer?”
“You said you wanted a drink.”
“Boy, do I ever.”
Kneeling beside the man, he helped him take a few gulps. He’d soon had his fill. That was no problem, because other wounded nearby had seen what he carried in his helmet, and they all wanted a drink from it. The helmet was soon empty.
“We need more!” the men cried. “Get more!”
The paratrooper found himself with no choice but to head back to the ruined tavern and fill up his helmet once again.
Coming back, he wasn’t as lucky about the bombardment as he had been on his first trip. A couple of shells landed nearby, one so close that the blast knocked him off his feet. Still, he cradled the helmet as he went down, managing to keep most of the beer from spilling.
He was surprised to find himself being helped to his feet by a couple of soldiers.
“You all right, buddy?” one of the soldiers asked in a strong Brooklyn accent. “It’s just a suggestion, but a helmet works a whole lot better when you wear it on your head.”
The other soldier didn’t speak right away. He was lean as a whip but strong, easily helping to pull the stunned paratrooper upright. “Why, I do believe this boy has got beer right here in his helmet. Sure smells like it.”
The second soldier had a strong country accent, with the words
The paratrooper could see right away that they were snipers, because both carried rifles with telescopic sights and they wore bedsheets over their uniforms in an attempt at winter camouflage. Both looked like tough customers, and he worried that they would help themselves to his beer.
“Listen, it’s not for me,” the paratrooper blurted. “It’s for my buddies in the hospital.”
“At the rate you’re going, you’ll either end up there yourself or get killed,” the soldier with the country accent said. “Best follow us if you want to get there in one piece.”
The two ducked down an alley, and the paratrooper felt compelled to follow. The alley grew narrower, seeming to press in on all sides, but the sound of the artillery shells impacting diminished. Minutes later they arrived at the hospital. He turned to thank them, maybe offer them a sip of beer, but they were already gone, having slipped quietly away into the darkness.
The paratrooper delivered his second helmet filled with beer, sharing it with even more soldiers this time. There was still plenty despite some of it having sloshed out during the shelling.
When that helmet ran dry, he made a third trip and shared the beer around.
With the praise of the soldiers ringing in his ears, he made yet another trip back to the tavern for more beer. Half of it slopped out on the run back, but it hardly mattered, because he never made it through the hospital doors.
Blocking his path was a very irate officer, who happened to be one of the doctors at the hospital.
He stabbed an accusing finger in the paratrooper’s direction with so much force that it may as well have been a bayonet.
“Are you the one who’s been giving my patients beer?” the officer demanded. He didn’t wait for an answer before launching into a tirade. “I’ve got all kinds of bad wounds in here. Head wounds, chest wounds. Some are awaiting surgery. Giving these men anything to drink by mouth — beer, no less — is the worst thing you could do. You could kill them, dammit. I ought to have you shot!”
