The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins

for them to infiltrate the Allied lines. Some of the Germans were even dressed in cassocks, making it much easier for them to gain credibility. Therefore, the officers of the 82nd and their regiments placed a premium on secrecy concerning the exact location of the troops.

      We had brought along “K” rations — 3,200-calorie nonperishable meals developed in the 1940s by physiologist Dr. Ancer Keys — and we stopped at one point to eat them. I learned that hunger was a good sauce; in fact, it was the only sauce that made “K” rations edible. Sometimes the only way to thaw out a frozen a “K” ration was to put it under your shirt. Thawing the food with your body didn’t improve its taste but made it edible.

      In the afternoon, we drove off the main road, and Lieutenant Solbjor threaded through roads in the Ardennes. The snow seemed to increase as we drove along, the majestic pine trees mantled in snow like Christmas trees. Then, piercing the winter air, we heard the booming of distant heavy artillery, the crackling of rifle fire.

      Finally, through the trees, we came to a clearing and a snowy field in front of us. Solbjor stopped the truck. “We’re in the territory of the 505th,” he told me. “If you walk across that field, you’ll find some elements of the 505th; they can take you to their headquarters. I’ve got to find the division headquarters. Good luck.” And off he drove with Hemingway’s wife.

      I trudged across the open field carrying my Mass kit, wondering how to find the paratroopers. The snow was as high as my knees. It was very cold, and not a person, not a voice, was there to break the silence. As I neared the trees, a voice with a German accent rang out: “Halt!”

      I halted. I thought to myself, “Was I to become a German prisoner before I even reached the 82nd?” Then I heard some muffled conversation, which I couldn’t comprehend. There was a long silence and then a sentence in German. I had to respond. “I know very little German,” I shouted, “but if you speak very slowly I might be able to understand.”

      Then there was a brief pause. “Okay, come forward,” the voice said.

      Two figures seemed to rise out of the snow. They were Americans: a lieutenant with piercing blue eyes and, next to him, a sergeant who seemed to be very unfriendly and distrustful. The lieutenant was of German descent from South Dakota, a Protestant, and very friendly. The sergeant was of Polish descent, a Catholic from the Midwest. I quickly showed them my orders, and the lieutenant explained the delay. “You’re wearing a trench coat, and we were not issued any trench coats,” he said. “The Germans got a lot of trench coats from the warehouses in St. Vith.”