The platoon leaders posted outposts. Those not on duty slept in haystacks, woodsheds, whatever they could find.
Privates Hoobler and Webster of Sergeant Rader’s 2nd squad, 1st platoon, found a farmhouse. The Dutch farmer welcomed them. He led them through the barn, already occupied with regimental Headquarters Company (“You shoot
’em, we loot ’em” was its motto), who resented their presence. On to the kitchen, where the Dutchman gave them half a dozen Mason jars filled with preserved meat, peaches, and cherries. Hoobler gave him some cigarettes, and Webster handed him a D-ration chocolate bar. He sucked in the smoke greedily—the first decent cigarette he had enjoyed in five years—but saved the candy for his little boy, who had never tasted chocolate. Webster decided on the spot that he liked the Dutch much better than the British or French.
In the morning the march resumed, with 2nd Battalion following 1st Battalion on the road south. On the edge of Eindhoven, a city of 100,000 that rose abruptly from the rich black soil, Colonel Sink spread his regiment, sending 2nd Battalion out to the left, with Easy on the far left flank. Winters gave the order over his radio: “Lieutenant Brewer, put your scouts out and take off.” Brewer spread 1st platoon out in textbook formation, scouts to the front, no bunching up, moving fast. The platoon advanced through truck gardens and freshly plowed fields toward the houses on the edge of the city.
There was only one thing wrong. Brewer was in front, with his map case at his side, his binoculars hanging around his neck, obviously an officer. Worse, he was well over 6 feet tall. Gordon thought he looked like a field marshal on parade. He was a perfect target.
Winters shouted over his radio, “Get back. Drop back. Drop back!” but Brewer could not hear him. He kept moving ahead. Every man in the company, every man in battalion, could see what was sure to happen.
A shot rang out. A sniper had fired from one of the houses. Brewer went down “like a tree felled by an expert lumberman.” He had been shot in the throat just below the jaw line. Gordon and a couple of other enlisted men ran over to him, even though their orders were to keep moving and leave any wounded for the medics. They looked down at Brewer, bleeding profusely from his wound.
“Aw, hell, forget him,” someone said. “He’s gone, he’s gonna die.” They moved on, leaving Brewer lying there.
He heard it all, and never forgot it, and never let the men forget it when he recovered and rejoined the company.
After that there was only light, scattered resistance, mainly from snipers. The 506th got into Eindhoven without further difficulty. The Dutch were out to welcome them. Many spoke English.
“So nice to see you!” they called out. “Glad you have come!” “We have waited so long!” They brought out chairs, hot tea, fresh milk, apples, pears, peaches. Orange flags and orange armbands hidden for years blossomed on all the houses and shirtsleeves. The applause was nearly deafening; the men had to shout to each other to be heard. “It was the most sincere thanksgiving demonstration any of us were to see,” Webster wrote, “and it pleased us very much.” It took most of the rest of the day to push through the crowds to secure the bridges over the Dommel River. It did not matter,- the British tankers did not show up until late that afternoon. They promptly stopped, set up housekeeping, and proceeded to make tea.
Winters set up outposts. Those not on duty joined the celebration. They posed for pictures, signed autographs (some signing “Monty,” others “Eisenhower”), drank a shot or two of cognac, ate marvelous meals of fresh vegetables, roast veal, applesauce, and milk. The civilians continued to mob them as if they were movie stars. Winters still shakes his head at the memory: “It was just unbelievable.”
The company spent the night in hastily dug foxholes in Tongelre, a suburb on the east side of Eindhoven. On the morning of September 19, Winters got orders to march east, to Helmond, in order to broaden the Eindhoven section of the corridor and to make contact with the enemy. A squadron of Cromwell tanks from the Hussars accompanied Easy. Some of the men rode on the backs of the Cromwells. The tanks, Webster wrote, “barked, spluttered, clanked, and squeaked in their accustomed manner as we set out.”