So on the morning of December 19th, 1944, in the small Belgian village of Stavillo, a 16-year-old girl named Marie Dubois stood in her family’s frostcovered garden, hanging laundry on the clothes line behind their stone farmhouse. The temperature hovered just above freezing, and her breath formed small clouds in the air as she worked.
Less than 3 km away, German forces were regrouping after their initial advance through the Arden Forest, and American troops had established defensive positions along the western edge of the village. Marie believed, as did most civilians caught in this frozen corner of Belgium, that survival meant keeping your head down, staying invisible, and waiting for the conflict to pass.
She had no idea that within 48 hours her simple daily chore would become a sophisticated warning system that would save the lives of dozens of American soldiers and alter the tactical situation in a critical sector of what would become known as the Battle of the Bulge. Before we dive into this story, make sure to subscribe to the channel and tell me in the comments where you’re watching from.
It really helps support the channel. What Marie Dubois discovered in those desperate winter days was that the most ordinary objects arranged with careful intention could communicate volumes across enemy lines. And that courage sometimes manifests not in dramatic gestures, but in the quiet persistence of doing what needs to be done, one small act at a time.
Marie lived with her grandmother, Celestine, in a two-story farmhouse that had belonged to their family for four generations. Her parents had sent her from Brussels 18 months earlier, believing the countryside would be safer than the capital. Her father worked in a textile factory that had been converted to support the German war effort, and her mother helped care for wounded civilians in a makeshift hospital.
Marie had not seen them since August when her father had managed to send a brief letter through a neighbor traveling on official business. The farmhouse sat on elevated ground with clear views across the Amble River Valley, positioned almost exactly between the German positions to the east and the American defensive line to the west.
The first American soldiers Marie encountered were three men from the first infantry division who appeared at her door on the afternoon of December 17th, asking in broken French if she had seen German troop movements. The youngest of them, a corporal named William Chen from San Francisco, California, had studied French in high school and could communicate well enough to explain their situation.
The Americans were trying to establish observation posts to monitor enemy activity, but they had lost contact with several forward reconnaissance teams and needed local knowledge of the terrain. Marie’s grandmother invited them inside, insisting they were too thin, and offering them what little bread and cheese remained in the house.
Chen explained that they were part of a unit trying to delay the German advance until reinforcements could arrive. They had approximately 60 men spread across defensive positions, covering nearly 2 km of front, facing what intelligence suggested were several hundred German troops, possibly more. The Americans needed to know when and where attacks would come, but traditional reconnaissance was becoming increasingly dangerous as German patrols grew more aggressive.
As Marie listened to Chen translate the conversation between the soldiers and her grandmother, she studied the three men carefully. Chen appeared to be about 22 years old, with dark eyes that moved constantly, cataloging details of the room. The sergeant, a broad-shouldered man named Frank Morrison from Nebraska, kept glancing toward the windows, his jaw tight with tension.
The third soldier, a private, whose name badge read Thompson, could not have been more than 18, and his hands trembled slightly as he held the cup of Ersat’s coffee had prepared from roasted barley and chory root. That evening, after the Americans had left, Marie stood at her bedroom window, watching the distant flashes of artillery fire lighting the eastern horizon.
She could hear the low rumble of engines as German vehicles moved along the roads beyond the forest. Her grandmother came to stand beside her, placing a weathered hand on her shoulder. Then Celeststeine said, “I remember when your grandfather would watch from this same window during the last war. He used to say that knowledge is a weapon if you know how to deliver it to those who need it.
Marie turned to look at her grandmother’s face, illuminated by the faint glow from the fireplace downstairs. The old woman’s expression was thoughtful, distant. “What do you mean, grandmother?” Marie asked. Celeststeine walked to the wooden chest at the foot of Marie’s bed and opened it, removing a carefully folded piece of cloth.
She unfolded it to reveal a large white sheet yellowed slightly with age. In 1914, she said,when the German forces first came through here, the Belgian resistance used signals to communicate with Allied forces. Sheets on a line meant all clear. Colored fabric meant danger approaching. Different arrangements meant different messages.
Simple things that looked innocent to anyone watching. Marie took the sheet from her grandmother’s hands, feeling the worn cotton between her fingers. She thought about the Americans spread thin across their defensive positions, blind to what was happening in the village, vulnerable to surprise attacks they would not see coming until it was too late.
The next morning, Marie deliberately hung her laundry in the garden at precisely 8:00, using a system she had devised during the sleepless hours of the night. One white sheet meant no immediate danger. Two white sheets meant German patrols active in the village. If she added her grandmother’s red tablecloth to the line, it would indicate German troops massing for an attack.
A blue blanket would signal vehicles moving through. The placement of items from left to right would indicate direction of movement. East to west meant toward American positions. West to east meant German forces pulling back. She had no way to tell the Americans about her system, no means of getting a message to them.
But she hung the laundry anyway, establishing a routine, creating a pattern that observant eyes might notice and eventually decode. For 3 days, nothing happened. Marie hung laundry each morning, varying the items according to what she observed from her windows, and during her careful walks through the village. German soldiers had occupied the town hall and several larger buildings, and their patrols moved through the streets at irregular intervals.
Marie learned to time her movements, to appear purposeful but not suspicious, to gather information while seeming to go about ordinary tasks. On the fourth day, December 22nd, she hung two white sheets and the red tablecloth. She had watched from her bedroom window as German trucks arrived before dawn, delivering troops who assembled in the square near the church.
She counted approximately 40 soldiers forming into squads, checking equipment, preparing for movement. Their body language and the urgency of their preparations suggested an imminent operation. That afternoon, Corporal Chen appeared at the farmhouse again, this time alone. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his uniform showing evidence of several days without proper rest.
Marie’s grandmother insisted he sit down producing more of the barley coffee and a small piece of bread. Chen spoke quietly, his French more hesitant than before. We have been watching your clothes line, he said. My sergeant noticed a pattern. Different items, different arrangements. We think maybe you are trying to tell us something.
Marie felt her heart accelerate, a mixture of fear and relief flooding through her. She nodded slowly, then walked to the window, pointing toward the town hall where she had seen the German soldiers assembling. This morning, she said, 40 new soldiers arrived. They are preparing for an operation.
I put the red cloth on the line to warn you. Chen stood and moved to the window, his expression intense as he studied the distant buildings. “How did you know what to signal?” he asked. “I guessed what you would need to know,” Marie replied. I watched what happened each day and tried to show you through the laundry.
Different colors for different dangers. Position on the line for direction of movement. Chen turned to face her and something like wonder crossed his tired features. You created a code, he said without any training, without knowing if we would understand. You created an intelligence network using a clothes line.
He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and began writing. Over the next hour, he and Marie developed a more sophisticated system. White sheets in various numbers would indicate troop strength. One sheet for patrols of fewer than 10 soldiers, two sheets for groups of 10 to 30, three sheets for larger formations. The red tablecloth would still indicate preparations for an attack.
The blue blanket would signal vehicle movements. A yellow curtain would mean important officers present in the village. Specific placements and combinations would provide additional detail about timing and direction. Chen explained that the American defensive line was stretched dangerously thin. They had established positions in a series of stone buildings and hastily dug foxholes along a low ridge west of the village with fields of fire covering the main approaches.
But they had no artillery support, limited ammunition, and no reliable intelligence about German intentions. Every hour of warning could mean the difference between preparing adequate defenses and being overrun. Before he left, Chen pressed something into Marie’s hand. It was a small silver compass, worn but functional. He said, “If you need to leave quickly, head westnorthwest.
Follow this bearing for approximately 5 km, and you will reach our main defensive line. Ask for Captain Robert Miller of the First Infantry Division. Tell him William Chen sent you. They will keep you safe. Marie closed her fingers around the compass, feeling its weight. She asked, “What will happen if the Germans discover what I am doing?” Chen’s expression became grave.
“You must be very careful,” he said. “What you are doing is extraordinarily dangerous. But it is also extraordinarily important. You are saving lives.” After he departed, Marie stood in the garden as dus gathered, looking at the clothes line. It appeared entirely innocent, just a place to dry laundry. But she understood now that she had transformed it into something else.
A voice calling across the frozen landscape, speaking in a language of cotton and wool, warning and protecting soldiers who were fighting to liberate her country. The system proved its worth on Christmas Eve. Marie woke before dawn to the sound of engines and voices in the village square. She crept to her window and saw what appeared to be the entire German garrison assembling in the pre-dawn darkness.
Officers moved among the troops, organizing them into attack formations. She counted at least 120 soldiers, far more than she had ever seen gathered at once. Vehicles were being loaded with equipment and ammunition. This was clearly a major operation. Despite the risk of being seen in the darkness, Marie dressed quickly and went to the garden.
Her hands shook as she hung three white sheets, the red tablecloth, and the blue blanket in the agreed upon pattern. The arrangement would tell the Americans, “Large force preparing to attack, vehicles involved, movement imminent.” She had barely returned inside when she heard the first sounds of the German advance beginning.
Troops moved out of the village in disciplined columns, heading west toward the American positions. Marie pressed herself against the wall beside her window, watching them go, praying that her warning had been seen and understood. What Marie could not see, 3 km away, was Corporal Chen standing in an observation post, binoculars trained on the Dubois farmhouse.
The first gray light of dawn had given him just enough visibility to make out the shapes on the clothes line. He called down to the command post where Sergeant Morrison was trying to keep warm beside a small fire. Morrison Chen shouted, “Full assault, large force with vehicles coming now.” Morrison moved with the speed of long practice, shouting orders that sent men scrambling to their positions.
In less than 4 minutes, every American soldier in the defensive sector was in place, weapons ready, fields of fire established, two machine gun teams positioned themselves to create overlapping coverage of the main approach. Soldiers checked ammunition and grenades. Officers moved along the line, ensuring everyone understood the plan.
Hold fire until the enemy was fully committed. Then deliver maximum firepower to disrupt their assault. The German attack began precisely as Marie’s signal had indicated. Troops advanced across the open ground in textbook formation, supported by two armored vehicles. But instead of surprising unprepared defenders, they encountered a fully alert, well-positioned force that opened fire at the optimal moment.
The initial German assault faltered under the unexpected resistance. Troops scrambling for cover as American weapons tore into their formations. The engagement lasted nearly 3 hours. The Americans, though outnumbered, had the advantage of prepared positions and forewarning. They repelled two separate assault waves before the German forces withdrew back toward the village, having suffered significant casualties without achieving their objective.
The American defensive line held, and the critical sector remained secure. That evening, as Marie hung ordinary laundry in the fading light, she saw Chen approaching across the field, accompanied by an older officer. The man with Chen wore the insignia of a captain, and had the bearing of someone accustomed to command.
He introduced himself as Robert Miller, the officer Chen had mentioned days earlier. Captain Miller said, “Miss Dubois, what you did this morning saved the lives of at least 20 of my men. Your warning gave us the time we needed to prepare. Without it, we would have been overwhelmed. We came to thank you and to ask if you would be willing to continue.
” Marie looked at the two Americans, then at her grandmother standing in the doorway of the farmhouse. Celestine nodded slowly, her expression both proud and fearful. “I will continue,” Marie said. “As long as I can help, I will continue.” Over the following weeks, Marie’s clothesline intelligence network became increasingly sophisticated.
She developed additional signals to indicate not just the presence of German forces, but their apparent morale, their state of readiness, even the quality of theirequipment. She noticed that newly arrived troops looked better fed and equipped than those who had been fighting for days. She observed which officers seemed confident and which appeared uncertain.
All of this information found its way into her signals. Captain Miller provided her with a more detailed system for communicating. Certain combinations of items would indicate specific tactical situations. A sheet folded over the line in a particular way meant German forces appeared to be preparing defensive positions rather than planning attacks.
Clothes arranged in ascending size order from left to right indicated increasing activity and alertness. A complete absence of laundry during daylight hours meant immediate danger, suggesting Marie herself was under suspicion or threat. The Americans, in turn, found ways to acknowledge her signals and provide feedback.
Chen would occasionally pass by the farmhouse at dusk, and the presence or absence of a small white cloth tied to a fence post near the American positions told Marie whether her signals had been received and understood. Once, when she signaled vehicle movements that turned out to be a false alarm based on misidentification, the white cloth was absent for 2 days, helping her refine her observation skills.
Not everything went smoothly. On January 7th, 1945, a German officer noticed Marie hanging laundry and became suspicious of her routine. He was a major named Klaus Vber from Bavaria, a veteran of campaigns in the East who had developed keen instincts for detecting partisan activity. He watched the farmhouse for several hours from a concealed position, noting how methodically Marie arranged items on the line, how she frequently glanced toward the Western Ridgeline where American positions were located.
Veber assigned two soldiers to monitor the farmhouse continuously. For 3 days, Marie could not safely signal the Americans. She maintained her routine, but used only white sheets in simple arrangements, indicating no immediate threats. During this time, German patrol activity increased significantly, and the Americans operated without her intelligence, relying on their own reconnaissance.
On the fourth day of surveillance, the situation changed unexpectedly. A German patrol encountered American forces in a brief firefight near the river and casualties were brought back to the village. Veber was called away to deal with the tactical situation and his surveillance of the farmhouse lapsed. Marie seized the opportunity, hanging a complex signal that indicated not only current German dispositions, but also the fact that she had been under observation and might be compromised.
Chen appeared that night, moving carefully through the darkness. He told Marie that the Americans were planning a limited operation to push German forces out of the village within the next week. If successful, it would eliminate the immediate threat to her and allow more reliable communication.
But until then, she needed to be extraordinarily careful. He also brought news that changed everything for Marie. American intelligence had made contact with the Belgian resistance, and they had established a courier network that could potentially carry messages. If Marie could get information to a specific contact in the neighboring village approximately 8 km away, it could reach American headquarters with greater detail than the clothes line signals allowed.
The contact was a baker named Anton Merier, a man in his 50s who had been passing information to the resistance since early in the occupation. Marie would need to make the journey on foot, carrying information hidden in ordinary items that would not attract suspicion if she was stopped and searched. Marie made her first courier run on January 15th.
She left before dawn, carrying a basket with eggs and a small wheel of cheese, items her grandmother could plausibly be sending to relatives in the next village. Hidden beneath the false bottom of the basket were hand-drawn maps showing German positions, troop strength estimates, and details about equipment and supply status that Marie had observed over weeks of careful watching.
The journey took her through frozen fields and along snow-covered forest paths. Twice she had to hide as German patrols passed nearby. Once a soldier stopped her and asked where she was going. She explained in halting German that she was taking food to her aunt who was ill, showing him the eggs and cheese.
The soldier, young and homesick, reminded perhaps of his own sisters back in Germany, waved her on without checking the basket thoroughly. Anton Mercer’s bakery stood on the main street of the village, its windows dark in the early morning. Marie entered through the back door as Chen had instructed, giving the recognition phrase she had memorized.
Merier, a stocky man with flower dusted hands and cautious eyes, took the basket without comment, removed the hidden materials, and gave her fresh bread to carry back.The entire exchange took less than 2 minutes. The intelligence Marie provided proved invaluable. The maps she had drawn, based on her daily observations, were more accurate and current than anything American reconnaissance had produced.
Her notes about German supply difficulties, equipment problems, and low morale among certain units helped American planners understand that the enemy forces facing them were more vulnerable than they appeared. On January 21st, American forces launched their operation to clear the village. The attack came at dawn, supported by artillery that had been moved into position during the night.
Marie huddled in the farmhouse cellar with her grandmother as explosions shook the walls and the sounds of intense fighting echoed across the valley. The engagement lasted most of the day. A confused and violent struggle for control of the village streets and buildings. By evening, American soldiers were moving through the village, consolidating their gains.
The German forces had withdrawn to new positions further east, leaving behind equipment and supplies in their hasty retreat. Captain Miller found Marie and her grandmother still in the cellar and personally escorted them upstairs, ensuring the house had not been damaged and that they were safe. Miller said, “Mr. Dubis, I want you to know that the intelligence you provided was crucial to our success today.
Your maps, your observations, your courage, all of it contributed to saving American lives and advancing our operations. You have done something remarkable. Marie, exhausted [clears throat] and overwhelmed by the intensity of the day, could only nod. Her grandmother held her close, tears running down the old woman’s weathered cheeks.
In the weeks that followed, as the front line moved further east and the immediate danger to Stavalo receded, Marie’s role gradually diminished. But the intelligence network she had helped establish continued to operate, with other civilians in other villages taking up similar work, guided by the example she had set, and the methods she had developed.
In late February, as winter began to yield to early spring, William Chen came to the farmhouse one final time. He was being reassigned to a unit preparing for operations deeper into Germany. He brought with him a letter written by Captain Miller and signed by several other American officers formally recognizing Marie’s contribution to the defensive operations around Stavo.
The letter documented her courage, her intelligence work, and her role in saving American lives during a critical phase of the campaign. Chen said, “I wanted to give you this personally to make sure you understood how much your work mattered. When this conflict ends, when people tell stories about how it was won, they will talk about great operations and famous commanders.
But the truth is that victories are built on thousands of small acts of courage by ordinary people who chose to do what was right. You are one of those people, Marie. What you did here will never be forgotten by those of us who benefited from it. He also brought a more personal gift, a small leather journal and a pen.
He said, “You should write down what happened here in your own words, so that someday people will know the true story. Not just the tactics and the operations, but what it felt like, what you thought about when you were hanging laundry that might save lives or cost your own.” Marie took the journal, running her fingers over the smooth leather cover.
She asked Chen what he thought would happen after the conflict ended. Whether the fighting and sacrifice would lead to lasting peace. Chen was quiet for a long moment before answering. I hope so, he said finally. I hope that what we have seen, what we have endured, will make people determined never to let something like this happen again.
But hope is not enough. It will take work, constant effort to build a world where young women do not have to turn their clothes lines into intelligence networks, where teenage soldiers do not have to fight in frozen foxholes far from home. That work will fall to all of us. After Chen left, Marie stood in the garden one last time, looking at the clothes line that had been the center of her life for those intense winter weeks.
It was just a simple wooden frame with rope strung between posts, holding ordinary sheets and blankets drying in the weak February sun, but she knew she would never see it the same way again. She thought about all the small decisions that had led her to this moment. The choice to hang laundry in a particular pattern.
The decision to make contact with the Americans. The courage to continue signaling even when she knew she was being watched. The determination to walk 8 km through occupied territory carrying hidden intelligence. Each decision had seemed small at the time, but together they had formed something larger, something that had genuinely mattered.
In the months andyears that followed, Marie wrote in the journal Chen had given her. She documented not just the events, but the feelings, the fears, the small moments of hope and determination that had sustained her. She described the sound of her grandmother’s voice, recounting stories of the previous conflict, connecting Marie to a tradition of resistance and courage that spanned generations.
She wrote about learning to read the subtle signs of troop movements, the way exhausted soldiers moved differently than fresh ones, how officers under stress betrayed their anxiety through small gestures and expressions. She also wrote about the Americans she had known during those weeks. William Chen, with his careful French and his thoughtful eyes.
Frank Morrison, who had first noticed the pattern in her clothesline signals. Robert Miller, who had trusted her intelligence and acted on it, risking the lives of his men based on information provided by a 16-year-old girl with no formal training. She remembered them all, preserving their stories alongside her own.
When the conflict in Europe finally ended in May 1945, Marie was 17 years old. She returned to Brussels to reunite with her parents, both of whom had survived the occupation, her father having secretly sabotaged production at the textile factory, her mother having hidden resistance members in the hospital where she worked.
The family gathered in their partially damaged apartment, sharing stories of what they had endured and how they had contributed to the eventual liberation of their country. Marie’s father, when she told him what she had done, was initially angry that she had taken such risks.
But as she explained the system she had created, the intelligence she had provided, the lives she had helped save, his anger transformed into something else. Pride certainly, but also a kind of wonder at discovering that his daughter had become someone he was still getting to know. Years later, when historians began documenting the smaller stories within the larger narrative of the campaign, Marie’s account found its way into the archives.
The letter from Captain Miller was preserved along with her journal and interviews she gave in her 60s to researchers studying civilian resistance and intelligence operations. Her story became part of a broader understanding of how conflicts are won not just through grand strategies, but through the accumulated contributions of countless individuals, each doing what they could with what they had.
The clothes line itself remained at the farmhouse in Stavalo, used for its original mundane purpose by Marie’s grandmother until Celestine passed away in 1952. The farmhouse eventually passed to Marie’s cousin, who maintained it as the family had for generations. The wooden frame weathered over the decades. The rope was replaced many times, but the structure remained, an ordinary object that had briefly served an extraordinary purpose.
In 1994, on the 50th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge, Marie returned to Stavalo for a commemoration ceremony. She was 70 years old, her dark hair now gray, her face showing the lines of a full life lived. American veterans who had fought in the area came back as well, including William Chen, then in his 70s, who had maintained correspondence with Marie over the decades.
They stood together in the farmhouse garden, looking at the clothes line, remembering a young journalist asked Marie what she had been thinking about during those weeks when she had been signaling the Americans. Marie considered the question carefully before answering. She said, “I was thinking about my country. Certainly, I was thinking about the soldiers risking their lives to liberate us.
But mostly I was thinking about the very next thing I needed to do. Hang the laundry correctly, observe carefully, remember the details, make the courier run safely. Each small task completed as well as I could complete it. I did not think of myself as doing anything heroic. I was just doing what needed to be done, one load of laundry at a time.
Chen, standing beside her, added his own reflection. You taught me something important during those weeks, he said. I had been trained to think about intelligence in terms of formal networks, dead drops, coded messages, all the sophisticated tradecraftraft we had learned. But you showed me that intelligence is really just about paying attention and finding ways to share what you have learned with those who need to know it.
Sometimes the simplest methods are the most effective because they are the least expected. The journalist pressed for more details about specific operations, particular signals, the exact number of lives saved. But both Marie and Chen gently deflected such questions. The real story they suggested was not in the precise tactical details but in the broader principle that ordinary people when confronted with extraordinary circumstances are capable of remarkable courage and creativity.
Marie lived to be 83 years old passing away in 2007. Her journal and the letter from Captain Miller were donated to the Belgian War Museum, where they remain in the collection documenting civilian contributions to resistance and intelligence operations. The farmhouse in Stavalo still stands, owned now by a great nephew who has preserved many family artifacts, including photographs from the war years.
The clothes line remarkably remains as well, though it is no longer used for drying laundry. It stands in the garden as a kind of informal monument, a reminder that the tools of courage are often the simplest and most ordinary objects transformed by human intention and need into instruments of resistance and hope. When visitors come to Stavalo today, many seeking to understand the history of the campaign that unfolded there in the winter of 1944 and 45, they sometimes walk past the Dubois farmhouse without knowing its story. It looks like any
other old Belgian farmhouse. solid stone walls, a steep roof, gardens that have been tended for generations. Only those who know where to look notice the wooden frame in the back garden, the simple structure that once held sheets and blankets arranged in patterns that spoke across a frozen landscape carrying warnings that saved lives and altered the course of a small but significant engagement in a much larger conflict.
Marie Dubois never considered herself a hero. When asked about her actions during the conflict, she consistently described herself as an ordinary person who had done ordinary things in an extraordinary time. But those who knew her story understood the truth. That courage often looks exactly like that, like ordinary people making small choices to do what is right day after day until those small choices accumulate into something profound.
The lessons of her experience extend beyond the specific circumstances of that winter in Belgium. They speak to the power of observation, the importance of communication, the value of persistence in the face of danger and uncertainty. They demonstrate that effective resistance does not always require dramatic gestures or violent action.
Sometimes it looks like a young woman hanging laundry with careful intention, creating meaning in the arrangement of ordinary objects, finding ways to help even when formal avenues for assistance appear closed. They also illustrate the importance of recognition and validation. Captain Miller’s letter, William Chen’s gift of the journal, the willingness of American officers to trust and act on intelligence provided by an untrained civilian.
All of these gestures communicated that Marie’s contribution was seen, valued, and appreciated. That recognition sustained her during the dangerous weeks of her intelligence work and gave her the confidence to continue when the risks seemed overwhelming. In the broader context of historical understanding, Marie’s story serves as a reminder of the countless individual narratives that comprise any major historical event.
For every famous operation or wellocumented battle, there are hundreds or thousands of smaller stories, personal experiences, individual acts of courage or kindness or resistance that shaped outcomes in ways that rarely appear in official histories. These stories like Marie reveal the human texture of historical events, showing how grand strategies and sweeping movements play out in the lives of individual people making choices in specific moments.
The simplicity of Marie’s method using a clothesline to communicate intelligence also speaks to the enduring principle that effectiveness does not require complexity. In an era when intelligence operations often involved sophisticated technology and elaborate networks, a teenage girl with keen observation skills and a willingness to take risks proved that the fundamentals of intelligence work, collecting information, analyzing it for significance and communicating it to those who need it remain constant regardless of the tools employed. And
that concludes our story. If you made it this far, please share your thoughts in the comments. What part of this historical account surprised you most? Don’t forget to subscribe for more untold stories from World War II, and check out the video on screen for another incredible tale from history. Until next time.
