He could have
gone home.
He chose Berlin.
Poland, 1945. What's left of the Greater Germanic Reich.
Three barrels tumble off a horse-drawn carriage. An American paratrooper and two other POWs hit the ground running for the treeline. Shots crack across the snow. By the time Joe Beyrle reaches the forest, he is alone.
What follows is a few impossible days. Joe crosses an icy river, wanders a frozen wasteland loud with distant artillery, and begs at a farmhouse door — only to be turned away by Germans more afraid of the SS than of the advancing Red Army.
Then the Soviets arrive. Starving and ragged, with nothing to his name but a rosary and a half-empty pack of cigarettes, Joe walks out of a barn with his hands up, the pack held high, and offers the only two words of Russian he knows: "Americanski Tovarisch." American comrade.
It works.