HANK WERKMAN
Sergeant, United States Army • WWI
T H E I R H E R O S T O R Y
My Father, Hank Werkman
By Beth Quinn
My father, Hank Werkman, was born in 1919 and grew up in Washingtonville, the youngest of three children born to immigrants from Holland. He had just begun college when the United States entered World War II, and he immediately joined the Army. Like so many young men—boys, really—he would spend years far from home, fighting for our freedom.
My father spent much of the war on his feet, marching across Africa and then up through Italy before arriving in England to await the D-Day invasion. He landed on Omaha Beach on June 10, 1944, four days after D-Day, and began the long march across France. By then, he was a Staff Sergeant responsible for a group of his fellow soldiers. One of his self-appointed duties was to walk a mile or two ahead of his men each day, searching for a safe place for them to sleep.
One early evening, he came upon a farm with a tall stone wall partially enclosing the farmhouse yard. Thinking it might offer shelter for the night, he stepped inside, rifle held in front of him. There, standing before him, were 200 armed German soldiers.
At the sight of my father, they dropped their weapons and raised their hands. They were surrendering. He stood frozen, keeping his rifle trained on them until his men caught up. Together, they collected the Germans’ guns and searched them for other weapons.
My father earned the Silver Star for his bravery and was hailed as a hero in his hometown newspaper. He told the story differently. As he explained it, the war was winding down, and the German soldiers were mostly young boys and old men, exhausted and hungry. They wanted to surrender in the hope of being fed. He refused to consider what he had done an act of heroism.
A few months later, during the Battle of the Bulge in Belgium’s Ardennes Forest, he suffered a severe wound to his right leg. He was sent home and admitted to Walter Reed Hospital, where doctors spent months trying to save it. Ultimately, his leg had to be amputated above the knee.
My grandmother, Zwaantje Werkman, visited him in the hospital. She later told me she cried in the elevator on the way to his floor. But when the doors opened, she heard his laughter down the hall. She straightened her shoulders and dried her tears. If he could laugh, she decided, then she could, too.
H O N O R E D B Y
Beth and Bob Quinn