This is family lore but I suspect there is truth in it. My granddad was a teamster. Back when they had teams of horses. Good German that he was, he had a rep for knocking down a shot chased by a beer with a raw egg in it. But, I digress. In the 1920's he hauled kerosine. And, rumor has it, a US Navy sub used to met him in the Branford River to exchange fluids.
My wife's stepfather was German, and I worked with him a couple of times when he was in his eighties. Hanging a whole row of heavy garage doors in Brooklyn in the middle of winter. After every one it was around the corner to the house he rented out and the bar on the first floor for a shot of schnapps and a draft. Long days, long days.
Later he cut his hand half off with a table saw. After two months the hospital that did the microsurgery on the nerves called him back to tell him that if he didn't come in for the therapy, he would never be able to use his hand. He said, "I can't today, I am breaking up a sidewalk with sledge hammer." He was, schnapps and all.