By nightfall on September 23, 1944, Dad’s 30th Infantry Regiment had reached the Moselle River, but they found the waterway swollen by heavy rains. The approach was so rutted and mired, only vehicles that weighed less than a quarter of a ton could get close to the riverbanks. Squads were sent out to search for possible crossing points.[1]

Around midnight, a platoon from the 7th Infantry, just on the 30th’s left, realized a stroke of luck when they discovered an intact bridge amid the surrounding devastation. No one made a move to cross the Moselle, however. 

Their immediate concern was that the Krauts had fixed explosives to the bridge and were poised to blow it up as soon as they saw the American soldiers crossing en masse.

Phil happened to be in the vicinity. When he heard that an undamaged bridge had been discovered, he grabbed one of his guys and took off. Upon their arrival, they volunteered to inspect the bridge for dynamite charges, even though that put them at significant risk. After all, an explosion could happen at any time.

Even in the darkness, it didn’t take Phil and the private very long to find seventeen dynamite cases affixed to the bridge with wires leading to the other side.

“What do you say we cut ourselves a few wires, private?” Phil brandished a pair of wire clippers in his right hand. “Stay on the lookout. Cover me.”

“Roger that,” the private replied.

Just then, they heard a noise and noticed a shadowy form sneaking up toward the TNT charges. Phil shouted out the code phrase of the day—“Brooklyn”—but the person didn’t have the correct answer—“Dodgers.”

When the man heard the challenge, he yelled across the bridge in German. That was all it took for Phil to throw his M-1 to his shoulder and fire a single shot, dropping the man like a limp doll.

Fortunately, the Germans on the other side must not have heard him call out due to the river’s roar.

Phil quickly finished the job of defusing the TNT while the private remained on the lookout.

The twenty or so American soldiers watching were astounded by how Phil coolly handled things—from disarming the dynamite to killing a soldier in a split-second encounter. They were grateful that he had saved their lives. If they had tried to cross the booby-trapped bridge, they would have been blown to smithereens.

When they could safely cross, they were amazed to see that the German who yelled out had been shot right between the eyes. Of the privates muttered, “I want to shake that man’s hand. Hell of a shot! Saved his life and ours. He ought to get a medal.”

For Phil, it was just another night’s work.[2]

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[1] Larimore, At First Light, 151.

[2] Ibid, 151-152.

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