Phil’s men emerged from behind the protection of the tanks. As he had trained them, his forward troops laid down a torrent of marching fire as they advanced toward the trapped soldiers, while others ran up and grabbed the wounded.[1]

Enemy fire erupted again, and Phil emptied his remaining ammunition, killing several Kraut soldiers and drawing more hostile fire. His squads used the diversion to withdraw.

Out of machine gun ammunition, Phil jumped off the back of the tank to direct his men, miraculously eluding another hail of bullets, dozens missing him by inches. Suddenly the back of his head took a staggering blow as a sniper’s bullet blew his helmet from his head, knocking him to the ground. Phil, seeing stars, was momentarily stunned.

As if on autopilot, his eyes quickly scanned the trees as he swung his M1 in the direction of the enemy. Spotting a solitary German sniper in a tree, he took aim and triggered several rounds. The sniper’s head exploded, and his body crashed to the earth.

“Got the sonofabitch!” Phil screamed.

The radioman jumped off the tank and pulled Phil closer to the Sherman’s hull so they could take cover. The radioman then knelt down and carefully ran his hands through Phil’s hair, soaked with blood.

“Just nicked your scalp, Lieutenant, but it’s bleeding like hell.” He reached into his overcoat, tore the wrapper off a gauze bandage, and pressed it against the wound. He tied the gauze cloth in a knot as another flurry of bullets ricocheted off the tank.

“You okay, sir?” the radioman asked.

Phil refocused his eyes as he became more alert. “Yeah,” he said. “Just a scratch.”

“It’s more than that, sir, but we gotta get out of this hellhole!” the radioman exclaimed.

As Phil and the radioman moved back between the tanks and his retreating men laid down suppressing fire, enemy fire from the far side of the clearing intensified, coming from three directions. His men started running as fast as they could for the protection of the trees. Phil was beside the last tank backing out of the clearing, rapidly firing his M1 Garand as bullets shredded the earth around him.

“Take cover!” Phil yelled. He and the radioman grabbed their M1s. The radioman made it behind the rear of tank’s hull as Phil followed. Bullets whooshed through the air, just inches away.

“Sniper! Eleven o’clock!” the radioman yelled.

Phil quickly turned and spotted movement in another tree a hundred yards away.

Another bastard is aiming at us!

In a practiced motion, he raised his M1 and squeezed off two swift rounds. The sniper tumbled out of the tree, hitting the ground like a limp rag doll.

His action drew more fire in their direction, intensifying by the second and coming from a wider radius. Phil quickly realized that their position was being overrun. They were too exposed. They needed to get to the safety of the trees.

“We’re surrounded! Get the hell outta here! That’s an order!” Phil cried out to his radioman. “I’ll suppress ’em!”

He and his radioman began firing as they and the tank moved backward and the radioman started sprinting for the wooded forest behind them, a distance of fifty yards. As Phil turned to get a better angle on yet another sniper, a sudden, burning pain seared just below his right knee, as if someone had hit him with a giant club.

He instantly knew he’d been shot in the leg.

Phil crashed to the ground, groaning in pain. His entire right leg felt numb as blood gushed from a massive wound. Fear surged through him as warm liquid filled his boot.

Then his training kicked in. Phil ripped off his belt and tightened it around his upper leg. Relief flooded him as the spurting flow of blood slowed, but the searing pain brought on nausea.

Looking up, he saw his radioman had also been hit and had fallen to his knees a few yards away. He was holding his hand over an oozing shoulder wound.

“You okay?” Phil yelled.

“Yes, sir. I think it’s a through-and-through. Almost no bleeding.”

Suddenly, out of the clearing, angels appeared. A number of his men from Headquarters and Headquarters Company (HHC) rushed to their defense and laid down a steel curtain of suppressing fire, giving his executive officer, Abe Fitterman, enough time to come to Phil’s aid.

Fitterman squatted next to Phil and pulled up his pants leg. What he saw caused the XO’s face to pale a bit.

Phil’s first look nearly caused him to faint as well. Just below the right knee, a gnarly wound the size of a golf ball was still leaking blood. The torturous pain was something he’d never experienced before—way beyond all his previous wounds, including the major injury he’d suffered in the same leg in France.

Abe reached over to the radio on the back of the radioman and grabbed the handset.

“S-3, this is Love-5. Larimore’s been hit.”

“How badly?” It was the gravelly voice of Colonel McGarr.

Abe smiled at Phil. “He’s tough. He’ll live, but he has a hole through his leg about the size of a silver dollar.”

“Get him out. Now!” came the order from the colonel.

“Yes, sir. Love-5 out.”

Abe handed the handset to the radioman. “Phil, the men are safe. Let’s get the hell out of here and regroup in the woods.”

Phil, his face twisted in pain, looked at Fitterman. “Abe, you get my radioman outta here.”

“After I help you, Phil.”

“I think it missed the bone, Fitt.”

Phil wasn’t sure if that was true. What he saw was a much bigger wound than he expected. “I can walk! I’ll use my Garand as a crutch. I’ll be right behind you.”

Fitterman looked at him, skepticism written on his face.

“Abe,” Phil said sternly, “get him out and call down a TOT[2] on this clearing and the woods behind. We’ve gotta stop this now. You hear me?”

“I don’t like leaving you. You can’t walk. You’ll be a sitting duck.”

“Go! The TOT will protect me.”

Abe grabbed the radioman, and they ran behind the retreating Sherman as enemy fire from the far edge of the forest intensified and poured in from three directions.

Suddenly, as mortar fire began to shred the clearing, scores of Germans poured out of the woods. Phil tried to stand, but an unimaginably excruciating pain shot up his leg. He collapsed as bullets shredded the dirt around him. Seeking cover to save his life, he managed to quickly roll away from the tank treads and into a shallow ditch.

Although his artillery and armor fusillade had broken the attack momentarily, Phil could tell they had only temporarily slowed the enemy advance. He could only pray Fitterman would call in the more concentrated TOT he had ordered to end this onslaught and end it now.

As the Krauts inched closer and closer, an ear-deafening concussion was followed by dirt and mud raining across Phil’s body. A mortar had landed only a few yards from him; thank goodness the shallow bank of the ditch provided some protection.

As the TOT intensified, he began to quietly pray—that he’d survive the wound, that he’d see his parents again. In the craziness and danger of the moment, a tune flashed through his mind:

I’ll be home for Christmas. You can plan on me.

The melody was shattered by the growing fusillade from his guys, mixed with the fanatical shrieking of onrushing Krauts and their hail of small arms fire, causing him to rub the dirt from his eyes. Tracers and bullets screamed past, inches above his head. Despite the unbearable agony, Phil slowly rolled over and peeked out of the ditch. He felt the color drain from his face as he saw crazed Germans running toward him, screaming wildly like banshees, firing as fast as they could. Less than twenty to thirty yards from him, and they were closing fast.

Phil pressed his head into the ground, suppressing the urge to vomit. As waves of pain, nausea, and mind-numbing fear shot through him, he turned limp and played dead. The ruse worked; within seconds, the enemy soldiers leaped over the ditch and kept running.

Not daring to move, Phil thought, They didn’t see me moving. Maybe I’ll make it.

Then, the same melody played in his mind:

Please have snow and mistletoe and presents on the tree.

A tsunami wave of friendly artillery exploded around him. The earth shook mercilessly from blast after blast.

Thank God for the 155s. They’ll save my men. Maybe me too.

Phil felt clumps of moist loam shower down on him. He knew the earthen covering would not save him from a direct hit, but maybe it would hide him from the enemy surrounding him.

The violent blasts of the raging battle around him strangely began to wane. Phil’s eyes clouded, and his peripheral vision dimmed. The overwhelming pain began to melt away.

He understood what was happening: he was bleeding out, and he didn’t have the strength to tighten the belt around his leg that was serving as a tourniquet. Soon the world around him was silent, and his body completely numb.

So, this is what it feels like to die. Not as bad as I imagined.

Tired beyond measure, he closed his eyes. He felt strangely at peace. His breathing slowed. He began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

Although he would miss his mother and father terribly, he looked forward to meeting his Father in heaven.

On the eighth day of April 1945, he knew that his long, grueling war was over.

I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.

He lapsed into unconsciousness.[3]

TO BE CONTINUED.

~~~~~

The entire series:

• April 8, 1945 (Part 1) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 8, 1945 (Part 2) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 8, 1945 (Part 3) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 9, 1945 (Part 4) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 9, 1945 (Part 5) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 10, 1945 (Part 6) — Phil Larimore the man that bullets could not stop

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[1] Larimore, At First Light, 253.

[2] Time on Target (TOT) is the military coordination of artillery and mortar fire by many weapons so that all the munitions arrive at the target at roughly the same time. The military standard for coordinating a time-on-target strike is plus or minus three seconds from the prescribed time of impact.

[3] Larimore, Ibid, 253-261.

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Learn more about my book about my father’s heroics and exploits at Amazon’s First Light page here. You can also read more of my WWII blogs here as well!

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