How One Loader’s “STUPID” Ammo Swap Made Shermans Fire Twice as Fast

How One “Stupid” Ammo Swap Let a Sherman Tank Fire Twice as Fast—and Changed Armored Warfare Forever

At 8:47 a.m. on June 14, 1944, a single American Sherman tank sat motionless behind the ruins of a stone barn in the hedgerow country west of Carentan, France. Its engine ticked as it cooled. Inside the turret, the air was thick with sweat, burnt cordite, and tension. Through his periscope, Corporal James Huitt scanned a tree line 240 yards ahead—quiet, dark, and unsettlingly still.

Within the next eight minutes, something would happen inside that Sherman that violated doctrine, ignored training manuals, and would later be dismissed by some officers as “stupid.” Yet by the end of the morning, it would be studied, tested, and eventually adopted across the U.S. Army’s armored forces.

It began not with strategy, firepower, or rank—but with how the ammunition was stacked.

An Unlikely Soldier

Private First Class Danny Kowalsski did not look like a war hero. He was a skinny grocery clerk from Pittsburgh’s Polish Hill neighborhood, drafted into the Army with no particular ambition for combat. Before the war, he spent his teenage years stocking shelves in his father’s corner store, obsessively rotating inventory and organizing products for speed.

At basic training, other soldiers mocked him for the same habits. His foot locker looked like a store display. Everything labeled. Everything aligned. Drill instructors called him obsessive. His bunkmates called him strange.

But when Kowalsski volunteered for tank duty and was assigned as a loader, something clicked.

“The inside of a Sherman turret,” one tanker later remarked, “was just a cramped stockroom with consequences.”

Kowalsski understood instinctively that loading speed wasn’t about brute strength. It was about minimizing wasted motion—knowing exactly where your hand needed to go, every time, without thinking.

Normandy’s Killing Fields

By mid-June 1944, American armored units in Normandy were taking heavy losses. The bocage—dense hedgerows reinforced by earth walls—turned every field into a blind ambush. German anti-tank guns and Panzer IVs were dug in, invisible until they fired.

In just two days, U.S. forces in the sector had lost 17 tanks. Burned-out Shermans dotted the countryside.

The mission that morning was simple: push forward, secure a crossroads, support advancing infantry. Intelligence warned of Panzer IVs and multiple infantry positions ahead. Visibility was poor. The ground was muddy. The odds were worse.

But Huitt’s crew had an advantage no one else knew about.

Earlier that morning, without orders or permission, Kowalsski had rearranged the tank’s ammunition.

Breaking the Rules

Standard doctrine dictated mixed ammunition in the ready racks: armor-piercing (AP), high explosive (HE), and canister shells stored largely by convenience, not sequence. Loaders grabbed what they needed as calls came in.

Kowalsski ignored that.

Instead, he reorganized every shell based on probability of use and natural hand movement. HE rounds sat exactly where his left hand fell after the breech opened. AP rounds were staggered on the right. Canister rounds were marked with tape in the sponson racks for blind grabs.

He even chalked alignment marks—quietly, methodically.

When the first German machine-gun burst struck the Sherman’s glacis plate, Huitt ordered fire. The 75mm gun thundered. The target disintegrated.

Then something unexpected happened.

Before the smoke cleared, Kowalsski had the next shell in the breech.

“Up,” he shouted.
“Three seconds.”

Standard reload time was five to seven seconds—longer under stress. This was less than half that.

The second shot hit before the Germans could react.

A Deadly Rhythm

Over the next four minutes, the Sherman destroyed infantry positions, an anti-tank gun crew, a halftrack, and immobilized a Panzer IV. When another German tank appeared, Kowalsski already had an AP round in hand before the order was fully spoken.

Shot. Reload. Shot again.

Five kills. Four minutes.

German crews, trained to expect a certain cadence from American tanks, were caught mid-reposition. They simply could not react fast enough.

By 8:51 a.m., the Sherman had fired more rounds than doctrine deemed possible in that timeframe.

The loader’s hands never hesitated. He didn’t look at the racks. Muscle memory took over. Economy of motion replaced conscious thought.

But speed came at a cost.

When the Ready Rack Ran Dry

Kowalsski burned through the ready ammunition faster than he had calculated. Suddenly, his hand closed on empty air.

The remaining AP rounds were stored in the sponson racks—awkward, slower to access, never meant for rapid combat reloads.

Eight seconds. Maybe ten.

In tank combat, eight seconds can be fatal.

As a third Panzer IV emerged from the tree line, the Sherman’s crew raced against time. The first American shot missed. The German gun tracked toward them.

Kowalsski dropped to his knees, reached blind into the sponson, hauled up the shell, loaded—seven seconds.

The second shot penetrated.

The battle continued. Infantry assaults followed. Another concealed Panzer attempted an ambush. Both tanks fired simultaneously. Both missed—by inches.

The Sherman fired again.

The Panzer burned.

Thirteen Kills, One Tank

When firing finally ceased, the Sherman had accounted for three Panzer IVs, multiple vehicles, and numerous infantry positions. Thirteen confirmed kills.

The American tank was damaged but intact. No crew casualties.

Spent shell casings littered the turret floor. Kowalsski counted them absentmindedly.

Thirty-seven rounds fired in under twelve minutes.

When the company commander arrived and did the math, he shook his head.

“That’s not possible,” he said.

Huitt answered quietly, “He rearranged the ammo this morning.”

A Doctrine Is Born

What began as an unauthorized change was soon tested at Aberdeen Proving Ground. Within weeks, the results were undeniable. Average reload times dropped from 6.2 seconds to 3.8 seconds.

Two seconds may not sound like much. In armored warfare, it is often the difference between firing first—or dying first.

By the end of 1944, variations of what became known as the “Kowalsski Load” were taught at every U.S. tank school.

Kowalsski survived the war, earned a Silver Star, and returned to Pittsburgh to reopen his father’s grocery store. He rarely spoke about Normandy.

But the Sherman he served in still exists—its ammo racks bearing faint chalk marks left by a grocery clerk whose “stupid” idea changed modern armored combat.

And every loader who walks past it learns the same lesson:

In war, sometimes survival comes down to where you place your hands.