At 14:30 on January 8th, 1945, Technical Sergeant Russell Dunham crouched in kneedeep snow at the base of Hill 616 near Kaisersburg, France, watching German machine gun fire cut down the winter sky above his pinned platoon. 24 years old, three campaigns, zero plans to die today. The Germans had positioned three MG42 machine guns in timber imp placements up the snow-covered slope.

 Each gun capable of firing 1,200 rounds per minute. Dunham’s platoon had been advancing through the Alsace Lorraine region when they walked into a killing box. Machine gun fire rad down from the hilltop. Artillery shells exploded behind them. The only direction left was straight up a 40° slope into converging fields of fire.

 11 men from second platoon had already been killed that week. The snow around their position was churned red. Every soldier in Company I knew the statistics. In the Voge Mountains campaign, the third infantry division had lost more men per day than any other American division in Europe. The Germans held the high ground. They had clear sight lines. They had ammunition.

Dunham looked at the hill. His platoon was 35 yd behind him, pressed flat in the snow, unable to move forward or back. If they stayed pinned down, German artillery would bracket their position and kill them all. If they retreated, they’d be cut down in the open. The machine guns had them locked in place. The temperature was 12° F.

 The snow was 18 in deep. Dunham wore standard olive drab wool, which made him a dark target against the white landscape. Every other soldier who tried to move had been spotted immediately and forced back down. The Germans owned that hill. Dunham crawled back to the company position and found a white mattress cover.

 He tore it open and pulled it over his uniform like a robe. Then he started loading. He shoved 12 30 round carbine magazines into every pocket and loop on his uniform. He snagged a dozen Mark 2 fragmentation grenades onto his belt. He hooked more grenades through his suspenders. He jammed grenades into the button holes of his field jacket.

When he stood up, he was carrying 72 lbs of ammunition and explosives on top of his rifle. His platoon sergeant looked at him. Dunham didn’t explain. He just started crawling up the hill. The first 75 yards took him 18 minutes. He moved during the moments when German fire shifted to other sectors.

 He pressed himself flat when the MG42s swept back across his approach. The snow soaked through his mattress cover. His hands went numb. The rifle sling cut into his shoulder from the weight of the grenades. At 75 yd, he was 10 yards from the first machine gun in placement. The timber bunker had been reinforced with logs and positioned to give interlocking fire with the other two positions.

 Three Germans manned the gun. One fed the belt, one fired, one scanned for targets. If you want to see how Dunham’s mattress cover camouflage turned out, please hit that like button. It helps us share more forgotten stories like this one. Subscribe if you haven’t already. Back to Dunham. Dunham rose to his feet and charged.

 The Germans spotted the movement. The machine gunner swung the barrel toward him. At six yards, the gun opened fire. Rounds tore through Dunham’s white robe. Then, a rifle bullet caught him across the back, carving a 10-in gash from his left shoulder blade to his spine. The impact spun him completely around and threw him 15 yards back down the hill into the snow. He landed face down.

 Blood poured from the wound, soaking through the mattress cover and staining the white fabric bright red against the snow. The pain was excruciating. He could feel the wound pulling open with every breath. For 5 seconds, he didn’t move. Then a German egg grenade landed in the snow 2 ft from his head.

 Dunham kicked it away with his boot. It exploded 5 yards down slope, close enough that the concussion lifted him off the ground. and Russell Dunham got back on his feet. He came up the hill firing. His M1 carbine was still loaded with 28 rounds. The German machine gunner swung the MG-42 back toward him, but Dunham was already inside the gun’s minimum traverse arc.

 At four yards, he fired a three round burst into the gunner’s chest. The assistant gunner reached for his rifle. Dunham shot him twice. Both Germans dropped. The third crew member, the ammunition feeder, threw his hands up and started shouting in German. Dunham’s carbine was empty, 30 rounds gone in 18 seconds. He slung the rifle, grabbed the German by the collar of his felled grow coat, and hauled him out of the timber imp placement.

 Then he shoved him down the hill toward the American lines. The German half ran, half fell through the snow. Dunham’s platoon would take him for interrogation. Blood was running down Dunham’s back in steady streams now. The bullet wound had torn through muscle and tissue, but missed his spine by less than 2 in. Every movement pulled the gash wider.

 The white mattress cover was soaked red from his shoulders to his waist. Against the snow, he looked like a flag. The second machine gun position was 50 yards uphill and to the right. The Germans manning that gun had watched Dunham take out the first nest. They knew he was coming. They’d adjusted their field of fire to cover the approach.

 Dunham could see the timber logs of their imp placement and the dark shape of the barrel tracking across the slope. He reloaded the carbine with a fresh 30 round magazine. 11 magazines left. 10 grenades remaining. He started moving. The Germans opened fire at 40 yards. Rounds snapped past his head and kicked up geysers of snow around his boots.

 Dunham went down and crawled. The pain in his back was so intense he had to stop every few yards to keep from blacking out. He could feel blood pooling inside his uniform. His hands were shaking from blood loss and cold, but he kept crawling. At 25 yd from the second imp placement, he rose to one knee and pulled two Mark 2 grenades from his belt.

 He yanked both pins, counted two seconds, and hurled them in a high arc toward the timber bunker. The Germans saw them coming. One of them screamed. Both grenades detonated inside the imp placement within half a second of each other. The combined blast threw logs and equipment out of the position. The machine gun went silent. Dunham moved forward. Carbine raised.

 Smoke poured from the shattered imp placement. He could see body parts in the snow. The entire three-man crew had been killed by the grenades. He didn’t stop. He turned his attention down slope to the supporting riflemen who’d been dug into fox holes around the machine gun position. Six German infantry were scrambling out of their holes trying to get clear.

 Dunham fired into them from 15 yards. He went through another full magazine, shooting at every shape that moved. He hit three. The others broke and ran up the hill away from the American advance. Dunham let them go. He had one target left. The third machine gun was 65 yds further up the slope. It was the highest position, the one with the best field of fire over the entire American advance.

 The Germans there had been watching Dunham’s assault for the last 12 minutes. They knew exactly where he was. They knew he was wounded. They knew his white coat was now blood red and visible against the snow from 200 yd. And they had him in their sights. Dunham looked up the hill. The barrel of the MG42 was aimed directly at him.

Rifle grenades started exploding in the snow 10 yard from his position. The concussions knocked him sideways. He hit the ground as machine gun fire tore through the air where he’d been standing. He was out in the open. No cover. The blood trail behind him in the snow looked like a road. And the Germans on top of the hill weren’t going to miss again.

Dunham crawled. The third machine gun position was dug into a cluster of timber 40 yards ahead and 30 ft higher in elevation. The Germans had reinforced it with sandbags and positioned it to cover the entire southern approach to hill 616. Every few seconds the MG42 would fire a burst, walking rounds across the snow, searching for him.

 He moved during the gaps between bursts. 5 yards. Stop. Wait for the gun to traverse. three more yards. The snow was so cold it burned his hands. The wound in his back had gone from sharp pain to a deep grinding ache that radiated through his entire torso. He’d lost enough blood that his vision was starting to tunnel at the edges, but he still had nine magazines and eight grenades.

 At 40 yards from the third position, a rifle grenade exploded 6 yd to his left. The blast threw snow and frozen dirt across his back, and the impact from the shrapnel felt like being kicked by a horse. He didn’t know if he’d been hit again. He couldn’t tell anymore. Everything hurt. He kept crawling. 30 yards, 25.

 The machine gun fire was getting more accurate. The Germans could see him now, even against the snow. The blood had soaked through the entire mattress cover. He was leaving a red trail that pointed directly to his position like an arrow. 20 yard 15. At 15 yd, Dunham stopped crawling and gathered his legs under him. He had to time this perfectly.

 The MG42 fired in bursts of 8 to 12 rounds, then paused for 2 to 3 seconds while the gunner readjusted his aim. Dunham counted. Burst 1 2 3. He lunged to his feet and staggered forward. The Germans saw him immediately. The machine gunner swung the barrel, but Dunham was already moving, already pulling grenades from his belt.

 He had two Mark’s in his hands, pins pulled. At 10 yards, he threw them both. The first grenade hit the sandbags and bounced into the imp placement. The second went through the narrow firing slit. Dunham dove flat as both grenades detonated. The blast was massive. Sandbags flew apart. Timber logs cracked and splintered.

 The machine gun barrel was blown sideways off its mount. Dunham pushed himself up. Smoke poured from the shattered position. He moved forward with his carbine raised, scanning for movement. All three crew members were down. One was still moving, trying to reach for a rifle. Dunham shot him once. The Germans stopped moving.

Then he heard boots crunching in snow behind him. Dunham spun around. A German rifleman had come up from one of the support foxholes maybe 20 feet away. The German raised his carabiner 98 rifle and fired at point blank range. The bullet missed Dunham’s head by 3 in. Dunham fired back.

 His first round hit the German in the throat. His second hit center mass. The German fell backward into the snow and didn’t move. Dunham stood on the hilltop breathing hard. His carbine was empty again. He’d fired 175 rounds. He’d thrown 11 grenades. Three machine gun positions were destroyed. Nine Germans were dead.

 Seven more were wounded. Two had been taken prisoner. And his platoon was no longer pinned down. Below him, he could see Company eye advancing up the slope. His brother Ralph was among them, moving with second squad. The Germans were falling back to secondary positions further up the ridge. The attack was succeeding.

 Hills 616 would be in American hands by nightfall. Dunham looked down at his uniform. The white mattress cover was completely red now, saturated with blood from the neck down to his knees. He could feel the wound in his back pulling apart with every breath. The pain was so intense he couldn’t think straight. His hands were shaking uncontrollably from shock and blood loss, but he’d done it.

120 soldiers from company I had been pinned in that valley. Without his assault, they would have been slaughtered by artillery within the hour. Now they were moving. Now they were fighting. Now they had a chance. Dunham sat down in the snow and waited for the medics to reach him. He didn’t think he was going to die. Not today.

The medics reached Dunham 8 minutes after he sat down. They cut away the blood soaked mattress cover and opened his field jacket to assess the wound. The bullet had carved a gash 10 in long and 2 in deep across his back running from his left shoulder blade down toward his spine. The medics could see muscle tissue and exposed bone.

 They packed the wound with sulfa powder and wrapped it with compression bandages. Then they gave him a shot of morphine and tagged him for evacuation. Dunham refused to leave. He walked back down the hill with company eye carrying his empty carbine. By the time they reached the battalion aid station at 1800 hours, he’d lost enough blood that he collapsed at the entrance.

 The battalion surgeon examined him and immediately ordered him to the rear for surgery. The wound needed stitches, debrement, and at least 2 weeks of recovery before he could return to combat operations. Dunham spent 4 days at the division clearing station. The surgeons cleaned the wound and closed it with 43 stitches. They told him the bullet had missed his spinal cord by less than 2 in.

 If the angle had been slightly different, he would have been paralyzed from the waist down. If the gash had been 1 in deeper, it would have severed his spine completely. But the wound was clean. No major nerve damage, no infection. He would heal. On January 13th, 5 days after the assault on Hill 616, Dunham was released from the clearing station and sent to a rest area 20 mi behind the front lines.

 The Third Infantry Division had been fighting continuously since landing in southern France in August 1944. The division had pushed through the Voj Mountains, fought through Strawburg, and was now engaged in Operation Nordwind, the last major German offensive on the Western Front. The casualties had been catastrophic.

 In December alone, the division had lost 863 men killed and 3,200 wounded. Every rifle company was operating at 60% strength. The replacement pipeline couldn’t keep up with the losses. Men were being pushed back into combat before their wounds fully healed because there was nobody else to fill the line. Dunham’s wound was still seeping through the bandages.

The stitches pulled every time he moved. The doctors had told him he needed three more weeks of recovery before returning to duty. But on January 18th, 10 days after Hill 616, he walked into the company eye command post and reported for duty. His wound wasn’t healed. The stitches were still in, but second platoon was down to 18 men, and they needed every rifle they could get.

 The company commander looked at Dunham’s medical file, looked at Dunham, and assigned him back to his squad. No questions asked. They were moving north to Holtzwir, a small town 15 mi from the German border. Intelligence reported heavy German armor in the area. Panzer units from the 19th Army were conducting spoiling attacks to delay the American advance.

 Company I would be holding a defensive position on the southern edge of town. Dunham rejoined his platoon on January 20th. His brother Ralph was still with second squad, still carrying the same Browning automatic rifle he’d used since North Africa. They didn’t talk about Hill 616. There was nothing to say. Everyone in the company knew what had happened.

 General Patch himself had visited the battalion on January 16th and asked to meet Dunham. The general had shaken his hand and said his actions had saved the lives of 120 men who would have been killed by artillery if the machine guns hadn’t been eliminated. But that was Hill 616. This was Holtzwir. Different fight, different stakes.

 The third infantry division was exhausted, under strength, and facing German armor with limited anti-tank support. Every position they held was temporary. Every defensive line was one breakthrough away from collapse. And on the morning of January 22nd, 1945, second platoon would find itself surrounded by German tanks with nowhere to run.

 Dunham’s war was about to get significantly worse. At 0600 on January 22nd, 1945, German tanks appeared on three sides of Company Eyes’s position in Holtz. Dunham counted seven Panther tanks and three Tiger 1’s moving through the morning fog, their engines growling like rolling thunder across the frozen fields. The third infantry division had no armor support in this sector, no tank destroyers, no artillery within range.

 Second platoon had two bazooka teams and exactly 14 rockets between them. The German attack came from the 19th Army’s armored reserve units that had been held back during Operation Nordwind and were now being committed to cut off the American salient pushing toward the Rine. The Panthers came in from the west advancing in a staggered line across the open farmland.

 The Tigers moved up from the south, their 88 mm guns already traversing to engage any targets that showed movement. Company I’s position was indefensible. They held a cluster of farm buildings on the southern edge of Holtzphere with no cover, no concealment, and no way to stop 7-tonon tanks with frontal armor 8 in thick. The bazooka teams fired their rockets at maximum range. Two hit.

 Both bounced off the Panthers glacis plate without penetrating. The Germans didn’t even slow down. At 0630, the company commander gave the order to surrender. White flags went up from three buildings. The German tanks stopped advancing and infantry moved forward to take prisoners. 147 men from company I walked out with their hands up.

 The Germans disarmed them, searched them, and formed them into columns for transport to P camps in the rear. Dunham didn’t surrender. He slipped out the back of the farmhouse while the Germans were processing prisoners and ran west through a line of bare trees toward a cluster of outbuildings 200 yd away. His back wound had reopened during the night.

 He could feel blood seeping through the bandages under his uniform, but he wasn’t going to spend the rest of the war in a prisoner camp. He reached the outuildings without being spotted. There were three structures, a small barn, a tool shed, and a stone storage building with a wooden door hanging off its hinges. Dunham checked the barn first.

Empty except for rotting hay. The shed had nothing but broken farm equipment. The storage building had barrels. Six wooden barrels stood against the far wall. Each one about 4 feet tall and 3 ft in diameter. Dunham lifted the lid off the first barrel. Potatoes frozen solid. Second barrel empty. Third barrel. Sauerkraut.

 The fermented cabbage filled the barrel to within 6 in of the top, and the smell hit him like a physical force. It was overwhelming, acidic, strong enough to water his eyes. Dunham looked back toward the farmhouse. German soldiers were moving through the area now, checking buildings, searching for stragglers.

 He could hear voices shouting in German, boots crunching on frozen ground. They’d be here in minutes. He climbed into the sauerkraut barrel. The cabbage was cold and slimy and packed tight enough that he had to force his way down into it. He sank up to his chest, then his neck, then pulled the wooden lid over his head and settled into the fermented mass.

 The smell was suffocating. The brine soaked through his uniform and into the open wound on his back. The sting was excruciating, like acid poured directly into raw tissue. He bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming. He could hear the Germans entering the storage building, boots on stone floor, voices discussing something in rapid German, the sound of barrels being kicked, lids being lifted.

They were checking every container. Dunham held his breath and pressed himself deeper into the sauerkraut. The lid above him stayed closed. The Germans moved through the building, checked the other barrels, and left. Dunham stayed in the barrel. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. The temperature was dropping.

Night was coming. And he had no idea if the Germans would be back. Dunham spent 13 hours in the sauerkraut barrel. The temperature dropped to 8° F after sunset. The brine froze into slush around his body. He couldn’t feel his hands or feet. The wound on his back had gone numb from the cold and the acidic burn of the fermented cabbage.

 Every hour he would shift his weight slightly to keep blood flowing, but the movement sent fresh waves of brine into the gash across his spine. At 0700 on January 23rd, the sun came up. Dunham could see thin strips of light through gaps in the wooden barrel lid. He listened. No voices, no engine noise, no boots on frozen ground. The Germans had moved on.

He waited another 30 minutes to be certain, then slowly pushed the lid off and climbed out of the barrel. His uniform was soaked through with sauerkraut brine and frozen stiff. His fingers were white from frostbite. The bandages on his back had dissolved completely, leaving the wound exposed. He could smell the sauerkraut on himself from 10 ft away, but he was alive and he was free.

 He moved to the door of the storage building and looked out. The farmyard was empty. The German tanks had pulled back during the night. Company eyes position was abandoned except for equipment the Germans hadn’t bothered to collect. Dunham could see American helmets and rifles scattered in the dirt. He needed to move. He needed to get back to American lines before the Germans returned.

 But first, he needed to urinate. 13 hours in a barrel without moving had left him in agony. He stepped out of the storage building, moved around the corner to the side of the barn, and relieved himself against the stone wall. That’s when the two German soldiers appeared. They came around the opposite corner of the barn at a walking pace, talking to each other in low voices. They saw Dunham immediately.

Both raised their rifles and started shouting in German. Dunham raised his hands. He had no weapon visible. His carbine was still in the sauerkraut barrel. He was soaking wet, covered in fermented cabbage, and obviously unarmed. The Germans approached carefully. The first soldier kept his rifle trained on Dunham while the second moved forward to search him.

 The German patted down his field jacket, checking pockets. He found a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes in Dunham’s left breast pocket and held them up. The other German immediately lowered his rifle and reached for the cigarettes. Both soldiers started arguing. The first one who’d found them claimed ownership. The second one said they should split them.

They argued for 30 seconds. Both focused entirely on the cigarettes. Neither one finished searching Dunham. Neither one checked his right side. Neither one noticed the Colt M1911 pistol in a leather shoulder holster tucked under his right arm beneath his field jacket. The Germans finally agreed to share the cigarettes, split the pack, and gestured for Dunham to start walking.

 They marched him back to the main road where a German Kuba wagon sat idling, its driver waiting behind the wheel. The two soldiers pushed Dunham into the back seat and climbed in on either side of him. The driver put the vehicle in gear and headed east toward German lines. Dunham sat between his captors, hands on his knees, and said nothing.

 They drove for 40 minutes through frozen farmland and small villages. At 1100 hours, the driver pulled off the main road and stopped in front of a stone chateau that had been converted into a German command post. The driver said something in German and climbed out of the vehicle. He walked toward the chateau entrance and disappeared inside, leaving the engine running.

 The guard on Dunham’s left lit one of the lucky strikes and stared out the window. The guard on his right leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Neither one was watching Dunham anymore. He reached under his jacket, pulled the colt from its holster, turned to his right, and shot the guard in the head at point blank range.

 The guard on his left started to turn. Dunham shot him twice in the chest. Then he kicked open the door, jumped out of the Kubal wagon, and ran for the treeine 300 yd to the north. Dunham ran. Behind him, he heard shouting from the chateau, then gunfire. Bullets snapped past his head and kicked up frozen dirt at his feet. He didn’t look back.

 He reached the treeine and kept running, crashing through bare branches and frozen underbrush. The Germans fired for another 30 seconds, then stopped. They weren’t pursuing. They had prisoners to guard and a command post to secure. One escaped American wasn’t worth a squad level manhunt. But Dunham was alone in German held territory with no map, no compass, no food, and a pistol with four rounds remaining.

 The wound on his back had reopened during the run. He could feel blood soaking through his uniform again. His feet were already numb from frostbite after 13 hours in the sauerkraut barrel. The temperature was 9° Fahrenheit and dropping. He was 30 mi behind enemy lines with no clear route back to American positions. He moved west.

 That was the only direction that made sense. West toward the front. West toward the sound of artillery. West toward anything that wasn’t German. He walked through the afternoon, staying in tree lines and ditches, avoiding roads and villages. Every 20 minutes he had to stop and force his frozen feet to keep moving. The pain in his back was constant now, a grinding ache that radiated through his entire torso with every step.

 At nightfall, he found a destroyed barn and crawled into what remained of the hoft. He couldn’t risk a fire. The Germans had patrols everywhere. He pulled dried hay over himself for insulation and tried to sleep. The temperature dropped to 3° Fahrenheit. His uniform was still damp from the sauerkraut brine. The moisture froze solid against his skin.

 He shivered so violently that his teeth cracked together and cut his tongue. On the second day, he kept moving west. He crossed frozen fields and empty roads. He saw German vehicles twice and hid both times until they passed. His feet had gone from numb to burning agony. When he pulled off his boots that night to check them, he saw that his toes had turned black.

 Second degree frostbite, possibly third. He put his boots back on and kept walking. If he stopped moving, he would freeze to death. On the third day, January 25th, he heard American artillery. The sound came from the west. a steady rumble of 155 millimeter howitzers firing in battery. He followed the sound.

 By midafter afternoon, he could see smoke from American positions rising above the tree line. He was close, maybe 5 miles, maybe less. At 1600 hours, Dunham emerged from a stand of trees and saw the ill river. A steel bridge crossed the water and on the far side, American engineers were working to reinforce the structure with timber supports.

 Dunham started walking toward them. The engineers saw him coming and raised their rifles. He was wearing a Germanissue field jacket he’d taken from a destroyed supply truck the previous day. He looked like the enemy. Dunham raised his hands and shouted that he was American. The engineers kept their rifles trained on him. He shouted his name, his rank, his unit.

 One of the engineers lowered his weapon and waved him forward. Dunham crossed the bridge, barely able to walk now. His feet were destroyed. His back was infected. He’d lost 20 lb in 3 days. He collapsed at the far end of the bridge. A medic appeared. Dunham recognized him. Corporal Henderson from the battalion aid station.

 Henderson looked at Dunham’s feet, looked at the wound on his back, and immediately called for a stretcher. They loaded Dunham onto a truck, and drove him to the division clearing station. The surgeons there worked for 6 hours to save his feet from amputation. They cleaned the infected wound on his back and started him on sulfa drugs to fight the infection.

Three days later, while Dunham was recovering in a hospital bed, a lieutenant from division headquarters walked into the ward and told him that his company commander had submitted a recommendation for the distinguished service cross, but the regimental commander had changed it and the division commander had approved it.

Technical sergeant Russell Dunham was being awarded the Medal of Honor for his actions on Hill 616. On April 23rd, 1945, Technical Sergeant Russell Dunham stood at attention in Zeppelin Stadium in Nuremberg, Germany. The stadium had been the site of Nazi party rallies before the war. Now it was rubble and broken concrete occupied by American forces.

 Lieutenant General Alexander Patch, commander of the 7th Army, stood before him, holding the Medal of Honor. Patch read the citation aloud. The crawl uphill 616. The three machine gun nests. The 10-in wound. The German grenade kicked aside. Nine enemies killed. Seven wounded. Two captured. 175 rounds of carbine ammunition. 11 grenades expended.

 And 120 American soldiers saved from certain death. Then Patch placed the metal around Dunham’s neck and said something that wasn’t in the official citation. He said that in 30 years of military service, he had never seen a single soldier turn the tide of an entire engagement through sheer courage and refusal to stop. He said that Russell Dunham had fought like 10 men that day.

 And every man who walked off Hill 616 alive owed his life to one sergeant with a mattress cover and a dozen grenades. Dunham stood silent. His brother Ralph was in the audience along with 40 men from company I who had survived the Alsas campaign. The war in Europe would end in two weeks. The third infantry division had fought from North Africa to Sicily to Italy to France to Germany.

 They had lost 11,300 men killed and wounded. They had earned 36 medals of honor, more than any other division in the war. But on that day in Nuremberg, only Russell Dunham stood on the platform. The medics had saved his feet. The infection in his back wound had cleared after 3 weeks of sulfa treatment.

 The stitches had come out. The wound had healed into a thick scar that ran 10 in across his spine. He would carry shrapnel in his back for the rest of his life, small fragments too deep to remove without risking paralysis. After the ceremony, Dunham returned to the United States. He was 25 years old. He had enlisted in August 1940 with his brother Ralph because work was scarce during the depression and the army paid $30 a month.

 He had survived four amphibious landings, seven major campaigns, and two escape attempts from German capture. He had killed at least 19 enemy soldiers that could be confirmed. He had been wounded three times. He went home to Illinois. He married a woman named Mary and worked as a benefits counselor for the Veterans Administration in St.

 Louis for 32 years. He helped returning veterans navigate the system, file claims, access medical care. He attended Medal of Honor conventions and reunions with the Third Infantry Division. He never talked much about the war unless someone asked directly. And when they did, he always said the same thing.

 He said he was just doing his job. He said any man in company I would have done the same. Russell Dunham died in his sleep on April 6th, 2009 at his home in Godfrey, Illinois. He was 89 years old. His brother Ralph had died 10 years earlier. Most of the men from Company I were gone. The war that had consumed their youth was now ancient history to most Americans.

 But the Medal of Honor citation remained. The official record remained. and 120 men who should have died on Hill 616 in January 1945 had lived instead. If this story moved you the way it moved us, do me a favor, hit that like button. Every single like tells YouTube to show this story to more people. Hit subscribe and turn on notifications.

 We’re rescuing forgotten stories from dusty archives every single day. Stories about sergeants who saved lives with mattress covers and grenades. Real people, real heroism. Drop a comment right now and tell us where you’re watching from. Are you watching from the United States, United Kingdom, Canada, Australia? Our community stretches across the entire world.

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