January 26, 1945. The frozen forests of eastern France. A burning M10 tank destroyer. Its ammunition cooking off, ready to explode at any moment. 200 German infantry supported by six Panzer tanks advancing through the snow toward a handful of American soldiers. And standing on top of that burning tank destroyer alone, a 20-year-old lieutenant from Texas gripping a 050 caliber machine gun.

 His name was Audi Leon Murphy. In the next 60 minutes, this baby-faced officer, the man the military had repeatedly rejected for being too small, too young, too scrawny, would kill or wound over 50 German soldiers, halt an enemy offensive, and become the most decorated American combat soldier of the Second World War. But to understand what happened in that frozen forest near Holtzwher, France, you need to understand where Audi Murphy came from.

Audi Murphy was born on June 20, 1925 in a sharecroers shack near Kingston, Texas. There was no electricity, no running water, no hope. His father abandoned the family when Audi was 12. His mother died when he was 16. The children were scattered to relatives and orphanages. Audi was alone and he was angry.

 When Pearl Harbor was attacked on December 7, 1941, Murphy saw his chance. He tried to enlist in the Marines, they laughed at him, 5′ 5 in tall, weighing barely 110 lbs. He tried the Navy. Same result. The Army Airborne rejected him, too. Finally, in June 1942, with a falsified birth certificate, Murphy enlisted in the regular Army Infantry.

He was assigned to company B, First Battalion, 15th Infantry Regiment, Third Infantry Division. Over the next 18 months, Murphy fought his way across three continents, Sicily, Italy, France. He was wounded three times. He contracted malaria and fought through it. He watched friends die beside him, so many friends that he eventually stopped making them.

 By January 1945, Murphy had killed over 240 enemy soldiers. He had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, two silver stars, two bronze stars, and three purple hearts. He was 20 years old, and he was about to face the defining moment of his life. The winter of 1944 was one of the coldest in European memory.

Company B was positioned near the village of Holtzwher in eastern France. their mission, hold the line while other units prepared to eliminate the calmer pocket, a large concentration of German forces west of the Rine. On the morning of January 26th, 1945, Company B numbered approximately 40 men, a shadow of its full strength.

 Murphy had positioned two M10 Wolverine tank destroyers at the edge of a tree line overlooking an open field. It was good defensive terrain. Any enemy force crossing that field would be exposed and vulnerable. At approximately 1,400 hours, forward observers reported movement. Murphy raised his binoculars. Six Panzer tanks emerged from the distant treeine.

 Four Panzer IVs and two Panthers. Behind them, approximately 250 German infantry soldiers advanced through the snow. 250 men against 40. Six tanks against two tank destroyers. The odds were impossible. The German attack began at 1430 hours. The panzers lurched forward, engines roaring, spreading into a line formation.

 Behind them, German infantry advanced in squad rushes, using the tanks as shields. Their snow camouflage made them look like ghosts flickering across the white landscape. Murphy’s M10s opened fire. The first round struck a Panther squarely on the turret, but bounced off. The sloped armor deflected the shot harmlessly into the sky.

 The second shot hit the Panther’s track assembly, immobilizing it. The other M10 destroyed a Panzer IV. A fireball rose into the gray sky. One tank destroyed, five remaining. Then the Germans returned fire. A Panther’s 75 gun thundered. The shell struck Murphy’s lead M10 penetrating the thin side armor. The tank destroyer lurched sideways, smoke pouring from every hatch.

 Two crewmen tumbled out, uniform smoldering. A third did not emerge. Seconds later, the second M10 took a hit to the engine compartment. Flames erupted. The crew abandoned the vehicle. Both tank destroyers were burning wrecks. Company B had no armor left. And the Germans were still coming. Murphy looked at the burning M10 nearest to him.

 The flames had not yet reached the turret. The 050 caliber Browning M2 machine gun was still intact, still loaded with approximately 400 rounds of armor-piercing incendiary ammunition. An idea formed in his mind. It was insane. It was suicidal. It might be the only thing that could save his company. Lieutenant, what are you doing? Murphy did not answer.

 He was already running toward the burning tank. German artillery shells fell around him. Machine gun rounds kicked up geysers of snow at his feet. He weaved through the chaos, reached the M10, and hauled himself onto the rear deck. The metal was hot. The smoke stung his eyes. The flames were spreading fast. Murphy climbed into the open turret.

 The driver was dead, slumped over his controls, torn apart by shrapnel. Murphy forced himself not to look. He grabbed the handles of the 050 caliber machine gun, pulled back the charging handle, and swung the weapon toward the advancing Germans. He opened fire. The Browning M2 roared to life.

 Murphy’s first burst caught a squad of German infantry in the open. The 050 caliber rounds are massive, nearly 5 in long, traveling at almost 3,000 ft per second. They do not wound, they destroy. German soldiers went down like puppets with their strings cut. Bodies were thrown backward. Blood sprayed across the white snow.

 Murphy traversed the gun and fired again. Another squad, another burst, more Germans falling. The enemy advance faltered. They had expected to sweep over the thin American defensive line. They had not expected a single man on a burning tank destroyer pouring fire into their ranks with suicidal determination. Murphy tracked soldiers running toward a crater and cut them down.

 He swung the gun toward another squad trying to flank his position and sent them sprawling. He emptied his first ammunition box in under three minutes. He ripped it from the gun, slammed a fresh box into place. The process took 10 seconds. 10 seconds of vulnerability. The Germans did not rush. They were too busy dying.

 The Panzer tanks tried to engage him. A Panther traversed its turret toward the burning M10, but Murphy was too close to the other burning vehicles, too obscured by smoke and flames. The tank commander could not get a clear shot. Murphy swung the 050 caliber toward the Panther and opened fire. The rounds could not penetrate the frontal armor.

No machine gun could, but they ricocheted off the hull with terrifying impacts, sparks flying. More importantly, they shattered the Panthers vision ports and periscopes. The Panthers commander, suddenly, blind, buttoned up, and began to reverse. Murphy had neutralized a tank with a machine gun. Below him, the M10 continued to burn.

The fire had spread into the crew compartment. Flames were visible through the open hatches. The ammunition could cook off at any moment. Murphy knew he was standing on a bomb with a burning fuse. He did not climb down. He kept firing. A bullet grazed Murphy’s leg, tearing through his uniform and drawing blood.

He did not stop firing. A mortar round exploded 20 ft from the M10, showering him with shrapnel. A fragment sliced across his arm. He did not stop firing. Murphy grabbed his radio handset with one hand, keeping the other on the machine gun. Firebase Alpha, fire for effect. Target is the open field directly in front of my position.

 Danger close, I say again. Danger close. The radio operator hesitated. Danger close meant artillery landing within 600 meters of friendly positions. Charlie Blue confirmed danger close. How close are enemy forces? Murphy looked at the Germans somewhere within 50 yards. They’re on top of me. Fire the godamn mission now. The pause then shot over.

30 seconds later, the world exploded. American 155 Mahawitzer shells began falling on the open field. Each shell weighed nearly 100 pounds and contained over 15 pounds of TNT. The effect on the German infantry was devastating. Men who had survived Murphy’s machine gun were torn apart by artillery.

 Shell craters overlapped, turning the pristine white field into a moonscape of churned earth and blood. Murphy kept firing through the barrage. Some shells landed within a hundred yards of his position. Shrapnel winded through the air. Concussion waves rocked the burning tank destroyer. He held his ground.

 The enemy attack disintegrated. The surviving German infantry began to flee, running back toward their own lines, abandoning wounded, abandoning dead, abandoning tanks. The panzers reversed in disorder. Murphy watched them run. He kept firing until the last of them disappeared into the far tree line. And then finally, silence.

Murphy released the trigger. The barrel was glowing red. His hands were burned. His leg was bleeding. His arm was sliced open. His uniform was charred. But he was alive. Below him, the M10 groaned. Metal twisted, flames roared. He threw himself off the tank destroyer. He hit the snow and rolled 10 yards, 20 yards, 30 yards.

The M10 exploded. A column of fire shot into the sky. The turret, the same turret Murphy had been standing on seconds earlier, was blown completely off the hull and landed 50 ft away. Murphy lay in the snow, gasping for breath. He had survived. Against all odds, against all reason, he had survived. For a long moment, Audi Murphy simply lay in the snow.

 His body screamed with pain. The wound on his leg throbbed. The gash on his arm had soaked his sleeve with blood. His hands were blistered from the heat of the machine gun barrel. But he was alive. The field in front of him was a wasteland. Where pristine snow had covered the ground an hour earlier, there was now only churned earth, blackened craters, and bodies.

 German bodies, dozens of them, scattered across the killing ground. A medic came running toward him. Lieutenant, you’re hit. Let me Murphy waved him off. I’m fine. Check on the men. Sir, you’re bleeding. United said, “I’m fine.” Murphy’s voice was flat, emotionless. The battle calm had not yet released him.

 He pushed himself to his feet, swayed for a moment, then limped back toward the tree line where company B had taken cover. His men stared at him as though he were a ghost. “Laura God.” Staff Sergeant Harold Wilson jogged over with the casualty report. Sir, we’ve got four dead, six wounded. The wounded can still fight if they have to. Four dead.

 In a battle against 250 enemy soldiers and six tanks, company B had lost only four men. It was a miracle, but Murphy was not satisfied with simply stopping the attack. We’re counterattacking, he announced. Wilson’s jaw dropped, sir. The Germans are disorganized. Their tanks are withdrawing. This is our chance to gain ground. Wilson looked at Murphy as if he had lost his mind.

 They had less than 40 men. They were low on ammunition. Half of them were wounded. Murphy’s eyes were cold. And the Germans just threw everything they had at us, and we stopped them. They’re scared. If we hit them now, they’ll break, but if we wait, they’ll regroup and hit us again tomorrow with twice as many men. He looked around at his soldiers.

A who’s with me? They were all with him. Every man who could still walk picked up his weapon and formed up behind Lieutenant Audi Murphy. The wounded insisted on joining. Men with bandaged arms and bloody faces who refused to be left behind. Company B advanced across the killing field.

 They moved past the German bodies, past the burning wreckage, past the craters and the blood soaked snow. The advance covered 200 yards in less than 10 minutes. The Germans had not regrouped. As Murphy predicted, the enemy infantry was in complete disarray. Their officers were dead or wounded. Their tanks had withdrawn.

 When company B reached the far tree line, they found only abandoned positions, foxholes, ammunition crates, field kitchens with still warm food. Murphy ordered his men to establish defensive positions. They had just pushed the front line forward by 200 yards with fewer than 40 men. The news of Murphy’s stand spread quickly through the Third Infantry Division.

Officers who investigated the battle found that the stories, if anything, understated what Murphy had done. The official afteraction report documented the destruction of two Panzer IV tanks, the disabling of one Panther tank, and an estimated 50 enemy killed with many more wounded. The report was forwarded up the chain of command.

Division headquarters Reddit. Core headquarters read it. Army headquarters read it. And the paperwork for Audi Murphy’s Medal of Honor began to make its way through the bureaucracy. The Medal of Honor ceremony took place on June 2, 1945 near Salsburg, Austria. Lieutenant General Alexander Patch presented the award.

 Murphy stood at attention, his uniform heavy with ribbons as Patch read the citation aloud. Second Lieutenant Murphy commanded Company B, which was attacked by six tanks and waves of infantry. With the enemy closing in on three sides, Lieutenant Murphy climbed on the burning tank destroyer, which was in danger of blowing up at any moment, and employed its 50 caliber machine gun against the enemy. Patch’s voice was steady.

He was alone and exposed to German fire from three sides, but his deadly fire killed dozens of Germans and caused their infantry attack to waver. For an hour, the Germans tried every available weapon to eliminate Lieutenant Murphy, but he continued to hold his position. The general reached the conclusion. He received a leg wound, but ignored it and continued his single-handed fight until his ammunition was exhausted.

 He then made his way back to his company, refused medical attention, and organized the company in a counterattack, which forced the Germans to withdraw. Patch pinned the Medal of Honor around Murphy’s neck. The pale blue ribbon, the five-pointed star. Murphy saluted. The ceremony was over. When all the awards were tallied, Audi Murphy had received 33 decorations from the United States military alone.

Medal of Honor, Distinguished Service Cross, two silver stars, Legion of Merit, two bronze stars with valor device, three purple hearts. France awarded him the Legion of Honor and the Cruad Degera. Belgium awarded him the Cruadera with palm. Audi Murphy became the most decorated American combat soldier of the Second World War. He was 20 years old.

 He stood 5’5 in tall. He weighed 145 lbs and he had no idea what to do next. Hollywood came calling. Actor James Kagny saw Murphy’s photograph on the cover of Life magazine and invited him to California. Murphy accepted. He had no other prospects. He was a 21-year-old with a fifth grade education and no job skills beyond killing. The transition was difficult.

Murphy had no formal training. His Texas accent was thick. His movements were stiff on camera. He spent two years taking bit parts in forgettable bee movies. But in 1955, everything changed. Universal Studios adapted Murphy’s autobiography to Hell and Back into a major motion picture with Murphy playing himself.

The film was a massive success, grossing over $10 million. It remained Universal’s biggest hit until Jaws in 1975. Murphy became a genuine movie star, appearing in dozens of westerns throughout the late 1950s and 1960s. But behind the fame, Murphy was falling apart. The nightmares had started during the war.

 Murphy would dream of the men he had killed, their faces, their voices, their dying screams. He would dream of friends he had lost. He would wake in a cold sweat, reaching for the pistol he kept under his pillow. The doctors called it battle fatigue. There was no official diagnosis, no recognized treatment, no name for what Murphy was experiencing.

There was only the expectation that soldiers would come home, put the war behind them, and get on with their lives. Murphy tried. He failed. He could not sleep without dreaming. He could not escape the feeling that he was still at war. He began taking sleeping pills. at first just to get through the night, then as a crutch, then as an addiction.

The most decorated soldier of World War I, and no one knew how to save him. In 1966, Audi Murphy did something no American war hero had ever done before. He talked publicly about his nightmares. For two decades, Murphy had suffered in silence. the flashbacks, the insomnia, the violent mood swings. He had self-medicated with prescription sedatives, becoming addicted to the pills that offered his only escape from the dreams.

 But Murphy knew thousands of veterans were suffering just as he was.