Honor
November 11, 2009
It was January 13, 1945, in the Ardennes forests of Belgium. Twenty nine days earlier, German forces under Field Marshall Von Rundstedt had launched a full-scale attack aimed at Antwerp, the principal supply port of the Allied forces, beginning a last-gasp effort by Nazi Germany to avoid total defeat.
The various confrontations resulting from this attack were labeled the “Battle of the Bulge” by American journalists during a Christmas press briefing when they saw the giant salient – bulge – the Germans had created in the Allied lines. Much has been written about the fierce battles for Japanese-held islands in the Pacific, and the incredible sea-to-land invasions of Sicily and Normandy, but the fact is the Battle of the Bulge was the bloodiest battle for American forces in World War II. There were 89,500 American casualties, including 19,000 killed and 23,000 missing.
The Germans counted on surprise and Hitler’s belief that the Americans wouldn’t fight. He was wrong. Almost everywhere the Germans went they were held up and sometimes stopped cold by outnumbered American forces, the most famous example being the defenders of Bastogne, where General McAuliffe, when asked to surrender, gave the Germans his famous one-word reply, “NUTS!” (Which the Germans had a hell of a time interpreting.)
After a week of futility, the Germans finally gave up and detoured around Bastogne.
Just south of the Belgian town of Petite Langlir that day was a cold and slightly depressed 25-year-old American captain in the 83rd Infantry Division. His name was Harry.
He was cold because the winter of 1945 was a vicious winter, one of the coldest in memory, and everybody was cold. It was so cold that oil would congeal in engines if they weren’t kept running, and even rifles had to be maintained rigorously or they would freeze into uselessness.
The cold was an equal opportunity source of misery. Before daybreak, Harry and a German-speaking man named Hans Treutel had scouted close enough to enemy lines to hear shovels hitting frozen ground and men speaking. After creeping away, Harry asked Hans what the Germans had been saying.
“Same thing American soldiers are saying,” replied Hans. “They’re griping about the cold, the snow, and having to dig another hole.”
A couple of days earlier, Harry and his company had found some rare warmth in a small village to the south. Sleeping shoulder to shoulder in one of the houses, they were awakened in the middle of the night by knocking at the door. Standing outside was an entire family, including small children, shivering in the snow. They were the owners of the house, desperate to get out of the cold. Harry’s first thought was to tell them no, get lost – soldiers at war commandeer what they need, and the Belgian villagers knew this – but when he saw the small children he ordered his men to find space for them inside. Scenes like this played out every day. One night, standing beside a road in a horizontal blizzard, feeling cold and miserable and sorry for himself, he had watched as two ghostly figures appeared out of the snow, walking down the road. It was an old man and a small boy. The old man was pushing a wheelbarrow and the little boy held on to one of the handles. They passed without a word, and Harry was struck by the “lousiness” of war, that treated old men and little boys so harshly.
Thoughts like these, of the waste and devastation of war, and thoughts of his own wife and baby son back home in Michigan, were part of the reason for Harry’s small case of depression.
The other part of the reason was something that had happened the day before, in the village of Bihain. Harry and his driver, Jimmy Lynch, along with Sergeant Hughes, were reconnoitering forward of their company and had taken shelter in a roofless store during a firefight when an artillery shell came through the opening above, killing the Sergeant and severely wounding Jimmy.
Harry was blown clear of the building, and after his senses returned he found himself otherwise unhurt. Soldiers at the front begin to get superstitious when they experience repeated good luck of that type, and he admits that he sometimes wondered how long his luck would last.
Not much longer, as it turned out.
Harry thought of Jimmy as a kid brother, and by golly Harry’s instincts were well-honed when it came to kid brothers – he was the oldest of his father’s nine boys. Five of his kid brothers were in the military, one of them was already dead, and if he couldn’t be there to protect them he could damn well protect Jimmy Lynch, lying on the ground bleeding right there in front of him.
The Germans in Bihain fought fiercely and were retaking the village they’d just lost. American soldiers were already falling back when the artillery shell hit, and Harry realized that he and the wounded Jimmy were now on the front lines, their position dangerously close to being overtaken by the enemy.
So he stepped into the street, drew his pistol, and threatened to shoot the next soldier who left his position. They weren’t his men, but they listened, stayed put, and the German advance was stopped. That was the first of three times he would pull his pistol and threaten fellow Americans in the next 24 hours.
Sergeant Hughes and Jimmy were both original members of Harry’s company, men he had trained with and shipped across the Atlantic with and come to view as friends, and it hit him hard when he left Jimmy at the aid station, because he thought Jimmy was as dead as Hughes.
Walking back to his company, he was met by another sergeant, who informed him that two German soldiers wearing parts of American uniforms had been captured. Harry ordered them shot, in compliance with orders from Supreme Command, but was later informed that nobody would do it, so he walked over to do it himself.
“How can I order others to do something I wouldn’t do myself,” he thought, but when he saw that the Germans were just boys, one about 14 and the other about 17, he couldn’t do it either.
Honor is a strange thing, a fundamentally male concept, neither about morality nor about legality. It can be about responsibility, but not completely. It can be about pride, but not completely.
Honor is nearly impossible to define… you just know it when you see it.
The sophisticated modern world looks down upon honor, contrasting cultures of honor with cultures of law as though the two are incompatible and the latter more reasonable, forgetting that a legal system is useless when the participants have no honor.
When Harry pulled a gun on fellow Americans in Bihain, and refused to obey Supreme Command orders to kill captured Germans wearing American uniforms, he was navigating through the terrain of honor with the inevitable sense of direction that seems the particular virtue of soldiers of the United States of America.
That night the Americans and the Germans battled for Langlir and Petite Langlir, and twice Harry would pull his gun and threaten a truck driver to make him deliver needed supplies to his men. In the end he would be hit and nearly killed by mortar fire as he guided that truck into Petite Langlir, and he would get back up and finish guiding those supplies to where they were needed before finally collapsing from loss of blood.
Every time I hear about the exploits of Medal of Honor winners, I think to myself that Harry guiding those supplies into Petite Langlir on January 13, 1945, ranks right up there with all of them, but then I’m kind of prejudiced about the matter because he’s my father.
Happy Veterans Day, Dad. I wish I could express better how I feel about you, but it’s late and I need to catch a plane to Michigan early in the morning. All I know is this: your life is my definition of honor.
See you in a few hours.
From Reno, Nevada, USA
The various confrontations resulting from this attack were labeled the “Battle of the Bulge” by American journalists during a Christmas press briefing when they saw the giant salient – bulge – the Germans had created in the Allied lines. Much has been written about the fierce battles for Japanese-held islands in the Pacific, and the incredible sea-to-land invasions of Sicily and Normandy, but the fact is the Battle of the Bulge was the bloodiest battle for American forces in World War II. There were 89,500 American casualties, including 19,000 killed and 23,000 missing.
The Germans counted on surprise and Hitler’s belief that the Americans wouldn’t fight. He was wrong. Almost everywhere the Germans went they were held up and sometimes stopped cold by outnumbered American forces, the most famous example being the defenders of Bastogne, where General McAuliffe, when asked to surrender, gave the Germans his famous one-word reply, “NUTS!” (Which the Germans had a hell of a time interpreting.)
After a week of futility, the Germans finally gave up and detoured around Bastogne.
Just south of the Belgian town of Petite Langlir that day was a cold and slightly depressed 25-year-old American captain in the 83rd Infantry Division. His name was Harry.
He was cold because the winter of 1945 was a vicious winter, one of the coldest in memory, and everybody was cold. It was so cold that oil would congeal in engines if they weren’t kept running, and even rifles had to be maintained rigorously or they would freeze into uselessness.
The cold was an equal opportunity source of misery. Before daybreak, Harry and a German-speaking man named Hans Treutel had scouted close enough to enemy lines to hear shovels hitting frozen ground and men speaking. After creeping away, Harry asked Hans what the Germans had been saying.
“Same thing American soldiers are saying,” replied Hans. “They’re griping about the cold, the snow, and having to dig another hole.”
A couple of days earlier, Harry and his company had found some rare warmth in a small village to the south. Sleeping shoulder to shoulder in one of the houses, they were awakened in the middle of the night by knocking at the door. Standing outside was an entire family, including small children, shivering in the snow. They were the owners of the house, desperate to get out of the cold. Harry’s first thought was to tell them no, get lost – soldiers at war commandeer what they need, and the Belgian villagers knew this – but when he saw the small children he ordered his men to find space for them inside. Scenes like this played out every day. One night, standing beside a road in a horizontal blizzard, feeling cold and miserable and sorry for himself, he had watched as two ghostly figures appeared out of the snow, walking down the road. It was an old man and a small boy. The old man was pushing a wheelbarrow and the little boy held on to one of the handles. They passed without a word, and Harry was struck by the “lousiness” of war, that treated old men and little boys so harshly.
Thoughts like these, of the waste and devastation of war, and thoughts of his own wife and baby son back home in Michigan, were part of the reason for Harry’s small case of depression.
The other part of the reason was something that had happened the day before, in the village of Bihain. Harry and his driver, Jimmy Lynch, along with Sergeant Hughes, were reconnoitering forward of their company and had taken shelter in a roofless store during a firefight when an artillery shell came through the opening above, killing the Sergeant and severely wounding Jimmy.
Harry was blown clear of the building, and after his senses returned he found himself otherwise unhurt. Soldiers at the front begin to get superstitious when they experience repeated good luck of that type, and he admits that he sometimes wondered how long his luck would last.
Not much longer, as it turned out.
Harry thought of Jimmy as a kid brother, and by golly Harry’s instincts were well-honed when it came to kid brothers – he was the oldest of his father’s nine boys. Five of his kid brothers were in the military, one of them was already dead, and if he couldn’t be there to protect them he could damn well protect Jimmy Lynch, lying on the ground bleeding right there in front of him.
The Germans in Bihain fought fiercely and were retaking the village they’d just lost. American soldiers were already falling back when the artillery shell hit, and Harry realized that he and the wounded Jimmy were now on the front lines, their position dangerously close to being overtaken by the enemy.
So he stepped into the street, drew his pistol, and threatened to shoot the next soldier who left his position. They weren’t his men, but they listened, stayed put, and the German advance was stopped. That was the first of three times he would pull his pistol and threaten fellow Americans in the next 24 hours.
Sergeant Hughes and Jimmy were both original members of Harry’s company, men he had trained with and shipped across the Atlantic with and come to view as friends, and it hit him hard when he left Jimmy at the aid station, because he thought Jimmy was as dead as Hughes.
Walking back to his company, he was met by another sergeant, who informed him that two German soldiers wearing parts of American uniforms had been captured. Harry ordered them shot, in compliance with orders from Supreme Command, but was later informed that nobody would do it, so he walked over to do it himself.
“How can I order others to do something I wouldn’t do myself,” he thought, but when he saw that the Germans were just boys, one about 14 and the other about 17, he couldn’t do it either.
Honor is a strange thing, a fundamentally male concept, neither about morality nor about legality. It can be about responsibility, but not completely. It can be about pride, but not completely.
Honor is nearly impossible to define… you just know it when you see it.
The sophisticated modern world looks down upon honor, contrasting cultures of honor with cultures of law as though the two are incompatible and the latter more reasonable, forgetting that a legal system is useless when the participants have no honor.
When Harry pulled a gun on fellow Americans in Bihain, and refused to obey Supreme Command orders to kill captured Germans wearing American uniforms, he was navigating through the terrain of honor with the inevitable sense of direction that seems the particular virtue of soldiers of the United States of America.
That night the Americans and the Germans battled for Langlir and Petite Langlir, and twice Harry would pull his gun and threaten a truck driver to make him deliver needed supplies to his men. In the end he would be hit and nearly killed by mortar fire as he guided that truck into Petite Langlir, and he would get back up and finish guiding those supplies to where they were needed before finally collapsing from loss of blood.
Every time I hear about the exploits of Medal of Honor winners, I think to myself that Harry guiding those supplies into Petite Langlir on January 13, 1945, ranks right up there with all of them, but then I’m kind of prejudiced about the matter because he’s my father.
Happy Veterans Day, Dad. I wish I could express better how I feel about you, but it’s late and I need to catch a plane to Michigan early in the morning. All I know is this: your life is my definition of honor.
See you in a few hours.
From Reno, Nevada, USA
April 27, 2010 - My father, Pvt. Robert W. Wilson was with the 83rd Division, 329th Reg, F Company. He was a replacment and fought in the Langlir and Petite Langlir area. He was KIA on Jan 13, 1945. My oldest son and I visited his grave in Belgium and I was surprized to find that the people of Belgium still remember the GI's as heroes. As indeed all of them were just that! I belong to the 83rd Infantry Divison Association and read your comments there. Tell your Dad thanks from all of us!! - R. Wilson, Oregon
January 3, 2010 - How did I miss this one? Grandpa just told me the story about the boy and the old man out in the cold. He mentioned that they weren't wearing any warm clothing. Grandpa has the most amazing life story. He's a great man. - Samantha, Michigan
November 12, 2009 - I usually read your articles then shake my head at the whole thing and swear I will never read another one. But since I am bound by family values to support you I continue to shake my head and read on. I chose to finally make a comment on this one because it shows that beneath that layer of conservative crap is heart. Can't wait to see you guys. - T and Roni, Detroit
November 11, 2009 - Your piece about your Dad is extraordinary. It captures so well the essence of his experience including the physical and moral struggle. And it conveys so well the love and respect you have for him. We have been so blessed to have fathers whose lives continue to offer us high example and readings for our moral compasses. Please give my best to him and your mom when you see them. - Rob, San Francisco
January 3, 2010 - How did I miss this one? Grandpa just told me the story about the boy and the old man out in the cold. He mentioned that they weren't wearing any warm clothing. Grandpa has the most amazing life story. He's a great man. - Samantha, Michigan
November 12, 2009 - I usually read your articles then shake my head at the whole thing and swear I will never read another one. But since I am bound by family values to support you I continue to shake my head and read on. I chose to finally make a comment on this one because it shows that beneath that layer of conservative crap is heart. Can't wait to see you guys. - T and Roni, Detroit
J.P. replies: See, that's how we lure people in and turn them into conservatives. First we suck you into an emotional trap, then we hit you with the conservative philosophy while you're vulnerable... next thing you know you have a lighted portrait of Ronald Reagan on your living room wall.
November 11, 2009 - Your piece about your Dad is extraordinary. It captures so well the essence of his experience including the physical and moral struggle. And it conveys so well the love and respect you have for him. We have been so blessed to have fathers whose lives continue to offer us high example and readings for our moral compasses. Please give my best to him and your mom when you see them. - Rob, San Francisco
J.P. replies: [Rob is my cousin.] Rob, I will never forget Jay's wedding, when your mother was alive, and the band leader did a married couples dance where he would tell people to sit down if they were "married less than" so many years. He kept increasing the number five at a time, getting higher and higher, and your parents, my parents, and Uncle Tom & Aunt Barb just kept dancing. The song eventually ended and they had to start another song. He finally stopped the band and asked the dancers if they understood the doggone rules! He said he'd never had anybody dance that long before and here he had three couples still going. When he learned that the three couples included three siblings, and that Uncle Bob was also in attendance, he was amazed. We're pretty damn lucky that we come from such long-lived stock, eh?
