November 11, 2010.

A Soldier in Winter: Van Barfoot’s Valor

By  Ron  Capps  
 
Van  Barfoot  puts  the  orange  Pyrex  coffee  cup  into  the  microwave,  pushes  1,  2  
and  start.  Twelve  seconds  later  the  water  isn’t  warm.  He  grumbles  a  bit,  then  closes  
the  microwave  door  and  pushes  1,  2,  0  and  start.  The  microwave  beeps  and  the  
water’s  too  hot.  So  he  puts  a  couple  ice  cubes  in  the  cup.  
At  91,  he  still  has  most  of  his  hair;  it’s  brushed  straight  back  off  of  his  
forehead  the  same  way  it  was  sixty-­‐six  years  ago  at  Anzio.  He  wears  his  black  and  
white  buffalo  plaid  shirt  buttoned  up  to  the  throat.  To  see  him  shuffling  around  in  
his  kitchen,  slightly  stooped,  hearing  aids  in  both  ears,  his  pants  pulled  up  a  little  too  
high,  it’s  hard  to  imagine  him  as  a  cocky,  whip-­‐thin,  soldier,  a  6’4"  tall,  25-­‐year-­‐old  
infantry  platoon  sergeant  fighting  against  Hitler’s  Nazi  army.  
He  drops  a  tea  bag  in  the  cup.  As  he  moves  out  of  the  kitchen  towards  his  
office  he  accidentally  drags  his  left  foot  under  the  edge  of  a  small  Oriental  carpet,  
flipping  it  up.  "Get  your  feet  off  of  there,"  he  scolds  when  I  try  to  straighten  it  out.  "I  
do  things  around  here  myself."  
Barfoot’s  home  is  in  a  tidy  little  sub-­‐division  in  suburban  Richmond.  The  
clapboard  duplexes  are  tightly  clustered  among  mature  trees.  The  reserved  parking  
spaces  are  filled  with  full-­‐sized  sedans  from  another  era:  Mercurys,  Lincolns  and  
Cadillacs.  Inside,  the  bookshelves  in  his  office  are  full.  World  War  II  histories  sit  
alongside  tracts  by  Billy  Graham,  Oliver  North  and  Ronald  Reagan,  and  a  vintage  Boy  
Scout  Handbook.  
Like  many  career  soldiers,  Barfoot  has  a  shadow  box  on  a  wall  containing  his  
awards  and  other  memorabilia.  His  contains  the  silver  eagles  he  wore  as  a  colonel,  
an  infantry  officer’s  brass  crossed  rifles  and  silver  aviator’s  wings  pinned  neatly  
above  the  World  War  II  campaign  medals,  and  those  from  Korea  and  Vietnam.  There  
are  three  Legion  of  Merit  awards  and  three  Purple  Hearts,  one  for  each  time  he  was  
wounded  in  combat.  
  In  the  center  of  Barfoot’s  shadow  box  is  an  inverted  star  under  an  eagle  
perched  atop  a  bar  reading  ‘VALOR,’  all  suspended  from  a  shield  with  13  stars  
arranged  in  three  rows  like  chevrons.  The  silk  neck  ribbon  is  blue,  a  shade  the  
Army’s  Institute  of  Heraldry  calls  Bluebird  67117.  Inscribed  on  the  back  of  the  
Medal  is  "The  Congress  to:  Van  T.  Barfoot."  The  Medal  of  Honor.  
 It  is  the  United  States’  highest  award  for  valor  in  combat.  Only  3,448  
Americans  have  been  awarded  the  medal  since  its  creation  in  1861.  As  of  November  
2010,  there  are  only  86  living  recipients.  
  This  is  how  he  came  to  receive  it:  
In  the  spring  of  1944,  Barfoot  was  a  sergeant  in  the  157th  Infantry,  part  of  
the  45th  Division.  He  and  his  platoon  were  among  150,000  Americans  on  the  Anzio  
beachhead.  For  four  months  they  had  been  bombed  and  shelled  by  German  aircraft  
and  artillery  while  they  tried  to  move  forward.  
Their  world  was  confined.  Just  in  front  were  a  wheat  field  and  a  cemetery.  
Just  behind  was  the  Padiglione  Woods,  and  beyond  that  was  the  Mediterranean.  
There  was  only  one  way  to  go  forward:  through  the  Germans.  
During  the  day,  Barfoot  studied  what  the  German  troops  did  in  no-­‐man’s  land  
in  front  of  his  platoon’s  position.  He  watched  where  the  Germans  came  out  of  their  
lines,  where  they  worked  and  how  they  went  back  in.  At  night  he  took  small  patrols  
through  the  irrigation  ditches,  getting  as  close  as  he  could  to  the  German  positions.  
The  order  to  move  came  on  May  22nd.  A  naval  bombardment  started  at  5:45.  
A  light  rain  was  falling  at  6:30  when  Barfoot  moved  his  platoon  towards  the  German  
lines.  In  an  hour  they  were  300  yards  beyond  the  cemetery,  but  the  rain  and  the  
artillery  shelling  had  stopped.  They  were  exposed  and  under  direct  fire  from  the  
German  machine  guns.  
The  platoon’s  radio  was  damaged  by  machine  gun  fire,  so  Barfoot  couldn’t  
call  to  coordinate  his  movements  or  ask  for  artillery  support.  He  tried  to  send  a  
runner  to  contact  the  company  commander  but  the  runner  was  wounded  before  he  
could  leave  their  position.  They  had  lost  contact  with  the  unit  on  their  flank.  Amid  
hundreds  of  thousands  of  German,  British  and  U.S.  troops  fighting  and  dying  on  that  
spring  morning  in  Italy,  Barfoot  and  his  unit  were  isolated,  alone.  
He  left  a  squad  where  they  could  see  the  Germans  and  continued  alone  up  the  
ditch  until  he  was  about  20  feet  from  the  three  German  soldiers  and  the  machine  
gun.  As  he  describes  it,  he  "took  care  of  that  situation"  with  a  hand  grenade.  
He  continued  down  the  German  trenches  until  he  came  up  behind  a  second  machine  
gun.  He  killed  the  three  men  at  that  position  with  his  sub-­‐machine  gun.  "I  couldn’t  
communicate  with  my  men,  so  I  just  kept  on  going,"  he  said.  When  he  reached  the  
third  position,  the  Germans  simply  stood  up  and  surrendered  to  him.  
A  few  of  his  men  arrived  and  together  they  reached  the  main  German  
position  not  long  after.  The  Germans  there  knew  that  the  others  had  surrendered,  
and  they  did,  too.  It  was  about  9:30.  It  had  taken  three  hours  to  get  there.  Along  the  
way  Barfoot  had  silenced  three  machine  guns  and  captured  17  German  soldiers.  
Barfoot  decided  that  the  Germans  were  likely  to  counter-­‐attack  from  the  
railroad  junction  about  500  yards  away.  He  led  his  platoon  in  that  direction.  Along  
the  way,  he  found  an  abandoned  German  artillery  piece  and  destroyed  it  with  
explosives.  
"I  got  up  pretty  close  to  the  trestle  and  saw  there  wasn’t  anything  there,"  he  
said.  But  at  about  2:15,  three  Germans  tanks  arrived.  The  platoon  leader  ordered  the  
men  to  withdraw  to  a  hill  just  behind  the  trestle.  Barfoot  stayed  behind  with  a  small  
team.  He  took  a  rocket  launcher  and,  face  to  face  with  a  German  tank  50  yards  away,  
he  fired  the  bazooka  and  missed.  He  and  his  men  were  now  exposed.  
 He  reloaded.  The  second  shot  hit  the  tank’s  treads,  sending  it  out  of  control  
and  into  a  ditch.  The  other  tanks  turned  away.  
The  unit  on  his  right  was  still  caught  up  in  the  minefield,  and  the  battalion  
commander  needed  to  consolidate  the  line  —  to  close  any  gaps  the  Germans  could  
exploit.  Barfoot  was  ordered  to  withdraw  from  the  railroad  trestle.  He  helped  two  
wounded  men  back  to  the  battalion  rear  area,  a  distance  of  about  a  mile.  Then  he  
returned  to  his  platoon  to  organize  the  men  for  their  next  day’s  fight.    
The  breakout  was  successful.  The  allies  cracked  the  German  positions  and  
continued  up  the  boot  of  Italy.  In  the  initial  breakout  12,000  soldiers  died  on  both  
sides,  and  over  66,000  were  wounded.  
Barfoot  and  his  platoon  stayed  in  the  fight.  Just  outside  of  Rome  he  was  given  
a  field  commission  to  second  lieutenant.  As  an  officer,  Barfoot  led  a  platoon  through  
the  north  of  Italy  and  into  France.  Near  the  town  of  Épinal  he  was  summoned  to  
regimental  headquarters.  When  he  arrived,  he  found  three  general  officers  sitting  at  
a  table  inside.  One  of  them  stood  up  and  extended  his  hand  and  said,  
"Congratulations."  
"I  can  still  hear  myself  saying  ‘what  for?’"  Barfoot  said.  "I  thought  I  had  been  
selected  for  a  patrol."  
"We’ve  just  received  information  that  you  have  been  awarded  the  Medal  of  
Honor,"  the  general  told  him.  
The  next  morning,  Sept.  28,  1944,  in  field  not  far  from  the  front,  and  in  front  
of  the  soldiers  he  had  led  from  North  Africa  through  Sicily,  Italy  and  into  France,  Lt.  
Gen.  Alexander  Patch,  Barfoot’s  corps  commander,  presented  him  with  the  Medal  of  
Honor.  In  a  picture  of  the  ceremony,  Barfoot  has  a  crooked  grin  on  his  face.  
Barfoot  says,  "People  say  I  did  something  miraculous.  I  don’t  think  so.  I  don’t  
think  I  did  any  more  than  any  good  American  would  do."  Yet  his  Medal  of  Honor  
citation  begins,  of  course,  with  the  words  "for  conspicuous  gallantry  and  intrepidity  
at  the  risk  of  life  above  and  beyond  the  call  of  duty."  A  couple  hundred  words  later,  it  
closes  with  these:  "Sergeant  Barfoot’s  extraordinary  heroism,  demonstration  of  
magnificent  valor,  and  aggressive  determination  in  the  face  of  pointblank  fire  are  a  
perpetual  inspiration  to  his  fellow  soldiers."  
The  men  in  his  platoon  apparently  agreed.  It  was  the  soldiers  he  led  that  day,  
not  his  captains  or  colonels,  who  nominated  him  for  the  medal.  
 
Ron  Capps  is  a  veteran  of  the  war  in  Afghanistan.  He  served  25  years  in  the  U.S. Army  
and  U.S.  Army  Reserve.  
 
http://foreignpolicy.com/2010/11/11/a-­‐soldier-­‐in-­‐winter-­‐van-­‐barfoots-­‐valor/