On a clear August morning in war ravaged France, Don Silvey was assigned as a forward observer for the 38th Field Artillery Battalion of the 2nd Infantry Division. On this particular morning, August 29, 1944, the day after his 25th birthday, Don was near fatally wounded by German machinegun fire.

In a small outcropping of rock on what the allies had designated Hill 154, near the town of Brest, France, Don moved into position where he could direct artillery fire on the enemy. As he raised the antenna of his field radio into the cool morning air, the sunlight glistened off the cold metal. Apparently alerted to his presence, two enemy machinegun emplacements opened fire on his position. The German MG42, 8mm belt fed machinegun had a deadly rate of fire of 1500 rounds per minute. A hail of bullets rained down into his position. Don felt a searing pain in his lower leg, immediately followed by the warm, sticky gush of his own life’s blood. He was hit. A ricocheting bullet had torn through the calf of his leg, leaving an entry, as well as an exit, wound. Another had lodged in his ankle. His leg was numb and he could not move.

More Nazi greeting cards, wrapped in copper, rushed to meet him and went screaming wildly off the rocks that provided his only cover. Don knew that he must silence those guns or he would not last long. He had been wounded three times before today, and although minor, being wounded was not an enjoyable experience. He was becoming increasingly annoyed with these Nazis. They were keeping him away from his family, his wife and child and they kept trying to take his life.

Don keyed the microphone of his radio, gave the coordinates, and within minutes had an answer for his immediate problem. Thundering, high explosive death came raining down on his antagonists. The deadly hornets no longer buzzed around him.
Don then realized that he had a much greater dilemma. He was bleeding badly. His lower body was already soaked in a pool of his own blood. Again he turned to his radio for help. He transmitted his message and soon had a medic on the line who gave him instructions on how to stop the bleeding and dress the wound. He was told to tear a strip of cloth from his trousers to use as a tourniquet and with a nearby piece of wood, was to tighten it above the wound until the bleeding stopped. Don was to stay put and help would soon be there. He had no choice but to stay.

The situation appeared to be under control. All Don had to do was wait for the medics to come and get him. But such is the nature of war that all does not stay well for long. Don could see the Germans advancing quickly in his general direction. They would be on him before assistance could arrive and he could do nothing to prevent it. He had only one chanced to survive and he knew it. He smeared blood from his wounded leg onto his face and chest and positioned himself as to conceal the tourniquet from sight. He would play dead.

As Don lay there, wondering if he would see the sun rise tomorrow, he could hear the approaching enemy soldiers. He could hear them speaking; understanding nothing they said. They were on him. He could feel them standing over him; hear their ragged breathing; wondering if he would soon feel the sting of a bullet or the point of a bayonet that would end his life. It did not come. His deception had worked and they passed him by.

By this time Don was beginning to feel weak from the loss of blood. He could not feel his leg but knew he was no longer bleeding badly. He began to hear the furious sounds of combat that he knew so well. He was accustomed to it after so many months of this living hell called World War II. Don realized that the Germans had encountered the American lines. The fighting would be fierce at close quarters as it always was. How much longer? How much longer must he lie here and wait? He remained motionless.
The echoing crack of rifle fire was growing nearer, along with the gruff bark of German voices. The Americans were driving them back and they were retreating. Don lay still and held his breath as his foes ran past him, shooting and shouting. He felt fairly confident that they had given him no second glance as they fled for the safety of their own lines. One passed so near to him that he could feel the ground jolt with the soldier’s weight. Don lay still.

Then a marvelous sound fell on Don’s ears and lifted his hopes for seeing another day. Americans! He heard the rough voices of the American soldiers drawing nearer. He opened his eyes after what seemed like an eternity and painfully lifted himself up to peer from his sanctuary in the rocks. Not far off and advancing quickly, Don saw the reassuring figures of the bedraggled GIs. He would make it. He had survived another day through hell. How many more would there be until it was over? God only knew.

Don raised his arm above his head, waving as best he could, and called out in a weary but relieved voice; “over here!” Then Don passed out.