The Army Tried to Kick Him Out 8 Times — Until He Defeated 700 German Troops with Just 35 Men

 

At 7:22 a.m. on June 9th, 1944, a German officer with seven hundred soldiers behind him walked toward Sergeant Jake McNiss holding a white flag. The air smelled of smoke, cordite, and the damp metallic tang of destroyed bridges. The officer’s boots sank slightly into the churned French mud as he approached the cluster of exhausted American paratroopers. Behind Jake, only thirty-five men remained, their uniforms dark with grime, their faces streaked with sweat and dust. The German officer, crisp and composed despite the chaos around him, raised his voice and delivered his demand in careful English. He asked for surrender.

Jake was twenty-five years old. His face was streaked with black paint, his hair shaved into a rough Mohawk that made him look less like a soldier and more like a man carved out of defiance. His reputation in the 101st Airborne was already legend. He’d been written up eight times, never promoted past private, never much cared for authority. But at that moment, surrounded by seven hundred Germans with a bridge blown to hell and no food or water left, none of that mattered. The Germans had him surrounded. The math was simple.

The officer explained the situation with the dry patience of a man who had already won. The Americans were cut off. No reinforcements. No supplies. No escape. “Surrender,” he said, “is the only logical option.” His tone wasn’t cruel—it was certain, as if the outcome had already been written somewhere in the folds of history.

Jake listened, his expression unreadable. He glanced at his men—thirty-five paratroopers who looked half-starved, their faces hollowed by three days of fighting and the sound of their own air force’s bombs. The bridge they were supposed to defend had been destroyed by their own side’s air strike, leaving them stranded. Jake studied the officer, then the army standing behind him, neat lines of German infantry, rifles glinting faintly in the early light.

He finally spoke, voice low but steady. “You’ve got three options,” he said. “Option one: you retreat. Option two: you negotiate. Option three: you attack uphill into machine gun fire held by men who’ve been eating grass for three days—and are extremely pissed off about it.”

The German officer blinked, perhaps unsure whether this was bravery or madness. Then he chose the third option.

Seventy-two hours later, the math had changed. Seven hundred German soldiers were dead or wounded. Jake’s thirty-five men hadn’t lost a single one.

The Army had tried to throw Jake McNiss out eight times before that day. Eight times, they’d written him up, disciplined him, threatened to discharge him, and each time, he’d somehow slipped through. They called him insubordinate, reckless, uncontrollable. But every time they needed something impossible done—some mad assignment that would break ordinary men—they sent in Jake. Because the truth was, Jake McNiss didn’t fit inside anyone’s rules.

He wasn’t a soldier by nature; he was a man built for survival. Born in Oklahoma during the Great Depression, one of ten children, Jake grew up learning the language of hunger and hard work. His father was a laborer; his mother kept the house running on little more than hope and grit. Food didn’t come from stores—it came from traps, rifles, and rivers. By the time Jake was ten, he could track deer across the plains, snare rabbits with wire, and clean a fish with his eyes half shut. Those lessons—quiet, patient, ruthless efficiency—would shape him long before the war ever did.

At nineteen, he became a firefighter, the kind who ran into burning barns when everyone else was running out. He was lean, wiry, and restless, with a temper that flared faster than dry brush. When Pearl Harbor was attacked, Jake was exempt from the draft. But he volunteered anyway. Not for patriotism. Not for medals. In his own words, he volunteered because “paratroopers get to jump behind enemy lines with explosives and deprive the enemy of nice things.” That was Jake: simple motives, dangerous efficiency.

The Army sent him to Fort Benning for basic training, where his war with authority truly began. His commanding officer, a polished man from West Point, asked if Jake understood military discipline. Jake nodded, said, “Sure.” Then, within a week, he got into a fight with a staff sergeant over breakfast. The sergeant had taken Jake’s butter ration. Jake asked for it back. The sergeant told him to shut up and eat. Jake broke his nose.

That same day, Jake ran the demolition training course faster than anyone in Fort Benning’s history. His commanding officer didn’t know whether to promote him or throw him in the stockade. In the end, he did neither. Because Jake wasn’t just fast. He was brilliant in the field. He understood explosives instinctively—timing, placement, angles. The kind of skill you couldn’t teach.

But his discipline record read like a criminal’s. He refused to call officers “sir” unless they’d earned it. Refused to salute the flag in morning formation. Refused to stand at attention. Refused to follow orders that made no sense to him. When asked why he couldn’t behave like a normal soldier, he simply said, “I’m here to kill Nazis, not to play parade.”

The Army didn’t know what to do with him. They tried punishing him, demoting him, isolating him. None of it worked. Until one commander—either clever or desperate—tried something different. He gave Jake his own platoon. No oversight, no micromanaging. Just one rule: results.

It turned out to be the smartest decision anyone ever made.

Within six months, Jake’s platoon had grown into twelve men—all like him. Soldiers the Army didn’t want, but couldn’t afford to lose. Each one had a file full of disciplinary charges and a combat score that made them indispensable. They became known, half in awe and half in disgust, as the Filthy 13.

There was Jack Wimmer, a coal miner from Pennsylvania who broke three MPs’ noses in one night over a poker game, yet could shoot a rifle more accurately than anyone in the 101st. There was Charles Plowo, an Italian-born New Yorker who spoke four languages and had once been caught running a black market operation out of a barracks supply shed. The Army kept him because he could interrogate prisoners in German, Italian, French, and English. Robert Conn from Tennessee, an explosives expert who once detonated a latrine just to study the blast pattern. And Joe Alleskwitz, a street fighter from Chicago who’d won fourteen bare-knuckle fights during basic training. The Army couldn’t discipline them out, so they sent them to Jake.

Jake didn’t care what they’d done. He cared what they could do. To him, discipline wasn’t about obedience. It was about competence. Obedience meant doing what you were told. Discipline meant doing what needed to be done—especially when it hurt. His men trained harder than anyone else. They could run for days, shoot straighter, carry heavier loads, and fight longer. But they had no patience for spit-shined boots or parade drills.

Jake ran his platoon like a wolf pack. No unnecessary hierarchy. No posturing. Just one rule: be good at your job, or get out. If a man couldn’t keep up, Jake removed him personally. The Army hated it. Commanders complained constantly that Jake’s platoon undermined discipline. Jake’s answer was always the same: “When your men can outshoot mine, then we’ll talk about rules.”

No one could.

By the time they finished training, the Filthy 13 were legends at Fort Benning. Other soldiers watched them with a mix of fear and envy. They were the dirty secret of the 101st Airborne—the unit that didn’t fit the mold but kept breaking every record that mattered.

Before they deployed to England, Jake had one last run-in with authority. He and his men were drinking in a bar off-base when two MPs decided to make an example out of them. They accused one of Jake’s men of being drunk and disorderly. Jake told them to back off. The MP told him to sit down and shut up. Jake stood up instead and broke both their jaws.

Then he calmly took their pistols, stepped outside, and emptied every round into a street sign, the muzzle flashes lighting the dark like fireworks. When the MPs came to, Jake was still sitting inside, waiting to turn himself in.

He was arrested, of course. Eight write-ups, multiple assaults, constant insubordination. His commanding officer looked over the paperwork and told him plainly he should be court-martialed. But instead, the officer offered a deal: there was a 136-mile ruck march record that no one had ever completed. If Jake and his men did it, he’d drop the charges.

Jake agreed, with one condition. He’d do it without changing socks—and without a single blister. The officer laughed, but Jake didn’t. Ten days later, he and his men marched all 136 miles in full gear, sixty-pound packs, not a single blister among them. When Army doctors examined his feet, they couldn’t believe it. Jake just shrugged. He’d been walking since he was ten.

The charges were dropped. Jake and his platoon—the Filthy 13—were cleared for deployment.

In early 1944, they boarded their transport to England. As the engines rumbled to life, Jake leaned back against the metal hull, helmet tilted low, arms crossed. Around him, his men laughed, cursed, smoked, and argued about nothing. The air smelled like oil and tobacco. They were undisciplined, unshaven, unstoppable. The kind of soldiers who didn’t belong anywhere—except in war.

And for the first time in his life, Jake McNiss felt exactly where he was supposed to be.

He didn’t know what was waiting on the other side of the Atlantic. He didn’t care. He wasn’t there for orders or glory or medals. He was there for one thing: to kill N@zis, eat breakfast, and go home. And that he did…

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At 7:22 a.m. on June 9th, 1944, a German officer with 700 soldiers at his back walked up to Sergeant Jake McNiss with a white flag and demanded surrender. Jake was 25 years old, Mohawk haircut, face painted with war stripes, eight disciplinary write-ups, never promoted past private, surrounded by Germans with 35 men, zero food, zero water, and a bridge his own air force had just blown up. The German officer adjusted his uniform, explained the situation.

 The Americans were cut off. No reinforcements coming, no supplies, no escape. Surrender was the only logical option. Jake looked at the 700 German soldiers, looked at his 35 paratroopers. Then he told the German officer he had three options. Option one, retreat. Option two, negotiate.

 Option three, attack uphill into fortified machine gun positions held by men who’d been eating grass for three days and were extremely pissed off about it. The German chose option three. 72 hours later, 700 German soldiers were dead or wounded. Jake’s 35 men had zero casualties. The army had tried to kick Jake McNiss out eight times during training.

 He broke a staff sergeant’s nose over butter, shot two MP’s pistols into a street sign, refused to salute officers, never followed a single regulation he didn’t feel like following, and then he survived D-Day when his plane exploded at 1500 ft, held a bridge against a battalion with 35 men, jumped into surrounded Bastonia, and called in 247 resupply drops while Germans tried to kill him, and went home to sell stamps in Oklahoma for 40 years.

Because Jake Mcnes never wanted to be a soldier. He wanted to kill Nazis, eat breakfast, and go home. And the army spent four years learning that the only way to use Jake Mcnes was to stop trying to control him. Here’s what you need to understand about Jake McNiss.

 He didn’t hate authority because he was rebellious. He hated authority because authority was stupid and got men killed. Jake grew up during the Great Depression in Oklahoma, one of 10 siblings. His family survived by hunting, fishing, trapping. Jake learned to kill animals for food at age 10. Became a firefighter at 19.

 When Pearl Harbor happened, he was exempt from the draft. He volunteered anyway. Not because he loved America, not because he hated fascism. Jake volunteered because paratroopers got to jump behind enemy lines with explosives and, in his words, deprive the enemy of nice things. The army sent him to Fort Benning for basic training.

 His commanding officer asked if Jake understood military discipline. Jake said, “Sure.” Then he got in a fist fight with a staff sergeant during his first week. The sergeant had taken Jake’s butter ration at breakfast. Jake asked for it back. The sergeant told him to shut up and eat. Jake broke the sergeant’s nose. The same day Jake set the course. Record on the demolition training course.

 ran it faster than any recruit in Fort Benning history. His commanding officer was impressed, also furious, because Jake Mcnes was the best soldier in his training class and the biggest pain in the ass the army had ever seen. Jake refused to call officers sir, unless they earned it. Refused to salute the flag during morning formation, refused to stand at attention. Refused to follow any regulation he considered pointless.

When asked why he couldn’t behave like a normal soldier, Jake explained his position clearly. He was here to kill Nazis, not participate in what he called the dog and pony show. That is the US military. His attitude should have gotten him kicked out immediately. Instead, leadership did something brilliant.

 They isolated him, gave Jake his own platoon, his own barracks, his own space. And whenever another insubordinate soldier showed up who couldn’t follow regulations but was too good at killing to discharge, they sent that soldier to Jake’s platoon. Within 6 months, Jake had 12 other men. All of them discipline problems. All of them exceptional soldiers. They called themselves the filthy 13.

 Each man had been sent to Jake’s platoon for the same reason. Too valuable to discharge, too dangerous to keep with regular troops. There was Jack Whimmer, Pennsylvania coal miner. Got in a fight with three MPs over a poker game. Broke all three of their noses. Best marksman in the entire 101st Airborne.

 Charles Plowo, New York, Italian immigrant, spoke four languages. Got caught running a black market operation selling military supplies to civilians. The army kept him because he could interrogate prisoners in German, Italian, French, and English. Robert Conn, Tennessee, expert with explosives, got arrested for blowing up a latrine because he thought the explosion pattern would be interesting. It was.

 The army transferred him to Jake’s platoon the next day. Joe Allescuitch, Chicago, street fighter, boxing champion, got in 14 documented fist fights during basic training. Won all 14. The army gave up trying to discipline him and sent him to Jake. Every single one of them had the same problem. They couldn’t follow stupid orders from mediocre officers.

 And every single one of them was exactly the kind of soldier Jake wanted. Because Jake understood something the army didn’t. Discipline and obedience are not the same thing. Obedience means doing what you’re told without question. Discipline means doing what needs to be done, even when it’s hard. Jake’s men had discipline. They trained harder than anyone else.

 Shot better, ran faster, could ruck march for days without complaining. But they refused to waste time on parade formations and spitshined boots and saluting officers who’d never seen combat. Jake ran the filthy 13 like a wolf pack. No unnecessary hierarchy, no stupid rules, just one principle. Be competent or get out.

 If you could shoot, ruck, fight, and follow Jake into impossible situations. You belonged. If you couldn’t, Jake would remove you himself. The army hated it. Officers complained constantly, said Jake’s platoon was undermining military order and discipline. Jake’s response was always the same.

 When regular soldiers could outshoot, out march, and outfight his men, then he’d consider following their rules. That shut most of them up. The filthy 13 became legendary at Fort Benning. Other soldiers watched them train, watched them demolish every physical standard the army set, watched them break every social rule and get away with it. Some officers wanted them court marshaled.

 Others wanted to study them. Most just wanted them gone. But nobody could deny the results. When the 101st Airborne ran qualification tests, Jake’s platoon scored higher than any other unit every single time. Marksmanship, top scores, demolitions, top scores, hand-to-hand combat. Jake’s men won every tournament. The only category they failed was uniform inspections because none of them cared.

Before deploying to England, Jake had one final incident with military police. Jake and his men were drinking at a bar near Fort Benning, off duty, off base, minding their own business. Two MPs walked in, started hassling Jake’s soldiers. One MP tried to arrest one of Jake’s men for being drunk and disorderly. Jake stood up, asked if there was a problem.

 The MP told Jake to sit down and shut up. Jake broke the MP’s jaw, then broke the second MP’s jaw. Then he took both of their Colt 1911 pistols, walked outside, and fired all 16 rounds into a street sign. Then he went back inside and waited for the MPs to wake up so he could turn himself in.

 The MPs arrested Jake, brought him to his commanding officer. The officer looked at Jake’s record. Eight disciplinary writeups, multiple assaults, constant insubordination. He should have caught marshal Jake immediately. Instead, he made Jake a deal. There was a record for rock marching 136 mi from Fort Benning to another base. Very few soldiers had ever completed it.

 If Jake and his men would attempt the march, the officer would overlook the MP incident. Jake agreed, but he added one condition. He would complete the 136 mile march without changing his socks or getting a single blister. The commanding officer laughed. Said that was impossible. Jake said, “Watch me.

” 10 days later, Jake completed all 136 miles, full combat gear, 60 lb ruck, no blisters, perfect feet. The army doctors couldn’t believe it. Jake’s explanation was simple. He’d been walking and working since age 10. His feet were tougher than bootle. The commanding officer kept his word, dropped all charges. Jake and the filthy 13 deployed to England in early 1944. Once in England, Jake’s men immediately started causing problems.

 The British had strict food rationing, no hunting, no fishing, definitely no poaching on the king’s property. Jake looked at the British rations, looked at the countryside, saw deer, rabbits, pheasants. He started hunting with his M1 Garand, used military explosives to fish, trapped rabbits using techniques from Oklahoma.

 Within weeks, Jake’s platoon was eating better than the officers. They were also violating about 47 different British laws. A local landowner filed a lawsuit against the US government. Claimed American soldiers were illegally hunting his game. Jake’s commanding officer summoned him, asked if Jake was responsible. Jake said yes.

 His men needed proper nutrition if they were going to jump into France and kill Germans. The officer asked what Jake expected him to do. The lawsuit was serious. Jake looked at his commanding officer and said, “What are you going to do? Send me on an impossible jump into German occupied territory. Then Jake smiled, said he was into that bit.

” The officer realized the problem. You can’t threaten a man who volunteered for the most dangerous job in the military with more danger. Jake avoided punishment again. On June 5th, 1944, Jake McNiss and the filthy 13 prepared to jump into Normandy.

 Jake had painted his face with white war stripes, given himself a mohawk haircut. Some of his men had shaved their heads completely. A stars and stripes photographer saw them, took pictures. Those pictures became the most famous images of D-Day paratroopers, the ones you’ve seen in every World War II docume

ntary. That’s Jake McNiss, the guy who looked like a psychopath and acted like one, too. At 11:47 p.m. on June 5th, Jake’s C47 took off from England. Destination: Drop Zone A near Cararantan, France. The plan was simple. Jump at 1,000 ft, link up with other paratroopers, secure bridges and road intersections to prevent German reinforcements from reaching the beaches. At 1:23 a.m. on June 6th, Jake’s plane crossed the French coast.

 German anti-aircraft fire opened up immediately. 88 mm flack, 37 mm cannons, tracer rounds filling the night sky. The C-47 shook violently. Jake’s jump master ordered everyone to stand up and hook their static lines. At 1:26 a.m., an 88 mm shell hit the C-47’s fuel tank. The explosion ripped through the aircraft.

Fuel ignited. The plane’s tail section separated. Men who hadn’t jumped yet were thrown into the night sky without pulling their rip cords. Jake was standing in the door when the plane exploded. The blast threw him backward. His static line deployed his parachute automatically. He fell 1500 ft through burning debris and anti-aircraft fire. His parachute opened barely.

 One panel was on fire. Two others were shredded. Jake hit the ground hard, landed in a flooded field, went underwater, his gear dragged him down. He cut his parachute harness, surfaced, gasped for air around him. The night was chaos. Planes burning. parachutes drifting into German positions. Gunfire everywhere. Jake pulled his rifle out of the water, checked his ammunition, started looking for his men.

 By dawn, Jake had found nine members of the filthy 13. Four were dead. The rest were scattered across Normandy, but nine men was enough. Jake gathered his survivors, explained the mission. They were supposed to secure a bridge at Chef Dupon. The bridge crossed the Murder River. It was critical for blocking German reinforcements. The problem was simple. Jake had nine men.

Intelligence said the Germans had at least 200 soldiers defending the area. Jake’s solution was simpler. Attack anyway. At 6:34 a.m. on June 6th, Jake and his nine paratroopers attacked the German positions around Chef Dupon. They used the same tactics Jake had learned poaching in Oklahoma. Move quietly.

 Use cover. Hit fast. disappear. The Germans were not expecting nine men to attack 200. Jake’s squad moved through hedge, set up ambushes, used German confusion against them. By 9:00 a.m., more American paratroopers had linked up with Jake’s group. His nine men became 35. By 11:00 a.m., they’d captured the bridge at Chef Dupon. The Germa

ns retreated, regrouped, prepared a counterattack. At 2:17 p.m., German artillery started hitting the bridge. Jake and his men dug in, fortified their positions, prepared to hold. At 4:43 p.m., American P47 fighters appeared overhead. Jake’s men waved, signaled, tried to identify themselves as friendly forces. The P-47 circled, then they bombed the bridge. American planes bombing American paratroopers because someone at headquarters thought the bridge was still held by Germans.

The bombs destroyed the bridge Jake’s men had spent all day capturing. Jake watched his bridge collapse into the murder at River. Watched the mission he’d risked 35 lives to complete turn into rubble. Then he started laughing because of course the Air Force would bomb their own guys.

 Of course the army would blow up the bridge they’d ordered paratroopers to capture. Jake’s men looked at him like he was insane. Jake explained the situation clearly. They just captured a bridge the army no longer needed. So now they were stuck behind German lines with no mission, no supplies, and no way home. Might as well make the Germans regret it. Jake repositioned his men on the high ground overlooking the destroyed bridge.

 Set up machine gun positions, prepared defensive lines. If the Germans wanted the crossing, they’d have to come through 35 paratroopers who had nothing left to lose. But Jake didn’t just dig in randomly. He understood something about defensive warfare that most officers never learned. Terrain decides battles, not numbers. The high ground overlooking the destroyed bridge had three natural choke points.

 Narrow approaches where attacking forces would bunch up. Perfect kill zones. Jake positioned his 230 caliber machine guns to cover those choke points, overlapping fields of fire. any German soldier trying to advance would get hit from multiple angles simultaneously. He placed his best riflemen in elevated positions with clear sight lines, told them to target German officers and NCOs’s first, kill the leadership and the attack falls apart.

 He positioned his bar gunners to suppress German support weapons, machine gun teams, mortar crews, anything that could provide covering fire for German infantry. And he kept a mobile reserve of five men. Their job plug holes. If Germans broke through anywhere, the reserve would counterattack immediately. Jake explained the plan to his 35 men, told them the truth.

 No reinforcements were coming. No supplies, no escape. The bridge was gone. The mission was over. But 700 Germans were about to attack, and Jake’s men could either surrender or make those Germans pay for every inch of ground. His paratroopers chose to fight. Jake gave them one more instruction. Conserve ammunition. Make every shot count.

 The Germans had unlimited supplies. Jake’s men had whatever they’d carried from the landing zone. If they ran out of bullets, they’d lose. Simple as that. The men settled into their positions, checked their weapons, waited. On June 7th, at 8:00 a.m., German scouts approached the destroyed bridge, saw American paratroopers dug in on the high ground, reported back.

 On June 8th, the Germans probed Jake’s defenses. Small squad level attacks, testing American positions. Jake’s men killed them all. On June 9th, at 7:22 a.m., the German officer arrived with his white flag. 700 soldiers, multiple machine gun positions, artillery support. The Germans had overwhelming force. The officer dismounted his horse, walked up to Jake, demanded surrender. Jake was out of food, out of water.

 His men had been eating grass and drinking from puddles. But Jake Mcnes had survived a plane explosion, swam out of a flooded field, captured a bridge, watched his own air force blow it up, and spent 3 days getting shot at by Germans. He was not in the mood to surrender.

 Jake told the German officer to attack if he wanted, but he should know that Jake’s 35 paratroopers were dug into fortified positions on high ground with overlapping fields of fire, and they’d been eating grass for 3 days, which had made them extremely irritable. The German officer said Jake’s position was hopeless. Reinforcements weren’t coming. Supplies weren’t coming.

 Surrender was the logical choice. Jake said logic was for people who hadn’t just watched their own air force bomb them. The German officer returned to his lines. At 9:14 a.m., the German attack began. 700 soldiers advancing uphill. Machine guns firing, artillery falling on American positions. Jake’s men waited. Let the Germans commit. let them bunch up on the approaches.

 The Germans moved in three waves. First wave, 200 infantry. Second wave, another 200 with machine gun support. Third wave, 300 in reserve. Standard German assault doctrine. Overwhelmed the defense with superior numbers. It should have worked. The first German wave hit the narrow choke points exactly as Jake predicted. Soldiers bunched together on the approach trails. Perfect targets.

 Jake waited until they were 100 yards out. Then he gave the order to fire. 35 paratroopers, every weapon they had, M1 Garands, bars, machine guns, grenades. The effect was catastrophic. The 30 caliber machine guns opened up first. 500 rounds per minute each. Tracers reaching down the slope. German soldiers fell in groups. The riflemen followed. Disciplined, aimed shots.

 Jake’s men had trained for months to shoot fast and accurate. Now that training paid off. German soldiers fell. Their advance stalled. Men dove for cover that didn’t exist. The bar gunners suppressed German machine gun teams trying to set up support positions. The Germans couldn’t establish a base of fire.

 Couldn’t provide covering fire for their infantry. Without covering fire, the German infantry was exposed. Advancing uphill into concentrated American defensive fire. The first wave collapsed in minutes. Bodies piled up on the slope, wounded soldiers screaming. The survivors retreated down the hill. Jake’s men had fired for maybe 3 minutes.

 German casualties, at least 40 dead or wounded. American casualties, zero. The Germans regrouped, tried again at 11:00 a.m. This time they brought mortars, started dropping rounds on Jake’s positions before the infantry advanced. The mortar barrage was heavy. Explosions walking across the American defensive line, shrapnel tearing through trees.

 But Jake had positioned his men in defilade behind the crest of the hill. The mortar rounds were falling on the forward slope, not the reverse slope where his men were dug in. The barrage looked impressive. Sounded terrifying. Accomplished nothing. When the mortars stopped, the German infantry advanced again. Same result. Jake’s machine guns cut them down.

 His riflemen picked off anyone who got close. The bar gunners suppressed German support weapons. The second wave lasted 5 minutes before collapsing. German casualties, another 50 dead or wounded. American casualties still zero. At 2:30 p.m., the Germans brought up artillery, started shelling Jake’s positions directly.

 Jake’s men hunkered down, survived the barrage, waited. At 4:00 p.m., the Germans attacked again, this time with tank support. Two Panzer falls, 75 mm main guns, machine guns, thick armor that M1 Garand bullets couldn’t penetrate. Jake’s men had no bazookas, no anti-tank weapons, no way to kill armor. The army had promised anti-tank weapons would be delivered after the drop.

 Never happened. The tanks rumbled up the road toward Jake’s position. German infantry following close behind, using the tanks for cover. Jake watched through his binoculars, assessed the situation. The tanks were advancing on the main road. The only approach wide enough for armor.

 The road ran through a narrow defile between two hills. Perfect ambush sight. But Jake couldn’t ambush the tanks. He could only ambush the infantry. He repositioned two machine gun teams. Told them to ignore the tanks completely. Focus all fire on German infantry. When the tanks reached the defile, Jake’s machine guns opened up. Not at the tanks, at the soldiers walking behind them.

 German infantry scattered, dove for cover, stopped advancing. The tanks kept moving, but without infantry support. They were vulnerable. Not vulnerable to Jake’s weapons, vulnerable to terrain. The road through the Defile was narrow. Steep embankments on both sides. The tanks had to stay on the road or risk getting stuck.

 And staying on the road meant they couldn’t maneuver, couldn’t flank, couldn’t get firing angles on Jake’s positions. The tanks fired their main guns. 75 mm shells screaming into the hillside. Explosions tearing up dirt and trees. But Jake’s men were dug in on the reverse slope. The tank rounds were impacting the forward slope. Close enough to feel, too far away to kill. The tanks couldn’t elevate their guns high enough to hit Jake’s positions.

 The angle was too steep, so the tanks just sat there, firing uselessly into the hillside while Jake’s men killed every German soldier who tried to support them. After 30 minutes, the tanks retreated, out of targets, out of infantry support. Jake’s defensive plan had worked perfectly. The terrain negated German armor. The choke points negated German numbers. American casualties still zero.

 By nightfall on June 9th, the Germans had made five major attacks. Every attack failed. German casualties, 127 dead, hundreds wounded. American casualties, zero. On June 10th, at dawn, American reinforcements finally arrived. Elements of the 82nd Airborne. They’d fought their way through German lines to reach Jake’s position.

 The relief force commander found Jake and his 35 men still holding the high ground. asked for a status report. Jake said they were out of food, out of water, and out of patience. But the Germans hadn’t taken the position. The commander asked how many casualties Jake had sustained. Jake said zero.

 The commander didn’t believe him. Thought Jake was in shock. Asked again. Jake repeated, “Zero casualties.” Then he asked if the relief force had brought any food because his men were tired of eating grass. The army eventually figured out what had happened. 35 paratroopers had held a destroyed bridge against 700. Germans for 72 hours. Zero friendly casualties. Over 100 German dead.

 Nobody knew what to do with that information. Jake McNiss should have received a Medal of Honor. Should have been promoted. Should have been recognized. Instead, he got a bronze star and orders to report for his next mission. Because the army had learned something important about Jake Mcnes. He was too good at killing to waste on promotions and ceremonies.

By December 1944, Jake had survived 6 months of combat in France. The filthy 13 were down to four original members. The rest were dead, wounded, or transferred. On December 16th, Germany launched a massive counteroffensive through the Arden Forest, the Battle of the Bulge. German forces surrounded the 101st Airborne Division at Baston, Belgium.

 11,000 American soldiers completely cut off. No supplies, no reinforcements. The army needed someone to jump into a surrounded city and set up radio equipment to call in resupply drops. They asked for volunteers. Jake McNes raised his hand. On December 18th at 3:47 a.m., Jake and nine other Pathfinders loaded into C47 transports.

 Their mission, parachute into Bastonia, establish radio contact, coordinate resupply drops. The weather was terrible. Heavy fog, zero visibility. German anti-aircraft positions surrounding the city. The C-47 pilot said the mission was suicide. No way to see the drop zone, no way to avoid flack. Jake said that was fine. He’d survived worse. At 7:23 a.m., Jake’s plane reached Bastonia.

 The pilot couldn’t see the ground. couldn’t see the city, just white fog and occasional German tracer fire. The jump master told Jake to jump anyway. Jake jumped into fog at 1,000 ft with no idea where he’d land. His parachute opened. He fell through clouds, hit the ground hard. He was in the middle of Bastonia, surrounded by American soldiers from the 101st, who were shocked to see anyone parachuting in. Jake asked where the German positions were.

 A sergeant pointed in every direction, said the Germans had the city surrounded. Jake asked where his other Pathfinders had landed. The sergeant said three had landed inside the American perimeter. The rest landed outside, probably captured or killed. Jake refused to accept that. Spent the next 2 hours searching the city, dodging German fire, finding scattered pathfinders. By 9:00 a.m., he’d found eight of his 10 men.

Two confirmed dead. Eight Pathfinders was enough. Jake split his team into two groups, one on the east side of Bastonia, one on the west side. Each team set up radio equipment, started bouncing signals back and forth to prevent Germans from triangulating their position. At 10:17 a.m., Jake made his first radio call. Bastonia to Allied command, Americans still holding.

Request immediate resupply drop. Allied command responded within seconds. Said they’d send C-47s immediately. At 11:34 a.m., the first resupply drop arrived. One C-47 flying low through heavy clouds. German flack opened up. The plane dropped supply bundles, food, ammunition, medical supplies.

 The bundles landed inside the American perimeter. The C-47 survived and flew away. Jake called in another drop, then another, then another. For the next 24 hours, Jake’s Pathfinder teams coordinated continuous resupply drops. The weather was terrible, visibility near zero, German flack constant, but the C-47s kept coming. Pilots flying blind based entirely on Jake’s radio coordinates.

 By December 20th at 10:17 a.m., Jake’s team had called in 247 successful resupply drops, 247 planes, thousands of pounds of supplies, everything the 101st needed to keep fighting. When General Patton’s third army broke through German lines on December 26th, the 101st Airborne was still fighting, still holding Bastonia. The Battle of the Bulge ended because Bastonia didn’t fall.

 Estonia didn’t fall because Jake Mcnes jumped into a surrounded city and called in 247 resupply drops while Germans tried to kill him. The army didn’t give Jake a medal for Bastonia. Pathfinder operations were classified, but Jake didn’t care. He’d kept 11,000 American soldiers alive. That was enough. After Germany surrendered in May 1945, Jake and the 101st occupied Germany.

They found Herman Guring’s abandoned castle, expensive liquor, stolen raceh horses. Jake and his men through a rodeo, drank Guring’s liquor, rode his horses through a massive party. During the party, Jake met a German woman named Amelia, started dating her. He found out later her father was the leader of the local Hitler Youth chapter. Jake thought that was hilarious.

 The army eventually sent Jake home to Arkansas for medical treatment. While there, Jake got in another fight with military police. This time, he threatened the MP commander. Said once he was a civilian, he’d come back and settle things properly. The army decided Jake McNiss was more trouble than he was worth. They discharged him. Honorable.

 3 years, 5 months, 26 days of service, four combat jumps, hundreds of confirmed kills, multiple impossible missions completed, never promoted past private. Jake returned to Oklahoma, struggled with alcoholism for several years, then had a near fatal drunk driving accident. The alcoholism wasn’t random.

 Jake had killed hundreds of men, watched friends die, survive situations that should have killed him. And when he came home, nobody understood. Nobody wanted to hear about Chef Dupon or Bastonia what it felt like to watch your plane explode at 1500 ft. They wanted the war to be over. Wanted Jake to go back to being normal. But Jake wasn’t normal. He’d spent four years as a weapon.

 The army had pointed him at Germans, and he’d killed them efficiently and without hesitation. Now the army was done with him, and Jake had no idea how to be anything except a killer. So he drank. Because drinking made the memories quieter, made the nightmares less frequent. The drunk driving accident happened in 1951. Jake wrapped his car around a telephone pole outside Pona City. fractured skull, broken ribs.

 The doctor said he should have died. Jake woke up in the hospital 3 days later. Looked at himself, realized he was destroying the life he’d fought so hard to come home to. That night, Jake found God. Not in a dramatic vision, not in a moment of divine intervention. Jake just decided that if he’d survived a plane explosion, multiple German attacks, and a drunk driving accident, maybe someone was trying to tell him something.

 He quit drinking that week, never touched alcohol again, got married 6 months later. Mary Catherine, Oklahoma girl. She knew Jake had served, knew he’d been a paratrooper. Didn’t know the details. Jake never told her, never told anyone.

 He got a job at the Pona City Post Office, started selling stamps, sorting mail, living a quiet life, had three children, raised them well, coached little league, went to church every Sunday, became the kind of man who’d never broken a sergeant’s nose over butter, never shot MP’s pistols into street signs, never told a German officer to attack uphill into machine gun positions.

 His children knew their father had served in World War II. They didn’t know he’d been the army’s worst discipline problem and most effective killer. Jake kept it that way intentionally because he didn’t want his children growing up thinking war was glorious. Didn’t want them idolizing violence. War had been necessary. Jake had been good at it. But it wasn’t something to celebrate.

 Spent the rest of his life working at the Pona City Post Office, selling stamps, sorting mail. Nobody at the post office knew Jake had survived a plane explosion on D-Day. Nobody knew he’d held off 700 Germans with 35 men. Nobody knew he’d saved Bastoni. Jake never talked about it. He lived quietly, raised his family, went to church, died in 2013 at age 93.

 The army tried to kick him out eight times during training. He survived D-Day when his plane exploded, captured a bridge, and held it against 700 Germans for 72 hours with zero casualties. Jumped into surrounded Bastonia and called in 247 resupply drops that saved 11,000 American soldiers.

 And then he spent 40 years selling stamps in Oklahoma, which is exactly what he wanted. Because Jake McNiss never wanted to be famous. He never wanted medals or promotions or recognition. He wanted to kill Nazis, eat breakfast, and go home. He accomplished all three.