They thought he was trapped, but instead, he used a Bazooka to dismantle three Tiger tanks in record time

At 11:27 a.m. on May 23, 1944, Technical Sergeant Van Barfoot crouched behind the charred remains of a German ammunition truck near Carano, Italy. Through the haze of cordite and dust, he watched a nightmare materialize: three Tiger I tanks rolling across open ground just 75 yards away.

Barfoot was 24 years old. He had survived four months of the “meat grinder” at Anzio, but he had never faced a Tiger. These were the apex predators of the battlefield—57 tons of steel, mounting an 88mm gun that could vaporize an American Sherman from two miles away. Frontal armor? 100mm thick.

Standard U.S. Army doctrine was clear: when Tigers appear, infantry withdraws and calls for heavy artillery or tank destroyers. But Barfoot knew the “tactical mathematics.” Radio contact was dead. The nearest American tanks were jammed in a breakthrough corridor 300 yards back. If these Tigers broke the line, the Anzio breakout would fail, and 24,000 casualties would have been in vain. Barfoot looked at the M1 Bazooka lying in the dirt. It was a “stovepipe” designed for a 30-yard range. He was at 75.

PART I: THE IMPOSSIBLE SHOT

Barfoot picked up the 13-pound weapon. The technical manual warned that beyond 50 yards, accuracy dropped to near zero and the shaped charge lost its penetration velocity. Barfoot ignored the manual. He hoisted the 5-foot tube onto his shoulder and sighted the lead Tiger.

Crack.

The rocket motor ignited, screaming across the 75-yard gap in just over a second. It struck the Tiger at the worst possible place for the Germans: the connection point between the drive sprocket and the first road wheel. The shaped charge detonated, a jet of superheated metal slicing through the hardened steel track.

The Tiger lurched. The right track unwound like a giant, broken ribbon, jamming the drive mechanism. The 57-ton beast spun 10 degrees and ground to a halt, smoke pouring from its final drive. Stunned by the audacity of the hit and fearing a hidden anti-tank nest, the other two Tigers turned and retreated behind a ridgeline.

Barfoot didn’t wait. He grabbed his Thompson submachine gun and charged the disabled giant. The crew, fearing the tank would explode, scrambled out of the turret. Barfoot met them at the edge of a shell crater. Three elite German tankers looked into the barrel of a Thompson and raised their hands.

PART II: THE LONE REAPER

The Tigers were stopped, but the sector was still a hornet’s nest. 600 yards to the north, Barfoot spotted a 75mm German field gun being re-manned by three soldiers near a farmhouse. If they opened fire, they would rake the American flank.

Barfoot moved alone, crawling from crater to crater across a mile of exposed agricultural fields. He reached a stone wall just 20 yards from the gun.

He rose and let the Thompson speak. In four seconds, three bursts of .45 caliber fire neutralized the crew. To ensure the weapon never fired again, Barfoot searched the dead Germans, found two “potato masher” grenades, and stuffed them into the gun’s breech. The explosion warped the barrel, turning a deadly weapon into a pile of scrap metal.

PART III: THE 1,700-YARD MILE

As the smoke cleared, Barfoot heard a sound that chilled him more than the Tigers: the voices of two wounded Americans calling for help from a drainage ditch.

They were 1,700 yards—nearly a mile—behind the front lines. Both men were losing blood rapidly from shrapnel and chest wounds. Medics were pinned down 300 yards away.

Barfoot was already exhausted. He had spent the morning crawling through minefields, destroying machine-gun nests, capturing 17 prisoners, and dismantling a tank division. But he looked at the first soldier, a man with a severed artery in his shoulder.

He hoisted the 160-pound man onto his back. For 43 minutes, Barfoot stumbled south under intermittent artillery fire. His legs burned; sweat and blood soaked his uniform. He reached the aid station, dropped the man, drank a single canteen of water, and turned back.

On the second trip, his right leg cramped so severely he had to stop and physically force the muscle to extend. The second soldier lost consciousness halfway through the carry. When Barfoot finally reached the medics for the second time, his legs gave out completely. He collapsed to his knees in the dirt, remaining there for two minutes before he could even stand.

PART IV: THE BATTLEFIELD COMMISSION

Within 48 hours, the report of Barfoot’s one-man war reached Fifth Army Headquarters. General Mark Clark approved a Medal of Honor recommendation with unprecedented speed.

On June 21, 1944, Barfoot received a battlefield commission to Second Lieutenant. He was offered a trip back to the White House to receive his medal from President Roosevelt. Barfoot refused. He told his commander, “The men I fought beside deserve to see this through together.”

He stayed in the line, leading his platoon through the invasion of Southern France and into the Vosges Mountains. It wasn’t until September 1944, in a muddy field in France, that the Medal was finally pinned to his chest in a 12-minute ceremony in the rain.

EPILOGUE: THE THREE-WAR WARRIOR

Van Barfoot’s story didn’t end in 1945. He was a professional soul.

• Korea: He commanded a rifle company, earning a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart.

• Vietnam: At age 46, when most officers were behind desks, Barfoot volunteered for combat aviation. He earned his wings and flew 177 combat hours in helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft.

He retired as a Colonel in 1974, having served 34 years and fought in three of the 20th century’s greatest conflicts. He lived on a farm in Virginia, raising the American flag every single morning until his death in 2012 at age 92.

Note: Some content was generated using AI tools (ChatGPT) and edited by the author for creativity and suitability for historical illustration purposes.