I was a machine gunner in H-345 (2nd Squad, 2nd Platoon). On February 6, 1945, there was an event that I won a bronze star for valor. My platoon was supporting a rifle company whose job it was to clear out a line of timber emplacements. These were like log huts, and they were dug in. Our plan of attack was that we and the riflemen would agree on a structure to attack; then a machine gun would fire at that structure while two riflemen would run parallel to the line of fire about a yard apart. Their objective was to get close to the building and once they got close, the machine gun would stop firing and they would go into the building to make sure it was empty.

I was the gunner and a southern boy, Herschel, was my assistant. Our sergeant was Stan Kolokowski–a tall, athletic, and friendly kind of guy–who was directing our fire. We had followed our plan two or three times when Herschel all of a sudden ducked his head below the gun. About the same time, Sgt. Kolokowski gave out a sound indicating that he had been hit. Herschel and I left the gun in position and scurried back behind the nearest log hut. From somewhere ahead and nearby, a sniper had begun shooting at us which is why Herschel had ducked his head.

At about that time, the sergeant made a sound and I jumped to my feet thinking (and I am absolutely certain of this), “Oh well, what the hell.” I ran to the sergeant and fell down beside his body so that it was between me and where I thought the sniper might be. I ascertained that he had a sucking chest wound, about as bad a shot as there is. I tried to administer morphine but found the applicator tube had been squeezed empty. I bandaged the wound as best I could, but because the wound was in his chest, it was very difficult to tie the bandage. I covered the sergeant with his blanket as an aid against shock and ran back to the log hut. I told the lieutenant of the rifle company how serious the wound was, and we all agreed we had to get the sergeant back to an aid station as quickly as possible. One problem was that we did not know whether the sniper was still around. I really don’t remember what followed except that we did get him out and back to the aid station. Although I don’t think it took more than an hour, it was too long. Later, we learned that he had died.

Stan must have been a stateside replacement, not overly talkative but friendly. At some point our platoon was depleted, and we had to reorganize our authority structure. I was the gunner and was the next in line to become the squad leader. It was probably (John) Culkin or (Willie) Williams or both of them together that asked me if I would yield the post to Stan. I saw no reason to balk and that’s how he came to be in charge that day. The sniper could obviously see that he was the one who was giving orders and shot him.

Stan was from New Britain, Connecticut. He occasionally worked in the Connecticut tobacco fields under white tents. He told me that the tents were to primarily protect the tobacco leaves from hail and from heavy rain, but the air under the tents was hot and stifling and the tobacco sap would burn every scratch or cut. After I got back to the United States, I made a point of visiting Stan’s family in New Britain. I tried to explain to them what had happened and that we had made an effort to help him.

General Order #38 for Nicholas Varga’s Bronze Star:

For heroic achievement… on 6 February 1945 when his squad leader fell wounded by sniper fire, [he] crawled forward and administered first aid to his comrade, disregarding the sniper who fired at him repeatedly. PFC Varga remained in this exposed position until he completed his mission. He then returned to his machine gun and turning it on the sniper, killed him.