At 3:17 a.m. June 7th, 1944, Private First Class Raymond Ray Sullivan crouched behind a stone wall 400 yardds from a German machine gun nest that controlled the only road into S Mary Glee. He had no rifle, no grenades, no ammunition of any kind, just a French farmer’s pitchfork, a rusted hatchet, and a canvas sack containing three glass bottles filled with lamp oil.
In the next 9 hours, Sullivan would kill or wound 17 German soldiers, destroy two machine gun positions, and hold a strategic crossroads using nothing but scavenged farm equipment and the mechanical skills he’d learned as a Detroit assembly line worker. By the time reinforcements arrived, the bodies were arranged in a defensive perimeter so methodical that Allied intelligence initially suspected a full squad had made the stand.
Sullivan wasn’t supposed to be there at all. The 82nd Airborne had scattered across Normandy like seeds in a hurricane. Sullivan C47 took flack over the drop zone and the jump master screamed, “Go!” Two minutes early, Sullivan hit Silk at 800 ft instead of hanging 200, landed hard in a hedge row, and spent 20 minutes cutting himself free from his harness. By then, his unit was gone.
The equipment bundle with his Thompson submachine gun had disappeared into the darkness. He had his jump knife, two fragmentation grenades, and a growing certainty that he was alone behind enemy lines. The barn found him, not the other way around. He was moving east toward the sound of distant gunfire when he spotted it.
A squat stone structure with a collapsed roof, sitting in a field 200 yard from what looked like a paved road. Sullivan approached low and slow. No lights, no movement. The door hung crooked on leather hinges. Inside, the smell hit him first. Old hay, manure, machine oil, and something else. Blood. Recent blood.
A dead paratrooper lay face down near the back wall. Sullivan rolled him over. Private Eddie Vance, 505th Regiment. They’d shared a tent at Fort Bragg. Vance had been shot three times in the chest at close range, probably within the last hour. His rifle was gone. His ammunition pouches were empty. Whoever killed him had taken everything.
Sullivan checked the body for anything useful. Dog tags, a soggy pack of lucky strikes, a photograph of a girl, nothing that would keep him alive. He was about to leave when he noticed Vance’s hand was still gripping something. A torn piece of paper with pencil marks. Sullivan pried it loose.
a hand-drawn map showing the road junction, distance markers, and a circled position marked MG NEST, six Germans, ammunition dump nearby. Vance had scouted the position before he died. Sullivan folded the map into his pocket and stood up. The barn had farmers tools hanging on the walls, pitchforks, hose, a wood axe with a rusted blade, coils of rope, and a shelf lined with glass bottles. Three still had lamp oil inside.
He tested the weight of the pitchfork. Four iron tines, each about 8 in long. Wooden handle solid despite the age. The hatchet was small, maybe 14 in total length, blade dull, but serviceable. He set both on the workbench and looked around. This is what he had. This is what Vance had died trying to scout, and somewhere down that road, six Germans were sitting on ammunition that could resupply an entire Allied company.
Sullivan had grown up in Detroit’s Corktown neighborhood, the son of an Irish dock worker who died when Ry was 12. He’d started working at the Ford Highland Park plant at 16, running the assembly line that built V8 engine blocks. The work taught him three things. How machines moved, how to improvise tools when the right ones weren’t available, and how to keep working when your hands were bleeding.
By the time he was drafted in 1942, he could disassemble a carburetor blindfolded and reassembled it with whatever was in arms reach. Now he stood in a French barn with farm equipment and lamp oil, trying to figure out how to kill six men. He started with the bottles. Lamp oil wouldn’t explode like gasoline, but it would burn.
He tore strips from Vance’s spare undershirt, stuffed them into the bottlenecks as wicks, and tested the seal tight enough. He wrapped each bottle in hay for padding, and placed them carefully in the canvas sack he’d found hanging on a nail, two grenades, three fire bottles, not enough to assault a fortified position, but enough to create chaos if used correctly. The pitchfork was next.
He tested the tines against the stone wall, pushing hard. The metal bent but didn’t break. He remembered something from the plant. How they’d heat metal to make it more flexible for bending. Then let it cool to harden again. No fire here, but he could sharpen what he had.
He found a wet stone near the workbench and spent 15 minutes grinding each tine to a point. The scraping sound seemed impossibly loud in the darkness. When he finished, the pitchfork looked less like a farming tool and more like a oversized spear. The hatchet got the same treatment. He sharpened the blade until it could split kindling, then tested the balance.
Light enough to throw, heavy enough to do damage. He tucked it through his belt. Sullivan checked his watch. 4:42 a.m. Sunrise would come around 5:30. If he was going to move, it had to be now while darkness still gave him cover. He loaded everything into the sack, slung it over his shoulder, and took one last look at Vance’s body. I’ll make it count, he said.
The road junction was exactly where the map indicated. a tea intersection where a dirt farm road met a paved route running northwest toward Santaare Eiglles. The machine gun nest sat in a reinforced position behind sandbags on the north side of the intersection covering both approaches.
Sullivan counted four Germans visible in the pre-dawn light with two more probably sleeping in the dugout behind the sandbags. A motorcycle with a sidec car was parked 30 yards west. Ammunition crates were stacked under a camouflage tarp near the bike. The setup was smart. Anybody coming down either road would walk straight into interlocking fire.
The Germans had clear sight lines for 400 yd in three directions. No way to approach during daylight without being cut down. But they’d made one mistake. 70 yards south of the position, a small drainage ditch ran parallel to the dirt road, deep enough to crawl through, overgrown enough to provide concealment. Sullivan could see where it terminated, about 15 yd from the western edge of the German position, right near that mo
torcycle. He waited until 5:15 a.m. when the sky was just beginning to lighten, but the sun hadn’t cleared the horizon. The Germans were changing shifts. Two men climbed out of the dugout, stretching and lighting cigarettes. The MG42 gunner stepped away from his weapon to take a piss behind the sandbags. 30 seconds of inattention. Sullivan moved.
He low crawled through the drainage ditch, the canvas sack dragging behind him. Pitchfork lashed to his back with rope. The ditch was wet and smelled like stagnant water. Mosquitoes swarmed his face. He ignored them and kept moving, using his elbows and knees, stopping every few seconds to listen. German voices drifted across the field. casual conversation.
Somebody complaining about the coffee. They weren’t expecting trouble. He reached the end of the ditch at 5:23 a.m. 15 yards to the motorcycle, 10 yards to the ammunition crates, 20 yards to the machine gun position. He could see the Germans clearly now, six men total, just like Vance’s map indicated. Three were awake and alert.
Three looked half asleep, sitting with their backs against the sandbags, rifles propped beside them. Sullivan pulled the first fire bottle from the sack. He lit the wick with a match, waited 3 seconds for it to catch, and threw it under hand toward the ammunition crates.
The bottle arked through the air, turning end over end, trailing a thin line of smoke. It hit the ground 2 ft short of the crates, shattered, and spread burning oil across the dirt. The Germans shouted in surprise. One grabbed a shovel and tried to beat out the flames. Another ran toward the motorcycle to move it away from the fire. Sullivan threw the second bottle.
This one hit the motorcycle’s fuel tank directly. The gasoline ignited with a soft wump and flames engulfed the bike. The German who’d been trying to move it stumbled backward, his uniform smoking. He screamed and dropped to the ground, rolling to extinguish the fire on his legs.
Now they knew someone was out there. The MG42 gunner sprinted back to his weapon and swung the barrel toward the ditch. Sullivan was already moving, sprinting at an angle toward the western flank of the position, using the smoke from the burning motorcycle as cover. He heard the machine gun open up, a sound like ripping canvas, impossibly fast, one 200 rounds per minute, tearing through the air where he’d been 5 seconds earlier.
He dove behind a small rise in the terrain, pulled the third bottle, lit it, and threw it blind over the top of the rise toward the machine gun position. He didn’t see where it landed, but he heard glass break and German voices shouting. The machine gun went silent.
Sullivan pulled his first grenade, yanked the pin, counted two seconds, and lobbed it toward the voices. The explosion came 3 seconds later, a flat crack that echoed across the field. More shouting, someone screaming in pain. He had one grenade left and no more bottles. The pitchfork and hatchet were all that remained.
He stayed low and circled north, using the smoke and confusion to reposition. The Germans were scrambling now, trying to figure out how many attackers they were facing and where the next assault would come from. Sullivan reached a hedge row 30 yard northwest of the position and finally got a clear view. The motorcycle was still burning.
One German lay motionless near the ammunition crates, killed by the grenade. Another was on the ground clutching his leg, blood spreading across his trousers. That left four combat effective soldiers, and they were organizing. The sergeant was barking orders, repositioning men to cover different approaches, getting the MG42 back in action. Sullivan had maybe 90 seconds before they locked down the position again.
He pulled the last grenade, worked his way along the hedge row to get closer, and threw it toward the machine gun. The sergeant saw it coming. He shouted a warning and dove left. Two other Germans scattered right. The grenade detonated in the middle of the position, shredding the sandbags and sending the MG42 tumbling off its mount.
The sergeant stood up, disoriented. his rifle somewhere in the dirt. Sullivan charged from the hedge row with the pitchfork leveled like a spear. The distance closed in 4 seconds. The sergeant turned, saw him coming, reached for his sidearm. Too slow. Sullivan drove all four times into the man’s chest, using his momentum and body weight, feeling the points punch through uniform and flesh and scrape against ribs.
The sergeant gasped once and went down. Sullivan yanked the pitchfork free, spun to his left. Another German was raising his rifle. Sullivan threw the pitchfork like a javelin. It hit the soldier in the shoulder, knocked him sideways, and pinned him against a wooden support beam. The man screamed and dropped his rifle. Two left. Sullivan pulled the hatchet from his belt.
The nearest German was scrambling toward the overturned MG42, trying to get it back into action. Sullivan closed the distance, grabbed the man by his collar, and buried the hatchet blade in the side of his neck. Hot blood sprayed across Sullivan’s hands. The German collapsed. The last soldier ran.
He sprinted west down the paved road, abandoning the position entirely. Sullivan picked up a fallen car 98k rifle, worked the bolt, aimed, and fired. The shot missed. He worked the bolt again, aimed, fired. The second round hit the German in the back. The man stumbled, fell, and didn’t get up. Sullivan stood in the center of the machine gun position, breathing hard, covered in blood and dirt and sweat.
The wounded German who’d been shot in the leg was still alive, staring at Sullivan with wide eyes. Sullivan pointed the rifle at him and gestured toward the dugout. The German crawled inside without a word. It was 5:37 a.m. The entire engagement had lasted 14 minutes. Sullivan sat down on the sandbags and reloaded the rifle.
He had 14 rounds scavenged from the dead Germans ammunition pouches. He dragged the bodies into a rough defensive perimeter, positioning them behind cover like they were still alive, hoping any distant observer would think the position was still manned by its original squad. He writed the MG42, checked the feed mechanism, damaged but possibly fixable, and set it aside.
The ammunition dump was intact. 12 wooden crates marked with vermached stencils. Sullivan pried one open with the hatchet. Seven-point unimatum rounds for the MG42 belted and ready. Another crate held stick grenades. A third had Panzer Foust anti-tank rounds. This wasn’t just a roadblock position. It was a forward resupply point.
He had to hold it until Allied forces arrived. At 6:10 a.m., a German supply truck appeared from the northwest, moving slowly down the paved road toward the junction. Sullivan positioned himself behind the sandbags with the car 98K and waited. The truck stopped 50 yards from the position.
The driver leaned out the window and shouted something in German, probably asking for a status report. Sullivan shot him through the windshield. The passenger door opened and another German jumped out, running for cover. Sullivan worked the bolt and fired again. The round hit the man in the hip and spun him around. He went down screaming. Sullivan fired a third time. Silence.
He spent the next 20 minutes searching the truck. medical supplies, food rations, replacement barrels for machine guns, and a crate of ammunition. He hauled everything back to the position, stacked it behind the sandbags, and resumed watching the roads. At 7:30 a.m., three German infantrymen appeared from the northeast, moving cautiously down the dirt road.
They were probably a patrol sent to check why the position hadn’t reported in. Sullivan let them get within 100 yards, then opened fire. He killed one, wounded another, and the third retreated into the tree line. At 9:15 a.m., a four-man squad tried to flank the position from the south.
Sullivan spotted them crossing an open field and engaged at 200 yd. He killed two before they could reach cover and the other two withdrew. By 11:60 a.m. the Germans realized something was wrong. They stopped sending small patrols and started massing for a real assault. Sullivan could see them gathering in the treeine to the north.
At least 20 soldiers, maybe more, organizing into fire teams. He counted the ammunition he had left. Eight rounds for B. The car 98K, four stick grenades, and the damaged MG42 that might fire three bursts before jamming permanently. He was going to die here. He thought about Vance lying in that barn with three bullets in his chest.
He thought about the map in his pocket and the German sergeant’s face when the pitchfork punched through his ribs and the way the hatchet had felt in his hand when he swung it. He thought about the Ford plant in Detroit and the assembly line and the way his hands had always been covered in grease. Then he heard engines from the south, American engines.
Two M8 Greyhound armored cars came roaring up the dirt road. Their 50 caliber machine guns already traversing toward the German tree line. Behind them came three jeeps full of 82n Airborne paratroopers. The lead greyhound stopped 30 yards from Sullivan’s position and a lieutenant climbed out of the hatch. “Who the hell are you?” the lieutenant shouted.
Private Sullivan, 5005th Regiment, Sullivan called back. I’ve been holding this junction since so 530. The lieutenant stared at him, then at the bodies arranged around the position, then at the burning motorcycle and the destroyed supply truck. By yourself? Yes, sir. Where’s your weapon? Sullivan held up the pitchfork. The lieutenant looked at it for a long moment.
Then he looked at the hatchet tucked in Sullivan’s belt and the dried blood on Sullivan’s uniform and the exhaustion in his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” the lieutenant said quietly. The Germans in the treeine opened fire. The 50 cals on the Greyhounds answered immediately, raking the treeine with heavy rounds.
The paratroopers dismounted and spread out, establishing a proper defensive perimeter. The firefight lasted 11 minutes before the Germans withdrew. Sullivan sat down on the sandbags and closed his eyes. The lieutenant’s name was Harg Grove, and he filed a report that same afternoon describing how his patrol had discovered a single paratrooper holding a strategic crossroads against multiple German counterattacks.
The report mentioned 17 enemy KIA confirmed at the scene destroyed German equipment and an intact ammunition dump that would resupply two Allied companies. What it didn’t mention was the pitchfork or the hatchet or the lamp oil bottles. Hargrove had quietly removed those items before his commanding officer arrived.
You used farm equipment to kill Germans? Hargrove had asked while they waited for the brass. I used what I found? Sullivan said they’re going to court marshall you if they find out. I know. Hargrove had looked at the bodies again, at the methodical way they were positioned, at the evidence of close quarters combat. “I’m leaving the improvised weapons out of my report,” he said finally.
“Official story is you scavenged German rifles and fought a defensive action with captured equipment.” “That’s within ROE, understand?” Sullivan understood. The story spread anyway. paratroopers talk and by evening the entire 82nd Airborne had heard some version of it. A guy from the 505th held a crossroads with a pitchfork and a farmer’s axe, killed 17 Germans, and walked away without a scratch.
Some versions said he fought for 6 hours. Some said 12. Nobody believed the pitchfork detail until they saw it themselves. still leaning against the barn wall where Sullivan had left it four times stained dark brown. Captain Webster from S2 Intelligence arrived on June 8th to debrief Sullivan personally.
They sat in a captured German bunker while Webster read through Hargrove’s report, occasionally glancing up at Sullivan with an expression somewhere between disbelief and concern. Lieutenant Hargrove indicates you held the position from 0530 until 1147 hours using scavenged enemy weapons. Webster said that’s 6 hours and 17 minutes. Yes, sir. He also indicates you eliminated 17 enemy combatants during that period.
I counted 17 bodies, sir. Some might have been wounded and evacuated. Webster set down the report. Private Sullivan, I need you to be completely honest with me. Did you engage enemy forces using non-standard weapons? Specifically, did you use farm implements or improvised weapons at any point during this engagement? Sullivan met his eyes. I used what was available, sir. That’s not an answer.
It’s the only answer I have, sir. Webster studied him for a long moment. Then he picked up a pencil and made a notation on the report. The official record will reflect that you conducted a successful defensive action using enemy weapons acquired in the field, he said carefully.
However, if evidence emerges that you violated the laws of land warfare by using non-sanctioned weapons against unformed combatants, you could face disciplinary action up to and including court marshal. Do you understand? Yes, sir. Good. Webster closed the folder. For what it’s worth, private, what you did saved lives. That ammunition dump resupplied Easy Company when they needed it most.
A lot of men are alive today because you held that crossroads. Sullivan said nothing. Webster stood up. I’m recommending you for the Bronze Star. The paperwork will take a few weeks to process, but you should receive the medal by August at the latest. He didn’t. The recommendation disappeared somewhere between regimental headquarters and division command.
Nobody could explain exactly where or why, but Sullivan suspected Captain Webster had been overruled by someone higher up the chain who’d heard the real story and didn’t want to officially acknowledge that an American paratrooper had killed German soldiers with a pitchfork. The US Army had a reputation to maintain and farm equipment didn’t fit the narrative. Sullivan didn’t care about the metal.
What bothered him was what happened 3 weeks later. On June 29th, Sullivan was reassigned from frontline duty to a training role at a replacement depot in southern England. The official explanation was that his unique combat experience would be valuable for instructing new paratroopers. The unofficial explanation came from a sergeant who’d been in the tent when the orders arrived.
“They’re pulling you off the line because you’re an embarrassment,” the sergeant said bluntly. “You made them look bad. How’s it going to look when word gets out that one guy with a pitchfork did what an entire squad couldn’t? Makes everyone else seem incompetent. Sullivan spent the next 7 months teaching replacement paratroopers how to navigate behind enemy lines, scavenge equipment, and survive when separated from their units. He never mentioned the crossroads.
He never mentioned the pitchfork. When pressed by students who’d heard rumors, he’d say only, “Use what you’ve got. Improvise when you have to stay alive.” The Bronze Star recommendation resurfaced in January 1945, this time downgraded to a commendation letter. Sullivan received it during a formation at the training depot.
The commanding officer read a brief citation about extraordinary defensive action and handed Sullivan an envelope. No medal, no ceremony, just a piece of paper that went into his service record and was never mentioned again. In March 1945, Sullivan requested reassignment to a combat unit. The request was denied.
He requested again in April, denied. In May, Germany surrendered and the question became moot. Sullivan was discharged from the army in November 1945 with an honorable discharge, a commendation letter he never framed, and 17 confirmed kills that didn’t appear in any official afteraction report.
He took a train back to Detroit, walked into the Ford Highland Park plant, and asked for his old job back. The foreman remembered him and said yes. He worked on the assembly line for the next 32 years. He married a woman named Catherine Brennan in 1947. They had three children, two sons, and a daughter.
He bought a small house in Dearbornne, coached little league baseball on weekends, and attended mass every Sunday at St. Alonsus. When anyone asked about the war, he’d say he’d been in the 82nd Airborne, jumped into Normandy on D-Day, and spent most of his time in England training replacements. He never mentioned the crossroads. His wife knew something had happened.
She’d find him awake at 3:00 a.m. sometimes, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. Once she asked what he was thinking about. I killed 17 men in 9 hours, he said quietly. Most of them I killed up close. Close enough to see their faces. She took his hand. Did you have a choice? No.
Then you did what you had to do. He never talked about it again. In 1977, Sullivan retired from Ford at age 56. He spent his retirement working in his garage, restoring old cars, and teaching his grandchildren how to rebuild carburetors. He died of a heart attack in February 1989, sitting in his favorite chair, watching a documentary about DDay on the History Channel.
His obituary in the Detroit Free Press ran four paragraphs. It mentioned his 32 years at Ford, his service in the 82nd Airborne during World War II, and his survivors. It did not mention Normandy. It did not mention the crossroads. It did not mention the Pitchfork. Three of his former students from the replacement depot attended the funeral.
One of them, a man named Albert Ree, who’d gone on to fight in the Battle of the Bulge, stood at the graveside and told Sullivan’s eldest son, a story he’d never heard before. “Your father saved my life,” Ree said. “Not directly, but he taught me something nobody else bothered to teach.
He said that in combat, there’s no such thing as the wrong tool. There’s only the tool you have and the job that needs doing. I was trapped behind German lines in December 44, completely out of ammunition. And I remembered what your father said. I used a broken shovel and a length of wire to create a trap that killed two Germans and gave me time to escape. I’m alive today because your father taught me that.
Sullivan’s son asked if his father had ever done something similar. Ree smiled. Ask around the 82nd Airborne. Ask about the crossroads. They’ll tell you. By then, the story had calcified into legend. Veterans told different versions. Some said Sullivan killed 20 Germans. Some said 30. Some said he held the position for two days straight.
A military historian researching the 82nd Airborne’s actions in Normandy found references to the incident in three separate afteraction reports, each describing it slightly differently, none mentioning farm equipment. The historian, Dr. Margaret Fenton, eventually tracked down Lieutenant Hargrove in 1994. Harrove was 73 years old, living in Maryland and suffering from earlystage dementia, but he remembered the crossroads.
“I removed the pitchfork from my report, because I didn’t want the army to bury what he’d done,” Hargrove said during the interview. If I’d included the truth that this kid held a strategic position for 9 hours using farm equipment, they would have classified it, buried it. Maybe court marshaled him for using non-standard weapons. Better to lie and let him keep his honor than tell the truth and watch them destroy him for it.
Fenton asked if he regretted the decision. Every day, Hargrove said that soldier deserved the Medal of Honor. Instead, he got a letter and a lifetime of silence. The pitchfork itself survived the war. A paratrooper from the 505th Regiment named Jack Halliday, took it as a souvenir, carried it through France and Belgium, and brought it home to Iowa in 1945. It hung in his barn for 46 years.
In 1991, Holidayiday donated it to the 82nd Airborne Division Museum at Fort Bragg along with a handwritten note explaining its providence. The museum curators authenticated the story through cross-referencing unit records, veteran interviews, and forensic analysis of the Tines.
Dark stains on the metal tested positive for human blood type O negative. The wood handle bore grip marks consistent with sustained use. The museum put the pitchfork on permanent display in 1993 with a plaqueard that readarmm pitchfork used by PFC Raymond Sullivan 5005th Parachute Infantry Regiment to defend a strategic crossroads near S Mary Glee on June 7th, 1944.
Sullivan held the position for 9 hours against multiple German counterattacks using scavenged equipment and improvised weapons. His actions secured a critical ammunition resupply point that supported Allied operations during the Normandy invasion. 40,000 visitors see it every year. The broader lesson from Sullivan’s stand didn’t register with military planners until the 1950s when the US Army began developing formal doctrine around improvised weapons and field expedient tactics. The Korean War had demonstrated
repeatedly that soldiers separated from their units needed to survive using whatever they could find. The Pentagon commissioned a study on effective improvisation in combat and Sullivan’s defense of the crossroads became a case study in the classified report.
By the Vietnam War, the army was teaching improvised weapons tactics as part of SEIR survival, evasion, resistance, escape, training. Instructors used historical examples to illustrate principles. and Sullivan’s name appeared in training manuals alongside other soldiers who demonstrated extreme adaptability under fire. The specifics were often sanitized or altered, but the core lesson remained.
When conventional weapons aren’t available, a soldier must improvise, adapt, and overcome using whatever tools the environment provides. Modern special forces training still includes this principle. Navy Seals, Army Rangers, and Delta Force operators all learn field expedient weapons tactics. The tools have changed. Improvised explosives, 3D printed components, repurposed technology.
But the underlying philosophy traces directly back to soldiers like Sullivan who proved that desperation and ingenuity could overcome superior firepower. That’s how actual military innovation happens. Not through committees or think tanks or research grants. Through a 22year-old kid from Detroit who found himself alone behind enemy lines with nothing but a farmer’s pitchfork.
and the mechanical skills he’d learned building car engines through the decision to fight instead of hide, to use whatever was available instead of waiting for the right tool, to hold ground that nobody expected him to hold. Raymond Sullivan never received the Medal of Honor. He never received the Bronze Star. He worked on an assembly line for 32 years, raised three children, and died watching television.
But the pitchfork is still there in the museum, the tines still stained dark, a physical reminder that warfare isn’t always won by the best equipped army. Sometimes it’s won by one man who refused to surrender, even when all he had was farm equipment and time. If you found this story compelling, please like this video, subscribe to stay connected with these untold histories, leave a comment telling us where you’re watching from, and share this with someone who appreciates the extraordinary courage of ordinary soldiers. Thank you for keeping these stories
