January 29, 1945, 2:47 p.m., Holtzheim, Belgium. Sergeant Leonard Funk turns the corner of a farmhouse and stops dead in his tracks. Ninety German soldiers stare at him. Half of them are holding weapons. The other half are picking up rifles from a pile on the ground. Four American GIs are kneeling in the snow with their hands clasped behind their heads.

These Germans were prisoners just 20 minutes ago. Funk’s company had captured 80 of them during the attack on the village. Guarded by four men, they couldn’t spare any more. Now they are free, armed, and preparing to attack Company C from the rear. A German officer steps forward, rams an MP 40 into Funk’s stomach, and shouts something in German.

Funk doesn’t speak German. Neither do any of the Americans. The officer shouts again, louder, his face turning red. Funk looks at the 90 Germans, then at his four unarmed soldiers, then at the MP 40 pressed against his stomach, and laughs. The German officer’s face contorts in confusion, then in rage. He shouts even louder.

Funk laughs even louder. What happens next lasts less than 60 seconds. 21 Germans die. The rest throw down their weapons and surrender. And Leonard Funk receives the Medal of Honor for one of the most ludicrous acts of combat in World War II. All because he couldn’t stop laughing. Leonard Alfred Funk Jr.

Funk was born on August 27, 1916, in Bradock Township, Pennsylvania. The town was characterized by steel mills, chimneys, and foundries along the Monahala River, eight miles east of Pittsburgh. Funk grew up quickly and learned to take responsibility early on. Even before graduating from high school in 1934, he cared for his younger brother for years.

The Great Depression was entering its fifth year. Jobs were scarce. College education seemed unattainable. In June 1941, as war raged in Europe and Asia, Congress extended the draft. Funk was drafted. He reported to the draft board in Wilmsburg, Pennsylvania. He was 24 years old, 5 feet 5 inches tall, and weighed 150 pounds.

The army doctor examines him and probably mistakes him for an office worker. Far from it. Funk volunteers for the paratroopers. In 1941, American airborne troops barely exist. The concept is new: jump from intact airplanes, land behind enemy lines, and fight while surrounded. For most soldiers, it sounds like suicide.

The volunteers are a very special breed of people. They have to be. Parachuting training is designed to push you to your limits. Five weeks of running, jumping, climbing, falling – brutal physical training that weeds out half the candidates. Then the jump towers, then the plane. When you first step out of a C-47 at 365 meters, your whole body screams to grab onto the door frame.

The ground is far below. The wind whips your face. Your parachute is nothing but fabric, cord, and trust. Funk receives his parachutist badges. He is assigned to Company C, 1st Battalion, 508th Parachute Regiment, Camp Blanding, Florida. The 58th Regiment is transferred to England at the end of 1943. There, they join the 82nd Airborne Division, the “All-Americans,” veterans from Sicily and Italy.

These men had already seen combat. They had killed and watched their friends die. Funk is the new guy. 27 years old, ancient by paratrooper standards. Most of his comrades are barely 20. But Funk has something they lack: maturity, steadfastness, that quiet competence that makes men follow him even into hell.

On D-Day, he is a squad leader. Gradually, he will become deputy company commander. But first, he has to survive in Normandy. June 6, 1944, 1:30 a.m. The C-47 Sky Train rattles as flak explodes around it. Funk stands among the line of paratroopers waiting to jump. 27 kilograms of equipment are strapped to his body.

M1A1 Thompson submachine gun. Ammunition, hand grenades, rations, medical supplies. The aircraft is at an altitude of 120 meters, too low for a safe bailout. But the pilots cannot climb. German anti-aircraft fire is omnipresent. Tracer rounds flicker like angry fireflies through the darkness. The men hear shrapnel ricocheting from the fuselage. 13,000 paratroopers from the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions are participating in the Normandy invasion.

They were supposed to land behind the beaches, secure bridges and intersections, and prevent German reinforcements from reaching the coast. Nothing went according to plan. The green light came on. The radio crackled. The explosion hit him like a truck. Then the bomb detonated, and there was silence. Below him: France, occupied France.

Enemy territory in every direction. The D-Day airborne operation was chaos from the very first minute. German anti-aircraft fire had scattered the units over 80 kilometers of French rear. Paratroopers landed in flooded fields and drowned under the weight of their equipment. Others landed in the middle of German camps and died before they could free themselves from their harnesses.

Funk lands hard. His ankle twists on impact, badly sprained and possibly broken. The pain is immediate and intense. Every step will be agony for the next two weeks. But he can walk, he can fight, and that’s all that matters. He grabs his parachute, buries it, and sets off. He’s 64 kilometers from where he jumped.

Forty miles through German-occupied territory, all alone in the darkness. Within a few hours, he had gathered a group of lost paratroopers around him. Men from various units, companies, and regiments. In the end, 18, all searching for leadership. Funk provided it. For ten days, Funk led this group through the German-occupied territory. They traveled at night, hid during the day, and fought when necessary.

Despite his ankle injury, he insists on serving as a scout, putting himself in grave danger to protect his men. On June 17th, they encounter Allied troops. Every single man survives. Not a single casualty. Ten days behind enemy lines. 64 kilometers through German-occupied France. And Leonard Funk brings them all home.

The Silver Star, the third-highest combat decoration, plus a Bronze Star for meritorious service and his first Purple Heart. Funk is only at the beginning of his career. September 17, 1944, Netherlands. Operation Market Garden. The largest airborne assault in history. 35,000 paratroopers jump in the Netherlands to capture several bridges over the Rine River.

British, American, and Polish troops will parachute together. If the plan succeeds, the Allies will be in Germany by Christmas. Field Marshal Montgomery’s plan is ambitious, perhaps too ambitious. The paratroopers must capture and hold seven bridges along a 103-kilometer (64-mile) stretch of Dutch territory. Ground troops will advance to them via a single road.

Everything depended on speed, on the element of surprise, on nothing going wrong. But everything did go wrong. The British 1st Airborne Division landed at Arnham, the furthest bridge. They were surrounded by SS Panzer divisions that shouldn’t have been there. For nine days, they fought and died in the streets. Only 2,000 of their 10,000 men survived. The bridge, too far away, went down in military history as a cautionary tale.

Leonard Funk, however, doesn’t know the bigger picture. He only knows his mission: support landings, secure drop zones, eliminate Germans. After landing, his company secures its objective. Routine. The 5008th Battalion operates near Nice Megan and assists in capturing bridges that allow ground troops to advance.

Then Funk notices something that isn’t part of the plan. Three German 20mm Flak Veling anti-aircraft guns are firing on the approaching Allied gliders. The gliders are carrying reinforcements, jeeps, artillery pieces, ammunition, and medical supplies. If these guns continue firing, hundreds of men will die before they even touch down.

The gun emplacement is located on a hill near Voxill. Approximately 20 German soldiers operate the guns and secure the position with sandbags, camouflage, and overlapping firing lines. Funk has only three men. According to standard military doctrine, an attack on a prepared position requires a force ratio of 3:1. Funk’s situation is the opposite: he is outnumbered 7 to 1.

He attacks anyway. Funk and his three-man patrol lead the German position. They kill the security detail, storm the gun emplacements, and disable all three crewed guns. Twenty Germans, three Americans. The guns fall silent. The gliders land safely. The Distinguished Service Cross, the second-highest award for gallantry, is equivalent to the Medal of Honor.

Funk has now received a Silver Star and a Distinguished Service Cross (DSC), two of the rarest combat decorations in the American military. Most soldiers who receive even one of these are considered heroes for life. But Funk’s fight is not yet over. December 16, 1944. The Germans launch their last desperate offensive. Three armies, 400,000 men, 1,400 tanks, 1,900 artillery pieces. They break through the American lines in the Ardennes and target the port of Antwerp.

Hitler’s plan is insane, but almost successful. He stakes everything on a single, massive offensive: splitting the Allied armies, capturing Antwerp, and forcing a negotiated peace in the west so that Germany can concentrate on the Soviets in the east. For the Americans, it’s a nightmare. The offensive hits sparsely manned sectors, staffed by inexperienced troops and exhausted veterans pulled off the front for rest and recuperation.

Entire divisions collapse. Thousands of soldiers surrender. The German advance tears an 80-kilometer-deep salient into the Allied lines. The Ardennes Offensive. The largest battle fought by the US Army in World War II. 89,000 American casualties. The weather is brutal: snow, ice, temperatures as low as minus 5 degrees Celsius.

Men are freezing to death in their trenches. Weapons are malfunctioning. Vehicles won’t start. The cold is as deadly as the Germans. Then comes Malmadi. December 17, 1944. One day after the offensive began, a convoy of the 285th Field Artillery Observation Battalion encounters the spearhead of the SS Panzerkampfgruppe “Camp Groupa Piper” near the Bognes crossroads.

The Americans are rearguard troops, artillery observers, and radio operators. They are not equipped to fight tanks and armored infantry. After a brief skirmish, 113 Americans surrender. They are herded into a field near the crossroads. Hands up, disarmed, prisoners of war. Then the SS opens fire. Machine guns, pistols, rifles.

The Germans shoot them down like cattle. Men who try to flee are slaughtered. The wounded are killed with shots to the head. Eighty-four Americans die on this field. Some survive by playing dead. They lie in the snow for hours. German boots march past them. German voices laugh. As darkness falls, 43 survivors crawl away and reach the American lines.

The news spread through the American army. Within hours, the Germans were executing prisoners. Malmi changed everything. Before the war, there were rules in Europe—unofficial, unspoken, but real. Soldiers surrendered when the situation was hopeless. Prisoners were treated according to the Geneva Convention. A kind of grim professionalism existed between enemies.

After Malmid, no rules apply anymore. American soldiers swear they will never surrender to the SS. Some units relay orders: No SS prisoners. When the radio crackles with news of the massacre, something inside him hardens. He’s seen too much. Normandy, Holland, friends who died in fields and forests all over Europe. But this is different. This is murder.

Cold-blooded execution of men who had surrendered in good faith. Leonard Funk resolves never to surrender to the Germans. Whatever happens, this decision will soon prove significant. January 29, 1945. The Ardennes. The German offensive has failed. Now the Allies are pushing back. Company C of the 58th Parachute Regiment receives orders to capture the Belgian village of Holtzheim.

There’s a problem. Company C is understaffed. The deputy company commander has been killed. They don’t have enough men for the attack. Funk is now acting company commander. He surveys his depleted roster and makes a decision. He goes to the company headquarters tent. Inside are clerks, supply troops, cooks—men who are normally never deployed in combat.

“You’re all infantrymen now,” Funk commands. “Grab your weapons. We’re taking the village.” He assembles an improvised platoon. Thirty men who have spent most of the war behind desks. They’ve completed basic training, but most of them have never fired a shot at another human being in real combat. Funk doesn’t care. He needs men. He’ll make soldiers out of them.

The march to Holim leads 24 kilometers through waist-deep snow in a fierce blizzard. Temperatures are well below freezing. German artillery shells explode around them, bombarding them from the flanks. Funk leads the group. They reach Holtzheim. Funk organizes the attack. His clerks, his makeshift fighters, follow him into the village. Fifteen houses, all inhabited by Germans.

Machine guns, rifles, hand grenades – Funk and his men clear everything out. 30 prisoners. Not a single American casualty. Another unit captures 50 more Germans on the other side of town. 80 prisoners in total. They are herded together in the yard of a farmhouse. Funk looks at his exhausted men.

They have been marching and fighting for hours. In other parts of the village, they are still resisting. Scattered German soldiers have not yet surrendered. He can only assign four men to guard the prisoners. “Keep them here,” he orders the guards. “We’ll send reinforcements as soon as we can.” Funk plunges back into the fray.

He has no idea what is about to happen behind him. While Funk clears the remaining Hulltime units, a German patrol approaches the farmhouse. Ten, maybe twenty men, wear white camouflage cloaks over their uniforms. In the snow and confusion, they look deceptively like American soldiers in winter gear. The four guards only realize the danger when it is too late.

The Germans overpower them, disarm them, and force them to their knees. Then they free the prisoners. Eighty German soldiers plus the patrol that freed them. Ninety men in total. They grab weapons from the pile. They quickly organize themselves. They know exactly what they’re going to do: attack Company C from the rear.

Funk’s company is scattered throughout the village, clearing out the last pockets of resistance. They aren’t expecting an attack from the rear. If 90 Germans were to attack them in this situation, it would be a massacre. The German officer in charge, presumably a lieutenant or captain, begins issuing orders: “Position machine guns here. Prepare the ambush there. Wait for my signal.”

At that moment, Leonard Funk comes around the corner. Funk has come to check on the prisoners. Routine. To make sure the guards are alright. To see if reinforcements have arrived. He doesn’t expect to encounter 90 armed Germans. He turns the corner of the farmhouse and freezes. The scene is surreal. His four guards are kneeling in the snow.

The prisoners, who were supposed to be unarmed and in custody, were standing around everywhere, rifles in hand, forming up for a fight. The German officer immediately spotted Funk. The sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve identified him as the leader, as prized prey. The officer strode forward, rammed his MP 40 into Funk’s stomach, and yelled in German: “Surrender!”

“Drop your weapons!” But Funk doesn’t speak German. He doesn’t understand a word the officer is saying. The officer shouts again, this time louder. His face is red, the veins in his neck are bulging. Funk looks around. Ninety Germans, half of them armed. His four men are disarmed and helpless. Another American soldier stands beside him, equally helpless.

The chances of survival are zero. Leonard Funk has no chance of winning this fight. He is outnumbered 90 to 1. The sensible and rational thing to do would be to surrender. But Funk remembers Malmedi. 84 Americans, murdered in a field, shot like animals, left to freeze to death in the snow. He has already decided never to surrender to the Germans.

Instead of submitting, Leonard Funk did something inexplicable. He started laughing. No one knows exactly why Funk laughed. Perhaps it was a ruse, a deliberate tactic to confuse the enemy and buy time. Perhaps it was stress. The human brain does strange things when faced with certain death. Or perhaps it was simply genuine amusement. The absurdity of the situation.

An officer shouted in a language Funk didn’t understand, demanding obedience. Funk himself later said he tried not to laugh, but couldn’t. Something about the German shouting had deeply affected him. Whatever the reason, the effect was devastating. The German officer shouted even louder. Funk laughed even harder. He leaned forward, his shoulders trembling, and shouted to his men.

I don’t understand what he’s saying. Some of the German soldiers are laughing too. The tension is bizarre. Their officer is turning red with rage. And this American won’t stop snickering. The officer is completely stunned. That’s not how prisoners behave. They beg. They plead. They submit. They don’t stand there laughing while a pistol is rammed into their stomach.

For a few crucial seconds, the German officer doesn’t know what to do. And Leonard Funk uses those seconds. He still seems to be laughing. Slowly, Funk reaches for his Thompson submachine gun. It’s slung over his shoulder, the standard carry for paratroopers. The German officer watches him. That’s good.

The American finally surrenders his weapon. Funk’s hand closes around the grip of the Thompson. Slowly and carefully, he begins to open it. The German relaxes slightly. He is about to have another prisoner, another trophy. Then Funk acts in a single motion, faster than expected. He swings the Thompson downward, aligns the muzzle, and pulls the trigger.

The M1A1 Thompson fires .45 ACP rounds at a rate of 600 rounds per minute. At close range, every bullet hits like a sledgehammer. The projectiles don’t just wound, they destroy. The first burst hits the German officer in the chest. 30 rounds in less than 3 seconds. The officer is dead before he even hits the ground. The radio crackles on. It can’t be stopped.

The moment he started shooting, he knew: either kill them all or die himself. There was no middle ground. He turned and kept firing. The Thompson unleashed a hail of bullets on the German soldiers near him. Men screamed, men fell. Blood splattered onto the snow. Steaming brass casings swirled through the air in the cold. The magazine was empty.

Thirty rounds in a matter of seconds. That’s the decisive moment. A Thompson takes two seconds to reload, if you’re trained. Two seconds is an eternity in a firefight. Two seconds is all it takes for 90 Germans to kill one American. Funk rips out the empty magazine, slides in a new one, cocks the bolt, and fires again. The whole sequence takes less than a heartbeat. Muscle memory.

Thousands of hours of training, compressed into a single fluid movement. At the same time, he yells at his men: “Pick up your weapons! Pick up your weapons!” The four guards, still on their knees, grab the rifles dropped by the dead Germans. Seconds ago, they were prisoners. Now they are fighting for their lives. The Germans are in chaos.

Their officer is dead. The American, who was just laughing, is now killing them. No one gave this order. No one knows what to do. Some are shooting back. Bullets whiz past Funk’s head. One bullet kills the soldier next to him. Funk keeps firing, moving, killing. His guards are armed now. They’re shooting too.

The Germans are caught in a crossfire they never expected. Sixty seconds, that’s all it takes. Twenty-one German soldiers lie dead in the snow. Twenty-four more are wounded. The remaining 40 or so have thrown down their weapons and raised their hands. The prisoners are prisoners again. Leonard Funk stands amidst the carnage, smoke rising from his Thompson submachine gun, surrounded by corpses.

That, he tells his men, was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. The consequences are almost unspectacular. Company C secures Holzheim. The captured Germans, at least the survivors, are led to the rear this time under significantly heavier guard. Radio reports the incident to his commander. Just another firefight, just another day in the war.

But the story spread throughout the regiment, the division, the entire 82nd Airborne Division. The sergeant who laughed at 90 Germans and killed half of them with a Thompson submachine gun. When the recommendation for the Medal of Honor reached Washington, no one questioned it. What Funk had accomplished in Holtzheim was undisputed.

Despite being outnumbered 90 to 1 by enemy fire, he attacked instead of surrendering. According to the official record, he was ordered to surrender by a German officer who shoved a submachine gun into his stomach. Although vastly outnumbered and facing certain death, Staff Sergeant Funk pretended to obey the order, slowly began to lower his submachine gun from his shoulder, and then swiftly aimed it at the German officer.

He turned on the other Germans, fired, and shouted at the other Americans to seize the enemy’s weapons. September 5, 1945. The White House. President Harry Truman places the Medal of Honor around Leonard Funk’s neck. “I would rather wear this medal,” says Truman, “than be President of the United States.” Let’s list what Leonard Funk accomplished in World War II.

Holim received the Medal of Honor, the Distinguished Service Cross for his anti-aircraft guns in Holland, the Silver Star for leading 18 men through 64 kilometers of enemy territory in Normandy, the Bronze Star for meritorious service, and the Purple Heart (three times). He was wounded three times and continued fighting. He also received the Quadigare from France, the Order of Leopold from Belgium, and the Dutch Military Order of William, the Dutch equivalent of the Victoria Cross.

Leonard Funk is the most decorated paratrooper of World War II. 1.65 meters tall, 63 kilograms, a former salesman who became a legend. The war ends. Funk returns home. He doesn’t write a book, give lectures, or use his medal of honor for a public speaking career or as a political platform. He doesn’t profit from his fame.

He returns to Pennsylvania and finds employment with the Veterans Administration. The VA, this enormous agency, is responsible for providing for former American soldiers, helping other veterans fill out forms, processing disability benefit applications, and removing bureaucratic hurdles for men who have given their all and now need help to get what they are entitled to.

The same office work as before the war. The same quiet, unassuming, necessary work. For 27 years, Leonard Funk sat at his desk, helping veterans. He climbed the career ladder and became head of the regional office in Pittsburgh. Good salary, regular working hours, a secure pension. His wife, Gertrude, remained loyal to him throughout.

They have two daughters. They live in McKisport, Pennsylvania, a working-class neighborhood in a working-class city, not far from his birthplace. The Medal of Honor hangs somewhere in a display case. The Distinguished Service Cross, the Silver Star, all the foreign awards from France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. He never talks about them.

When asked about Holzheim, about the laughter, about the 90 Germans, he brushes it off. “I did what I had to do. That’s all.” He never says more. November 20, 1992. Bradock Hills, Pennsylvania. Leonard Alfred Funk Jr. dies of cancer. He is 76 years old. He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery.

Section 35, Grave 23734. He is considered one of the heroes of all American wars. At the time of his death, he was the last living recipient of the Medal of Honor of the 82nd Airborne Division from World War II. A fitness center in Fort Bragg (now Fort Liberty) is named after him. A highway in Pennsylvania also bears his name.

In 2023, a post office in McKesport was named after him. But most people have never heard of Leonard Funk. They know Audi Murphy. They know Alvin York, the famous Medal of Honor recipients. They don’t know the small, quiet paratrooper who laughed at 90 Germans and killed 21 of them with a submachine gun. Here is the story of Leonard Funk.

War doesn’t favor the powerful. It doesn’t favor the strong. It doesn’t favor the reckless or the fearless. War favors those who think ahead when everyone else has given up. In Holtzheim, Leonard Funk had every reason to surrender. The numbers were hopeless. Ninety against one. A gun to his gut. His men already captured. Any sensible person would have given up.

But Funk wasn’t thinking about the mathematics. He was thinking about Malmedi, about the 84 Americans who had been murdered in a field, about what the Germans were doing to prisoners, and he was thinking about his men, about the four guards on their knees, about the soldiers scattered throughout the village who would be attacked from behind if these Germans escaped.

So he laughed, perhaps tactically, perhaps from stress, perhaps because the whole thing seemed absurd to him. And while the German officer was bewildered, while everyone was thrown off balance, Leonard Funk struck. Sixty seconds later, he was standing amidst corpses, even though he should have been dead. There is a quote often attributed to President Truman about the Medal of Honor.

I would rather have this medal than be President of the United States. He said this to Leonard Funk. September 5, 1945. White House Rose Garden. Imagine that. The most powerful man in the world. The man who had just ended World War II. The man who was about to reshape the entire world order. He looked at a 5-foot-5-inch former saleswoman from Pennsylvania and said, “I’d rather be in your shoes.”

Because what Truman understood, what everyone understands who reads the justifications for the Medal of Honor, is that courage has nothing to do with size, strength, or training. Courage is shown when a gun is held to your gut and 90 men want you dead.