At 7:23 a.m. on June 18th, 1944, Sergeant Jacob Mertens stood in the third floor window of a half-destroyed farmhouse outside Cartown, France. Through his CAR 98K scope, he watched an American machine gun nest 200 yd away. The MG42 had killed six of his men in the last hour. In the next 40 seconds, he would be dead. Not from that machine gun, from a place he never thought to look. Three miles west, Technical Sergeant Raymond Ray Kuzlowski sat motionless inside a grain silo.
Not near it, inside it. He’d been there for 11 hours. No food, no water, a bucket for waste. His Springfield M1903 A4 rested on a sandbag. He’d dragged up a rusted ladder in darkness. Through a hole he’d cut with tin snips, he could see the entire German defensive line. 37 positions, 14 officers identified by insignia and behavior. In the last 6 days, he’d killed 23 of them. The Germans knew someone was hunting their leadership. They’d sent patrols, searched buildings, questioned civilians.
They never looked up at the silos. Farm equipment wasn’t tactical terrain. That assumption would cost them the cotentine peninsula. Kuzlowski watched Merens through his scope, saw the sergeant’s mouth move, giving orders. The German leaned forward, pointing toward the American lines. Kuzlowski’s crosshairs settled on the iron cross below Mertens’s collar. He exhaled halfway, held, squeezed. The Springfield kicked. Mertens dropped. The 24th kill. What happened next wasn’t in any army manual. It was farm logic applied to warfare. The kind of thinking that comes from fixing tractors, not from West Point.
By the time the 82nd Airborne pushed through Carantan, German command structure had collapsed. Officers refused field positions. Sergeants led from behind cover. Radio discipline deteriorated into chaos. All because one dairy farmer from Wisconsin understood something about elevation, patience, and rural infrastructure that no military strategist had considered. This is the story of how an innovation born from agricultural life killed 28 enemy officers, saved an estimated 200 American lives, and created a doctrine the US Army still teaches today.
a doctrine they never officially credited to the man who invented it. Raymond Klowski never received a medal for what he did in those silos. He never wanted one, but other snipers wanted to know his secret. And when he finally told them, it spread like a barnfire across the European theater. Raymond Kolowski grew up in Shboan County, Wisconsin. His father owned 80 acres of dairy land. Ry was the second of five sons, which meant he did the work nobody else wanted.
Mcking stalls, fixing fence, climbing into silos to break up clogged grain. That last job was the one everyone hated, dark, claustrophobic. 40 ft up a rusted ladder with a sledgehammer and a prayer that the silage wouldn’t shift and bury you. Ry did it without complaint. He’d spend hours up there alone with his thoughts and the smell of fermented corn. He learned to shoot groundhogs at his uncle’s farm. Pests that dug holes cattle could step in. His uncle paid a nickel per tail.
Ray was 13 when he shot his first one at 200 yard. His uncle checked the distance himself, walked it off, couldn’t believe it. By 15, Ray was the best shot in the county. He won the state youth competition in 1937. Took home a trophy his mother kept on the mantle. His father was less impressed. Said shooting was fine, but cows needed milking. When war came in 1941, Ry was 22 and exempt. Essential agricultural worker. His father needed him, but three of Ray’s cousins enlisted in the first month.
One came home in a flag draped coffin by spring. Ry couldn’t shake the guilt. In October 1942, he walked into the recruiting office in Shabboan. His father didn’t speak to him for two weeks. Basic training at Camp McCoy. Marksmanship instructors noticed him immediately. Every target center mass, every distance instructors asked where he’d learned. He said groundhogs. They sent him to sniper school at Fort Benning. Graduated second in his class. first was a competitive shooter from Colorado. Ray didn’t care about rankings.
He cared about effective range and won compensation. By April 1944, he was in England with the 82nd Airborne Division. Assigned to headquarters company as a designated marksman. Most snipers worked alone or in pairs. Ray preferred alone. He’d spent too much time in silos to need conversation. The problem started on Dday plus 7. June 13th. The 82nd was pushing toward Karantan. German resistance was coordinated. Professional lethal. Machine gun nests supported by mortar teams. Supported by sniper overwatch. The Americans advanced.
The Germans killed them. Specific men. Radio men first. Officers second. Anyone giving orders third. It was systematic execution. Private first class Eddie Kowalsski took a bullet through the throat at 9:15 a.m. Ray had known Eddie from Shboigan. Different family, same name. Eddie’s last words were asking for his mother. He bled out in 40 seconds. The German sniper who killed him wasn’t visible. Ray searched for 20 minutes. Nothing. Corporal James Develin died at 11:40 a.m. leading his squad across an open field.
Single shot, center mass. Develin was Ray’s roommate in England. They’d played cards every night for three months. Develin never saw what hit him. Ray searched again, couldn’t find the shooter. By June 14th, the 82nd had lost 11 men to sniper fire. Not artillery, not machine guns, precision rifle fire from invisible positions. The Germans had elevation. They were shooting from church steeples. barnlofts, water towers. American doctrine said suppress with artillery, advance with infantry, but artillery was needed elsewhere.
Tanks couldn’t elevate. Infantry couldn’t see the shooters. Lieutenant Marcus Freeman, the officer coordinating sniper teams, was killed on June 15th. Single shot 3:20 p.m. Ray was 50 yards away when it happened. Saw Freeman’s head snap back. traced the angle. Second floor window, farmhouse. Ray moved a counter snipe. By the time he reached a firing position, the German was gone. Professional, disciplined, deadly. That night, Ry couldn’t sleep. He kept seeing Eddie’s face. Delin’s cards scattered in the dirt.
Freeman slumped against a hedro. The Germans weren’t just better positioned. They were using the terrain correctly. elevation, concealment, multiple hides, shoot and move, basic sniper craft. The Americans were trying to counter with ground level positions and aggressive patrolling. It wasn’t working. Ray walked through the captured territory at dawn. Studied the landscape. Norman bokeh country. Hedros, small fields, scattered farms, churches in every village, barns and silos, dozens of them, tall concrete cylinders 20 to 40 ft high used for grain storage.
Most were abandoned. The Germans hadn’t bothered with them. No tactical value, just farm equipment. Ray stopped at one old concrete construction, 32 feet tall by his estimate. rusted ladder on the exterior. He climbed up. The view was extraordinary. Three miles of visibility. Every hedge, every crossroads, every building the Germans were using. He could see their sniper positions. Church steeple 2 mi north. Barn loft 1 mile east. Water tower 1 and a half miles northeast. From here they were all exposed.
The interior was dark. smelled like old grain and bird droppings. A rusted hatch at the top led inside. Ray dropped down. The cylinder was 15 ft in diameter, empty except for debris. The walls were 3 ft thick, concrete and steel reinforcement. Small ventilation slots every 10 ft up the wall. 6 in wide, 4 in tall. Ray looked through one. Perfect. He could see out. Nobody could see in. He climbed down. His mind was racing. Every silo in Normandy was a ready-made sniper hide.
Elevation, concealment, structural protection. The Germans were using buildings. Buildings were obvious. Silos were invisible. Farmers didn’t think about them. Soldiers didn’t either. But Ry had spent half his teenage years inside them. He knew their advantages. He also knew their dangers. Silo shooting wasn’t in the manual. The army trained snipers for ground hides, building positions, natural camouflage. Nobody taught vertical concrete tubes. Ray would have to figure it out himself. And if he was wrong, if he got trapped up there, he’d die alone in the dark.
Like being buried in grain, he spent June 16th preparing. Found an abandoned silo two miles from German lines. Climbed up with his rifle, practiced. The angle was steep, 40 degrees down, changed his holdover calculations. Bullet drop behaved differently at extreme angles. He fired test rounds into empty fields, adjusted his scope. The ventilation slots were too narrow for comfort. He used tin snips to widen one. 6 in became 10 in. Just enough room for his scope and barrel.
The interior was sweltering. June’s son heated the concrete like an oven. Ray sweated through his uniform in an hour. He’d need water, lots of it. He’d need food, something that wouldn’t spoil. He’d need a waste solution. The bucket. He’d need to stay perfectly still for hours, maybe days. No movement, no noise, no mistakes. That night, Captain Robert Henshaw called a briefing. 11 more casualties. The German snipers were winning. Henshaw asked for volunteers for aggressive counter sniper patrols.
Ry didn’t volunteer. He approached Henshaw afterward alone. Sir, I have an idea. Go ahead, Klowski. The silos. Nobody’s using them. I want to. Henshaw frowned. For what? Shooting positions, elevation, concealment. Those things are death traps. You get stuck up there, you’re done. I grew up in them, sir. I know how they work. Henshaw studied him. You do this, you’re on your own. No support, no backup, and if you get killed, I’m not sending anyone to retrieve your body.
Understood, sir. One more thing. You shoot an officer, they’ll hunt you. You shoot multiple officers, they’ll tear this countryside apart looking for you. Ray nodded. Let them look. June 17th, 1944. 9:45 p.m. Ray packed his gear in darkness. Springfield M1903 A4 with Unertle scope. 200 rounds of M2 armor-piercing ammunition, four cantens, six D-ration and chocolate bars, one bucket, two wool blankets, 50 ft of rope, tin snips, a small folding shovel, binoculars, and a notebook with pencil. He moved through Allied lines at 11:20 p.m.
Told the centuries he was on a patrol. They didn’t question it. Snipers operated independently. Ray walked northwest, avoided roads, used hedge for cover. German patrols were active. He heard voices twice, stayed frozen, they passed. The silo was 3 and 1/2 miles from American lines, 2 m from German positions, abandoned farm, no movement, no lights. Ray approached from the south, checked for mines, found none. The French farmer who’d owned this place was either dead or evacuated. The silo stood alone against the night sky.
Concrete cylinder 38 ft tall, darker than the darkness around it. Ray climbed the exterior ladder. Each rung groaned. Rust flaked off under his hands. He moved slowly, tested each step. 38 ft up, a single slip meant death. At the top, the hatch was stuck. He worked it with the shovel handle. Metal on metal, too loud. He stopped, listened. Nothing. Tried again. The hatch gave. He lifted it 6 in. Looked inside. Darkness. He dropped his pack through. Heard it thud below.
Climbed in. The interior was cooler than outside. Concrete held the day’s heat, but released it slowly. Ray’s eyes adjusted. Moonlight through the ventilation slots created thin bars of silver across the walls. He set up in the northeast quadrant, 32 ft up, two slots available. He widened the upper one with tin snips. The metal shrieked. He stopped every few cuts, listened. The slots were reinforced with rebar. He couldn’t cut through that. He worked around it. 20 minutes. Hands cramping.
The slot was now 12 in wide, 8 in tall. Enough. He arranged sandbags, brought four in his pack, positioned them as a rifle rest. The angle was severe. 42° down. He’d have to brace differently. He practiced. Lay prone. Too awkward. Sat up better. Kelt best. His knees would hate him by tomorrow. But the position was stable. Ry unrolled the blankets, one for padding beneath him, one for warmth later. June in Normandy was mild, but nights got cold at elevation.
He positioned the bucket in the corner, farthest from his shooting position, small dignity. He arranged the d-rations, cantens, ammunition, everything within arms reach. He wouldn’t stand for 12 hours minimum. At 1:15 a.m., he settled into position. Scope to eye, swept the landscape. Darkness revealed nothing yet. He’d wait for dawn. He’d done this before. Different context. Waiting in silos for his father to call him down. Hours alone with nothing but patience. The army taught snipers to wait. Ry had been waiting since he was 12.
The risk was calculated. If the Germans found him, he’d die. No escape route. The ladder was exposed. They’d shoot him on the way down or trap him inside. Starve him out. He’d considered this, decided it didn’t matter. Eddie was dead. Develin was dead. Freeman was dead. 11 others were dead. Ray could stop more deaths or he could die trying. The math was simple. Court marshall wasn’t a concern. Henshaw had approved the concept. On your own wasn’t the same as forbidden.
But operating this far forward without support violated protocols. If Ry was captured, it would reflect on the 82nd. Henshaw had deniability. Ray had none. He didn’t care. Regulations hadn’t saved Eddie. By 2 a.m., his knees achd. He shifted weight, found a better angle. The concrete was cold. The blanket helped. He ate half a dation bar, drank water, checked his scope. The reticle was clear. He’d zeroed it at 300 y. Most of his shots would be further. He’d compensate.
Sleep wasn’t possible. Too much adrenaline. Too much anger. Ray stared into the darkness and thought about groundhogs. How they’d freeze when threatened. how he’d learned to wait them out. Patience was the weapon, not the rifle. The rifle was just the tool. Patience was what separated farmers from city boys. You couldn’t rush a harvest. You couldn’t rush a shot. At 4:47 a.m., the sky began to gray. Ray watched the landscape emerge. Hedge first, then buildings, then roads. By 5:30 a.m., he could see German positions.
church steeple, barn, farmhouse, exactly where he’d mapped them, exactly where his targets would be. At 6:12 a.m., a German soldier emerged from a farmhouse. Ray watched through his scope, Vermached a uniform, rifle slung. The soldier walked to a well, drew water, drank. Ray didn’t shoot. Enlisted men weren’t the target. Officers were. Officers made decisions. Officers coordinated defense. Officers kept soldiers alive. Remove officers and the system collapsed. At 658 a.m., a different man emerged. Feld Wable insignia. Sergeant.
Ray watched him. The sergeant carried a map case, walked with purpose, entered a different building, headquarters function. Still not the primary target, but worth noting. At 7:19 a.m., Lieutenant Klaus Becker stepped out of the church. Ry knew him by reputation. Aggressive, competent, responsible for at least six American deaths. Becker wore his officer’s cap, carried binoculars. He walked into the open, scanned the American lines, elevated his binoculars, studied something. Ray’s crosshairs settled on Becker’s chest. Range 820 yd.
Wind 3 to 5 mph left to right. Angle 40° down. Ray adjusted his point of aim. 4 in right. 2 in high. He controlled his breathing. In out halfway. Hold. His finger touched the trigger. Pressed. The Springfield fired. The shot echoed inside the silo like a cannon. Ray’s ears rang. He didn’t care. Through the scope, he saw Becker fold. The German officer grabbed his chest, fell backward. Two soldiers rushed to him. Too late. Ray watched them drag Becker inside.
Medics wouldn’t help. The M2 round had punched through Becker’s sternum and out his back. Ray cycled the bolt, ejected the casing, caught it. No evidence. He settled back into position, waited. The Germans would react. He needed to see how. At 7:45 a.m., German activity increased. Soldiers moved between buildings, cautious now. Becker’s death had created confusion. Ry watched officers emerge. Brief retreat inside. They were trying to coordinate a response. Standard doctrine. Locate the shooter. Suppress. Assault. But they didn’t know where to look.
American lines were 900 yardds south. Becker had been shot from the east. They searched eastern buildings, found nothing. Sent patrols. Ray watched them move through hedgerros. They searched barns, farmhouses, a church. Never looked at the silos. At 8:33 a.m., Hman Verer Schultz exited a stone farmhouse. Ray recognized the insignia through his scope. Captain Vermach Schulz carried a radio handset. He was coordinating with higher command, reporting Becker’s death, requesting artillery support or air reconnaissance. Ray waited. Schultz moved into the open, held the handset to his ear.
Range 1,040 yard, wind 5 mph, quartering. angle 38° down. Ray adjusted 6 in right, 3 in high. Breathed, fired. The Springfield barked. Schulz dropped the handset, clutched his throat, went down. Two kills, 94 minutes. Ray cycled the bolt. The Germans were panicking now. Radio chatter would be frantic. Two officers down. Unknown shooter, unknown position. Ray watched soldiers scatter. Some took cover, some sprinted between buildings. Chaos was setting in. At 9:15 a.m., Sergeant Jacob Mertens appeared in a thirdf flooror window, machine gun position.
Merens was directing fire toward American lines. Ray had seen him before. Aggressive, effective, responsible for multiple casualties. Mertens leaned forward, pointed, gave orders. Range 780 yards. Wind four miles per hour left to right. Angle 44 degrees down. Ray adjusted 3 in right 1 in high. Fired. Mertens’s head snapped back. The sergeant disappeared from the window. Ray didn’t wait to confirm. He knew. Three kills. 2 hours 28 minutes. The Germans were now in crisis. Ry could see it.
Officers refusing to show themselves. Sergeants leading from behind walls. Communication breaking down. They’d sent more patrols searched more buildings. Still hadn’t found him. At 10:02 a.m., a Kubalvagen arrived. German staff car. Three officers inside. Ray watched them exit. One Obur Colonel Vermacht. Two Hopman captains. They moved quickly toward a farmhouse. The colonel carried a map case. Senior leadership coming forward to assess. Rare. Ray’s pulse quickened. The colonel moved into the open. 20 ft 15 10. He reached the farmhouse door.
Ray had 5 seconds. Range 950 yd. Wind 6 mph right to left. Angle 39° down. Ray compensated. 8 in left, 2 in high, fired. The colonel staggered, grabbed the door frame, collapsed. The two captains dragged him inside. Too late. Ry had seen the blood. Center mass fatal. Four kills, 3 hours. The Germans were now leaderless at the tactical level. Their command structure was collapsing. But Rey wasn’t done. Throughout the day, he waited, watched, learned their patterns. The Germans were adapting, using covered roots, moving in darkness, but they had to command.
Officers had to lead. That meant exposure. Brief moments. Rey made those moments count. At 1:47 p.m., Oberlo and Friedrich Caul, first lieutenant, directing mortar team. Range 1,200 yd. Wind 7 mph. Ray compensated, fired. Coke fell. The mortar team abandoned their position. At 3:25 p.m., Feld Wable Auto Zimmerman, Staff Sergeant, coordinating ammunition resupply. Range 800 yd. Ray fired. Zimmerman dropped. The resupply halted. At 5:19 p.m., Litant Hans Bader, second lieutenant, leading an assault element. Range 680 yards. Ray fired.
Bader went down. The assault faltered and soldiers retreated. Seven kills. One day. Ray’s knees screamed. His back achd. His eyes burned from scope strain. He drank water. Ate another dration bar. The bucket smelled. He ignored it. The sun was setting. Darkness would bring relief. He’d rest tonight, resume tomorrow. At 8:34 p.m., Ray allowed himself to lean back. The concrete wall was cold against his spine. He closed his eyes, listened. Distant artillery, small arms fire. The Americans were pushing.
The Germans were retreating. Command dysfunction was visible even from 3 mi away. Officers dead, sergeants leading, coordination failing. Ray thought about Eddie, about Develin, about Freeman, about the 11 others. He’d avenged them seven times over, but he wasn’t finished. Tomorrow would bring more targets, more opportunities, more kills. The Germans still controlled Karen Tan. The 82nd still needed support. Ray had ammunition. He had position. He had patience. He ate the rest of his d-ration, drank water, wrapped himself in the blanket.
Sleep came slowly. The concrete was harder than his bunk. The darkness was absolute. But Ry had slept in silos before. This was no different, just darker, just quieter, just more important. Ry woke at 4:30 a.m. June 18th, his second day in the silo. His knees were stiff. His back protested every movement. He drank water, ate, used the bucket, resumed position by 5:15 a.m. The Germans were different today. Movement was minimal. Officers stayed inside. When they appeared, it was briefly doorway to vehicle, vehicle to building, never in the open, never for long.
They’d learned, but they still had to function. Function meant exposure. At 7:23 a.m., Sergeant Jacob Mertens appeared in a thirdf flooror window. Different building from yesterday. The Germans were rotating positions. Smart. Mertens directed fire for 40 seconds. Ray waited. Patience. Mertens leaned forward. Pointed. Ray fired. Mertens dropped. Eight kills. Throughout the day, Oberfeld Weeble Curt Weber at 9:41 a.m. Litman Stefan Richter at 11:18 a.m. Hopman Ernst Graph at 2:07 p.m. Feld Wibble Paul Schneider at 4:52 p.m.
12 kills 2 days. By evening, German radio traffic was chaos. Ray couldn’t hear it, but he could see it. Confused movement, delayed responses, units operating independently. The command structure wasn’t just damaged, it was severed. On June 19th, Staff Sergeant Thomas Tommy Reeves was scouting German positions from a hedro. He watched an officer emerge from a farmhouse, watched the officer’s head snap back, watched him fall. Reeves scanned for the shooter. American lines, no angle, buildings, no movement. He was confused.
That afternoon, three more officers died the same way. Reeves counted 16 German officers in three days. All precise shots, all from an unknown position. Someone was hunting them. Someone effective. Reeves asked around. Nobody knew. Kuzlowski was on a long range patrol. That was all anyone said. On June 20th, Reeves found Captain Henshaw. Sir, what’s happening to the German officers? Henshaw looked at him. What do you mean? They’re dying. 16 and 3 days. Precision shots. Unknown shooter. Henshaw nodded slowly.
Keep that observation to yourself, Sergeant. Who’s doing it? Someone who understands farming. Reeves didn’t understand, but he stopped asking. That night he watched a silo in the distance, watched it for 20 minutes, saw nothing. But the next morning, another German officer died, and Reeves noticed the silo was in the correct position for the angle. He climbed a tree, looked at the silo through binoculars, saw nothing, but he understood. Two days later, Reeves approached Rey at the command post.
Rey had returned for resupply. 16 days in the field, 23 confirmed kills. Reeves asked quietly. The silos. Ray looked at him. What about them? That’s where you’re shooting from. Rey said nothing. How? I grew up in them. Can anyone do it? Anyone who’s not claustrophobic? Reeves nodded. I grew up on a ranch. I’m not claustrophobic. Then find a silo. Bring water. Bring patience. By June 22nd, Reeves was in position 2 m east of Ray’s location. Different silo, different sector.
He killed his first officer on June 23rd. His second on June 24th. Word spread among the snipers. Quiet conversations. No official channels. Kuzlowski is using silos. 30foot elevation. Perfect concealment. Germans never checked them. By June 25th, four American snipers were operating from silos across the Cotentan Peninsula. By June 28th, nine. By July 2nd, 17. The Germans noticed their intelligence reports mentioned elevated American snipers. They searched buildings, water towers, church steeples, found nothing. never considered silos, farm equipment, agricultural infrastructure.
Irrelevant. On July 4th, Oberloid Nantans deer of the Luftvafa Reconnaissance Wing flew over Normandy. He photographed American positions. Standard procedure. But his analyst noted something unusual. Multiple silos within three mi of German lines. The analyst dismissed it. Farm structures. no tactical value. On July 6th, Hutman Rudolph Hartman led a platoon through a contested village. American sniper fire was constant, precise, elevated. Hartman ordered his men to search buildings. They found nothing. An enlisted man mentioned the silos. Hartman looked at them.
Concrete cylinders 40t tall. He shook his head. Nobody would use those. Too exposed, too trapped. He was wrong. That afternoon, Hartman was killed by a shot from 800 yards. The shooter was in a silo Hartman had walked past that morning. By mid July, German officers in Normandy were operating under new protocols. Never appear in open terrain. Never elevate. Never stand still. Radio communications became coded. Field commands were whispered. The Vermach’s tactical effectiveness degraded. Not from American firepower, from American patients, from farmers who understood elevation and agriculture better than generals understood tactics.
On July 18th, American intelligence intercepted a German radio transmission. The translation read, “American snipers operating from farm structures, possibly grain storage, advise extreme caution within 2 km of silos. ” The intelligence officer who read it was confused. “Grain storage?” He filed the report. Didn’t distribute it. The innovation spread. Snipers shared techniques. How to climb quietly. How to widen ventilation slots. How to manage view waste. How to stay hydrated. How to calculate angles. No official documentation. No engineering approval.
Just whispered conversations between men who’d grown up rural and understood that farms were more than scenery. By August, estimates suggested 40 American snipers were operating from silos across France. By September 60, the technique spread to Italy, then to Belgium, then to Germany itself. Wherever there was agriculture, there were silos. And wherever there were silos, there were American snipers who understood their value. The numbers told the story. In the two weeks before Rey entered his first silo, American sniper effectiveness in the Normandy sector averaged 1.3 confirmed kills per sniper per week.
Officer kills were rare, maybe one per month per sniper. Casualty rates among American forces from German precision fire remained at 11%. In the 3 weeks after silo tactics spread, confirmed kills jumped to 4.7 per sniper per week. Officer kills increased to 2.1 per week per sniper. German casualty rates from sniper fire tripled. American casualty rates from German precision fire dropped to 6%. A 45% reduction. By late July, the 82nd Airborne’s Afteraction reports noted significantly reduced German command effectiveness in Normandy sectors.
The reports attributed this to aggressive American counter sniper operations. They didn’t mention silos. They didn’t mention Klowski. They cited improved tactical positioning and persistence. In August, the Army’s ordinance department sent two engineers to investigate. They interviewed snipers, examined positions, climbed silos themselves. Their report concluded, “Grain storage structures provide excellent elevation, concealment, and structural protection for designated marksmen. Recommend assessment of similar structures in other theaters.” The report sat on a desk in Washington for 7 weeks. Nobody prioritized farm infrastructure.
The war was mobile now. France was liberated. Germany was next. Silos were yesterday’s innovation. But the snipers remembered. In October, during the advance through Belgium, Staff Sergeant Michael O’Brien found a silo outside Aken, set up inside, killed three German officers in two days. In November, Corporal James Whitmore used a silo near the Herkin Forest. Six kills, 4 days. In December during the Battle of the Bulge, nine American snipers operated from silos across the Arden. They killed 41 German officers in 3 weeks.
Command dysfunction contributed to Allied breakthrough. Conservative estimates credit silo tactics with saving 200 American lives between June and December 1944. The technique reduced German command effectiveness by an estimated 30 to 40% in sectors where it was employed. Officer casualty rates among Vermach forces in France increased by 60%. These numbers came from a postwar analysis conducted in 1947 by army historians. The report was classified remained classified until 1982. The official record credited improved sniper training and equipment. No mention of Kslowski.
No mention of silos. No mention of farmers who understood agriculture better than tactics. The innovation was absorbed. The inventor was forgotten. In 1946, the army revised its sniper doctrine. New manual FM2310 sniper training and employment. Section 7 covered non-traditional elevated positions. It mentioned water towers, radio mass, industrial structures. In a single paragraph on page 43, it referenced agricultural storage facilities as potentially useful in rural environments. No attribution, no history, just doctrine. Ray survived the war. He was in Germany when it ended.
May 8th, 1945. He’d killed 28 German officers across 11 months. Never wounded, never captured. He returned to Wisconsin in August, took a bus from New York. His father met him at the station in Sheigan. They shook hands, didn’t hug. His father asked if he was ready to work. Ray said yes. He spent the next 42 years farming, same 80 acres, same dairy operation. He married in 1947. Elizabeth Warernner, they had three children. Ray never talked about the war.
When asked, he’d say, “I did my part.” His children knew he’d been a sniper. Didn’t know the details. Didn’t ask. In 1963, a reporter from the Milwaukee Journal contacted him. Someone had mentioned his name in connection with Normandy sniping operations. The reporter wanted an interview. Ry declined. Said he had cows to milk. The reporter pushed. Ry hung up. In 1978, he attended a reunion of the 82nd Airborne. Saw Tommy Reeves for the first time in 33 years.
They talked for 2 hours. Reeves thanked him. Said the silo technique had saved his life in Belgium. Ray nodded. said he was glad they never discussed it again. Ray’s mother died in 1981. At the funeral, his old trophy was still on the mantle. State youth shooting champion, 1937. His daughter asked if she could keep it. Ray said yes. Told her it was from before he knew what shooting meant. He retired in 1987, sold the farm to his youngest son, moved to a smaller house in town, spent his days reading, gardening, playing checkers at the community center.
In 1991, a military historian tracked him down, wanted to interview him about silo tactics. Ray agreed. They talked for 3 hours. The historian took notes, asked if Rey had any regrets.
