The Army called him a handicap. History calls him a hero.

You’ve probably never heard of Phil Larimore — a teenage hero of World War II whose story sounds too improbable to be true. But behind the unbelievable details stands a real young man with the leadership of Dick Winters (“Band of Brothers”), the resilience of Louis Zamperini (“Unbroken”), and the courage of Desmond Doss (“Hacksaw Ridge”).

Born in 1925, Philip B. Larimore Jr. excelled at outdoor pursuits — hiking, camping, horsemanship, sharpshooting, and hunting. But he also struggled with discipline and behavior, prompting his parents to send him to military school at age 13. There, Phil found his purpose. He emerged as a standout cadet and natural leader, graduating with honors shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941.

If Dad could speak to us this Memorial Day, I believe he would ask for just one thing: Tell the stories of those who served.

At 17, he became the youngest cadet up to that point to complete the Army’s demanding Officer Candidate School. Days after his 18th birthday, he received his commission — becoming the youngest Army officer in the war. He then trained intensively with the 82nd Airborne.

By early 1944, Phil had landed on the beachhead at Anzio, Italy, with the 3rd Infantry Division. He had just turned 19.

A survivor

He fought in frontline combat almost immediately. He first led an ammunition and pioneer platoon, working shoulder to shoulder with his men. At night, often deep in no man’s land, Phil defused mines, strung barbed wire, delivered supplies, and engaged in brutal combat — sometimes hand to hand — as he advanced through Italy and into southern France.

During that phase of the war, the average life expectancy for a junior officer on the front lines was 21 days. Phil survived 415.

Days after his 20th birthday, he was promoted to company commander, the Army’s youngest at that post. He went on to become one of the most highly decorated junior officers, receiving every valor medal the Army awarded except the Medal of Honor — including the Distinguished Service Cross, two Silver Stars, two Bronze Stars, three Purple Hearts, and three Presidential Unit Citations. His bravery included volunteering to fly 200 miles behind enemy lines to find where Hitler had hidden the world-famous Lipizzaner stallions — a top-secret mission that led General George Patton to authorize Operation Cowboy to save the breed from extinction.

On April 8, 1945 — just one month before VE Day — Phil learned that a squad of his men were pinned down by more than 120 German soldiers. Without hesitation, he jumped on the back of a tank and coolly manned a .50-caliber machine gun under relentless enemy fire. He wiped out three German gun nests and scattered the surrounding troops. A sniper’s bullet shattered his leg before he could return to cover.

Surgeons in a field hospital amputated his right leg. Phil was then flown home to an Army hospital, joining more than 15,000 soldiers recovering from major limb loss. Army policy at the time mandated automatic discharge for all amputee officers after rehabilitation. Phil refused to accept it. He appealed the policy, calling it unjust, unfair, and unethical.

A shattering setback

During his appeal hearing on April 15, 1947, Phil discovered exactly how Army brass viewed amputee officers. One colonel told him, “You’re a handicap to the Army. You’re a highly decorated cripple — but still a cripple.” Another added, “The Army doesn’t need one-legged handicaps,” and “Amputee officers simply don’t have a place in our Army.”

The board denied his appeal by a single vote. Phil received an honorable discharge with the rank of major — at just 22 years old.

Though the Army later reversed the policy in 1950, the damage had been done. Phil’s self-image was shattered. His promising military career had been stolen — not only by a German sniper, but by the Army and country he had faithfully served and loved. He fell into despair and contemplated ending his life.

Fortunately, he turned to an Army chaplain for help. With the support of family, friends, and his faith, Phil rebuilt his sense of purpose and began healing.

I’m the oldest of Phil’s four sons. He never spoke about the war. Only after he and my mother celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary did I ask what it felt like to be a hero.

“Two million men fought in Europe,” he replied. “I was one of over 500,000 American casualties. But more than 100,000 are buried there. Those are the real heroes. Not me!”

A role model for generations

Dad’s quiet but steady faith, humility, and lifelong service to others became a model — not just for my brothers and me but for the many students and Boy Scouts he mentored over the decades. Several even named their first sons Philip.

After retiring, Dad made peace with his past and with his Creator. The nightmares faded. The stench of war no longer haunted him. He died peacefully in his sleep on Oct. 31, 2003. He was 78.

After 15 years of research and writing, I completed my biography of him — “At First Light” — first published in 2022. The book led to his posthumous inductions into the Army’s Officer Candidate School Hall of Fame and the 3rd Infantry Division Hall of Fame, alongside legends like Audie Murphy and Generals Dwight D. Eisenhower, George C. Marshall, and Lucian K. Truscott.

After his most recent induction, I visited his grave. I thought: Dad, I always loved being your son. Now more than ever, I’m honored by it.

If he could speak to us this Memorial Day, I believe he would ask for just one thing: Tell the stories of those who served. Tell the stories of those who gave everything on the altar of war — those who sacrificed their tomorrows so we might have our todays.

And above all, remember the cost. The freedoms and liberties they preserved must not only be appreciated — they must be wisely stewarded.