See the Byron Crawford article from the Courier Journal Newspaper.
The site of Wolf Creek Dam is important for more than simply holding back the mighty blue waters of Lake Cumberland.
Nearby, in what was once Aaron, Ky., was the birthplace of one of Kentucky's unsung heroes of World War II - Garlin Murl Conner.
G. Murl Conner from Aaron, Kentucky
1st Lieutenant, 3rd Infantry Division
7th Army, Company K
Murl, as he is called by his Clinton County neighbors, was one of Kentucky's most decorated heroes of World War II. By coincidence, he was a neighbor and an acquaintance of one of World War I's most publicized heroes, the late Sgt. Alvin C. York of Pall Mall, Tennessee. Conner and York lived in adjoining counties separated by the state line.
No doubt some of Conner's early experiences on the farm, up and down the Cumberland River and through the hollows, helped groom him for his future experiences as a soldier, just as some similar experiences of the late Sgt. York were credited with much of his success as a soldier in World War I.
Lt. General Alexander M. Patch awards 1st Lieutenant, G. Murl Conner,
the Distinguished Service Cross, Feb. 10, 1945
for extraordinary heroism in action
on January 24, 1945 near Houssen, France.
On Nov. 8, 1942 Conner was given the opportunity to travel army-style, so off to Africa he went. Here he entered his first combat with the troops of the 3rd Infantry Division.
This division was to become his traveling home while abroad. In fact, Conner and one other soldier from Owensboro, Ky., were the only two men to stay with the 22,000 man unit the entire time it was overseas.
The 3rd Division made quite a record through the efforts of Conner and many other outstanding soldiers as it traveled through the African campaigns, and on to Sicily, Italy, France and finally on to Berlin.
It was during these many months of travel and combat that Conner received a battlefield commission and his many decorations.
For his gallantry in action during seven campaigns and 28 months combat action, Lt. Conner received the Bronze Star with three oak leaf clusters, Silver Star and three oak leaf clusters, and the nation's second highest award, the Distinguished Service Cross. He was wounded seven times.
The Seventh Army Commander at that time, Lt. Gen. Alexander M. Patch presented the Service Cross to Conner.
An excerpt from this presentation reads:
"For extraordinary heroism in action, on 24 January 1945 at 0800 hours, near Houssen, France, Lt. Conner ran 400 yards through the impact area of an intense concentration of enemy artillery fire to direct friendly artillery on a force of six Mark VI tanks and tank destroyers, followed by 600 fanatical German infantrymen, which was assaulting in full fury the spearhead position held by his battalion."
Lt. Conner unreeled a spool of telephone wire, disregarded shells which exploded 25 yards from him and set up an observation post which he manned for more than three hours during the intense fighting.
He was individually credited with stopping more than 150 Germans, destroying all the tanks and completely disintegrating the powerful enemy assault force and preventing heavy loss of life in his own outfit.
Following the presentation Kentucky's little known hero said simply, "I think Gen. Patch is a fine man, and I think (my) regiment is the best outfit in the army."
After being discharged from the army Conner rejoined his neighbors at Aaron. But first there was the hero's welcome in Albany, including a parade and ceremony at the courthouse.
"I just sent one of my officers home. He was my S-2 (Intelligence Officer), Lt. Garlin M. Conner, who is from Aaron, Kentucky. I'm really proud of Lt. Conner. He probably will call you and, if he does, he may not sound like a soldier, will sound like any good old country boy, but, to my way of seeing, he's one of the outstanding soldiers of this war, if not the outstanding. He was a Sergeant until July and now is a First Lieutenant. He has the D.S.C., which could have been, I believe, a Congressional Medal of Honor but, he was heading home and we wanted to get him what he deserved before he left. He has a Silver Star with 4 clusters, a Bronze Star, Purple Heart with 6 clusters and is in for a French medal. On this last push, within two weeks he earned the D.S.C., a cluster to his Silver Star and a Bronze Star. I've never seen a man with as much courage and ability as he has. I usually don't brag much on my officers but, this is one officer nobody could brag enough about and do him justice; he's a real soldier."
Bravery of Clinton County soldier inspires quest to honor him
Why would a Wisconsin farmer, a former Green Beret, work nearly four years trying to persuade the U.S. government to award the Medal of Honor to a deceased World War II veteran from Clinton County, Ky.?
"Because it's the right thing to do," said Richard Chilton of Lake Geneva, Wis.
Chilton, 67, who served with the 11th Airborne Division in Korea and with Israeli paratroopers during Desert Storm, thinks he knows a war hero when he sees one. And if the late Garlin M. Conner of Aaron, Ky., isn't deserving of the Medal of Honor, Chilton doesn't know who is.
His quest for the medal was inspired by Chilton's research into the war record of his uncle, Gordon Roberts, who was killed shortly after the landing at Anzio, Italy. Roberts was a member of then-Sgt. Conner's platoon.
"I would say that I interviewed over 300 (veterans of the 7th Infantry Regiment) looking for information about my uncle," Chilton said. "But the name I kept hearing was Garlin Conner.
"They were amazed when they learned he had made it through the war and was still alive at that time, and they would go on to tell me what he had done," Chilton said.
Chilton was so moved by the many eyewitness accounts of Conner's courage and sacrifice that he is seeking the Medal of Honor for the Kentuckian, who died in 1998. Conner's selfless acts of bravery, Chilton insists, should place him in the company of Sgt. Alvin York, who lived just down the road from Conner in Tennessee, and of Audie Murphy, who served in the same division as Conner but who earned one less Silver Star for gallantry than Conner's four. York and Murphy both received the Medal of Honor.
Many of Conner's battle records were lost, and some of his commanders have said that because of combat conditions, they did not take time to properly document his bravery.
Existing records document that Conner repeatedly risked his life under enemy fire to capture and disable numerous enemy positions "with grim ferocity," one of his commanders wrote.
In one battle, Conner charged 400 yards into an intense German tank, artillery and infantry assault near Houssen, France, in January 1945. Almost single-handedly, Conner turned back the enemy advance and prevented heavy casualties in his own battalion.
A citation awarding Conner the Distinguished Service Cross states that, amid exploding shells and automatic-weapon fire, Conner unreeled a spool of telephone wire that enabled him to call for artillery help.
For three hours, he lay in a shallow ditch as "wave after wave of German infantry" surged toward him, at times to within five yards of his position.
"As the last all-out German assault swept forward, he ordered his artillery to concentrate on his own position, resolved to die if necessary to halt the enemy," Conner's commanding officer wrote. "Friendly shells exploded within five yards of him, blanketing his position . . . but Lieutenant Conner continued to direct artillery fire on the assault elements swarming around him until the German attack was shattered and broken."
Conner was a quiet man who stood about 5 feet 5 inches tall and weighed 145 pounds. Chilton says Conner was wounded at least seven times during 29 months of nearly continuous combat service, but he refused to accept Purple Hearts for most of the wounds. He was given a battlefield commission to second lieutenant after only three months of fighting.
Many of his fellow infantrymen told Chilton they often watched in amazement as Conner repeatedly risked his life to save others. They said Conner frequently volunteered to take the point on the most dangerous patrols. And one officer remembered that when volunteers were requested for an especially dangerous night mission into enemy territory, Conner was the only one who reported to the commander's tent.
"Where are the rest?" the commander asked. "I'm it," Conner replied.
Conner came home to Clinton County after the war and began farming. He died there at age 79 of heart and kidney complications. His widow, Pauline, still lives there as do his son, Paul Conner, several grandchildren and a great-grandchild.
Chilton visited Conner several years ago; the war hero was in a wheelchair and unable to speak. Conner wept when Chilton mentioned his uncle.
Since then, Chilton has called and written letters to the military and to politicians and anyone else who might help, pleading with them to award Conner the Medal of Honor -- so far, without success.
"I don't think I have the option to give up as long as anyone will listen," Chilton said. "It's just something that has to be done."
Here is the You Tube video.
Lt. Garlin Murl Conner
The story behind the hero
[Editor's note: Many of us who grew up and live in Albany and Clinton County knew and were friends with the man we all knew simply as "Murl"
While most of us knew him from his work with the Veterans of Foreign Wars and Disabled American Veterans as well as a local farmer and Farm Bureau advocate and often officer of the organization, we simply weren't aware that he had been anything more than a soldier who had served, and was wounded several times, in World War II.
Although there have been several works written about his wartime deeds, this particular piece released by Army News Service and written by Joe Lacdan, is by far the best and most detailed account of his actions in France.
With no need to "reinvent the wheel" so to speak, the Clinton County News reached out to the Army News Service last week to request permission to reprint Lacdan's article and was assured that with the publication being in the public domain, reprinting would certainly be possible.
The article is also available for viewing online at the Army News website:
That website also gives a link to a nearly seven minute long video produced by the Army News and features photos of Conner as well as interviews with his widow, Pauline, son Paul, and local historians and family friends L.C. "Hoppy" Conner and Walton "Chip" Haddix.
We urge all of our readers to locate that website and view the short video.]
The Silent Farmer:
Decorated Soldier of World War II finally awarded Medal of Honor
By Joe Lacdan,
Army News Service
ALBANY, Ky. -- Garlin Conner charged alone into the cold abyss, toward the massive silhouettes of German tanks in the distance.
Clutching a telephone, radio and wire, the first lieutenant carried himself through the frigid January air, toward 600 encroaching Germans and the enemy rounds he knew were coming.
Conner could not turn back if he wanted to.
His company needed a guide to cut into the surging German infantry or risk getting overrun. The Kentucky marksman always fought in front of his men, and his fellow Soldiers trusted him to lead. Conner often fired at the opposition standing while others ducked for cover.
Conner could see the enemy before they spotted him, fellow Soldiers wrote.
The thunder of the German rifles didn't rattle him. His father had raised him to be fearless while hunting wild game in the woods of southern Kentucky. A bullet wound in his left hip could not keep him from returning to the front lines, nor could orders to remain at a military field hospital. On a frigid winter morning in 1945, Conner would once more put himself between his fellow Soldiers and the onslaught of enemy fire.
This time, in a snow-covered forest, 5-foot-6-inch Conner faced the full brunt of German forces. On January 24, the Nazi-led German army mounted a desperate surge to split American units near the French-German border.
Conner headed toward the flurry of bullets until he ducked into a shallow, snowy ditch.
Here in the frozen French countryside, amid rampant automatic fire, Conner would make what could be his final stand, guiding American artillery toward the German infantry. Here, Conner would remain until American forces stopped the Germans, or until a bullet stopped him.
When locals in the rural farming town of Albany, Kentucky, would ask Garlin "Murl" Conner about his time in World War II, he'd hush them quickly.
"I done what I had to do," Conner said in Soldier accounts, "and that's all there is to it."
After returning to Clinton County following the war and starting a tobacco farm, the decorated Army veteran decided he had seen enough of the world and the horrors of armed combat. Conner had found peace plowing fields in the shadows of the Appalachians.
Conner never boasted about his acts of bravery.
For more than 53 years until his death in 1998, he rarely spoke about the war again — not to his wife, Pauline, or even to a fellow Soldier.
During the two decades since Conner died of complications related to heart and kidney failure, others took up the cause the farmer so adamantly declined. Former Army Green Beret Richard Chilton, with the support of seven retired generals, presented Conner's bid for the Medal of Honor to the Army's personnel records office.
The curious case of Conner, who held a war record so compelling that it rivals the accolades of the more famous veteran Audie Murphy, baffled those who knew him. In all, Conner spent more than 800 days on the front lines in World War II. He suffered seven combat wounds while earning four Silver Stars, three Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, the French military decoration Croix de Guerre, and the Distinguished Service Cross.
And yet, in an effort to get Conner recognized with a Medal of Honor, Chilton and his team endured a difficult quest that spanned decades. A federal district court rejected Conner's initial bid for the award. In the 2014 ruling, a federal judge in Kentucky told a heartbroken Pauline that she had not filed her husband's paperwork in time.
Conner had for decades shied away from talk of the award, much like he avoided any conversation of his four years in the Army. Still, his family continued to cling to hope that one day Conner would earn the U.S. military's highest distinction.
OLD KENTUCKY HOME
A curving paved road leads to Murl and Pauline Conner's red brick farmhouse wedged near the foothills of the Appalachians in southern Kentucky, two miles north of the Tennessee state line.
Blue skies hang over Albany's green rolling landscape, as plowed fields seem to shine under the midday sun. Cardinals outside the one-story house chirp as a light wind sweeps by. This farm, cradled in the hilly terrain of Clinton County, hid the story of a man whose steely courage withstood the gravest circumstances.
Just footsteps down the road from the farm, Murl's son Paul, and his wife Kathy, live in a modular home that was built to replace their home that had been destroyed by a tornado. Paul took over the farm after his father suffered a heart attack on a spring day in 1979.
He spent long hours planting tobacco plants before the farm transitioned into raising cattle as its primary product.
Born nine years after Conner returned from the war, Paul contrasts his dad in appearance. Burly and stout, he sports a much larger frame than his father, who had been thin and wiry, at 5-foot-6-inches tall, and weighing only 120 pounds during active duty.
Paul shares his father's love of animals. And Paul raised his four children with the same grounded morals he learned from his father. Paul said his father offered sound advice that Paul would later instill in his children. "Be a man of your word," Paul recalled his dad saying. "Do what you say. If you can't fulfill a promise, don't make it. Be mindful of people around you because everyone has feelings."
In the family's living room, Paul sits next to a black and white portrait of Murl as a young Soldier, flanked by faded portraits of Paul's children and grandchildren. Decorated with beige ceramic lamps, rustic wooden chairs and shelves, the room has changed little since Pauline and her husband moved into the home more than 50 years ago.
For decades the photo loomed over the room. As a boy, Paul occasionally would stare at the black and white picture in awe.
When he asked his father about his time in the Army, he'd receive the same cold response: "We went over there, we did what we had to do," Paul recalled his father saying. "And it needs to stay over there."
Paul grew up without knowing the full extent of his father's achievements on the battlefield. And for the most part, so did Pauline.
Generations have passed since the Soldier with only an eighth-grade education used wit and intelligence to thwart enemy advances. But buried in eyewitness accounts and in the testimonials of fellow Soldiers, Conner's heroic deeds remained etched in history, unknown to his family and many of Albany's residents.
"I just thought he was a farmer and he did a little something in the war," said Walton Haddix, a family friend of the Conners. "But he never would talk about it. He never mentioned anything he did in the military."
Outside of his war medals, this 200-acre farm on the lower east end of Clinton County is Conner's lasting legacy. The family purchased the plot of land in 1949, after the government bought the family's previous farm to make way for the Wolf Creek Dam and Lake Cumberland Reservoir. With his time in service long behind him, Conner turned his attention to his farm and raising Paul.
He never boasted about his wartime achievements, telling his wife he didn't want to appear to be bragging. After all, Conner's five brothers also served in the military: four in World War II and one in the Korean War.
As a farmer, he took pride in working on his farm, where he could often be found in his long-sleeved khaki shirt, farmer's billed cap and overalls, riding a tractor or teaching Paul how to grow tobacco from the soil.
But the war never truly left him. Sometimes, at night, Conner would wake, gripped with tension and reliving moments from the battlefield, said his wife. Instead of returning to bed, Conner would retreat to the family's wooden porch, where he lingered for hours smoking cigarettes.
The episodes at times became so traumatic, Pauline declines to talk in detail about them. Pauline said her husband suffered symptoms consistent with post-traumatic stress disorder, an illness that had not yet been widely identified until the Vietnam War.
"If anyone had PTSD, it was Murl," Pauline said.
Conner carried the burden internally, never voicing his anguish to his family. The last time Conner had spoken publicly about the war, it happened to be the same day Pauline laid eyes on her future husband for the first time.
A HERO'S WELCOME
On a bright spring day in May 1945, the Wells family heard that a war hero, a native of Clinton County, would be returning after four years overseas.
The local American Legion post organized a parade in the town square to welcome back a war veteran whose bravery had townspeople talking. They traveled from surrounding counties, some by wagon. Others drove in by car, while some came on foot.
Garlin Murl Conner, a farmer's son who voluntarily joined the Army in 1941, had come home from the war.
Pauline Wells, still in her teenage years, climbed into the back of the family's horse-drawn wagon along with her two brothers, two sisters and her parents at the family's farm in northern Clinton County. They drove the wagon along a dirt trail, 10 miles to the town square. The county's schools dismissed classes early so students could attend the parade.
Pauline's family learned that following the parade, Conner would be speaking to the crowd about the war. So townspeople crowded into the second floor of the old courthouse. Sergeant Alvin C. York, the most decorated Soldier of the First World War, also attended, beginning what became a lifelong friendship with Conner. Pauline leaned onto the wooden bench in the back row to hear Conner speak.
"I was expecting a giant of a man," Pauline said.
When Conner finally emerged before the crowd, his appearance stunned Pauline. Wearing his olive-colored military dress uniform, the lieutenant's small stature underwhelmed the young Pauline. With narrow shoulders, and a slender frame, Conner hardly appeared like heroes in storybooks.
"That little wharf rat," Pauline said to her mother, Tressie. "He couldn't have done all the things they said he'd done."
But unbeknownst to Pauline and her family, Conner had long proved his mettle to U.S. forces, the Allies, and fellow Soldiers, his commanding officer would say.
Conner was a quiet man of few words. The native of nearby Aaron, Kentucky, stood before the crowded courtroom and said what would be his last public statements about his time in the war.
"It gives me great pleasure," Conner began, "to be able to come out here today. I am not a speaker, and did not come here to make a speech."
"But," Conner continued, "I will try to explain to you a small part of the war in Europe and some of the things I saw."
Conner didn't mince words. He talked first about the early November morning in 1942 when his unit first landed on the shore of Fedala, Morocco, in support of Operation Torch. American and Allied forces wrested control of North Africa from the Axis powers in only three days.
He moved onto the invasion of Licata, Sicily, a war-ravaged city that lay in tatters after 38 days of continuous fighting. Through his 10-minute testimony, Conner didn't talk about his medals, or the times he fought on the front lines ahead of his men. Instead he spoke of his unit's achievements, and how they survived the changing elements and terrain.
Finally, Conner touched on his unit's trek into southern France and a difficult battle in the foothills of the Vosges Mountains. But he didn't say a word about any of his selfless, valorous acts. Nor did he mention a fateful January morning near a small French village during the aftermath of the Battle of the Bulge, when for three hours in the winter of 1945, he risked his life so his unit could survive.
AT ANY COST
On the morning of January 24, 1945, the men of the K Company, 7th Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division entered the Brunwald Woods near Houssen, France.
As U.S. troops scrambled to reinforce their position in the small village near the German-French border, a bitter cold swept over eastern France, creating a stinging chill.
As the frigid wind stung their faces, K Company's Soldiers marched into the snow to take on a Battalion of desperate German soldiers.
Conner had rejoined his unit in the French countryside while still recovering from a sniper bullet wound in his left hip. Conner, knowing a crucial battle loomed, had earlier slipped out of the field hospital in northern France and returned to the front lines.
Upon his return, Conner learned that his commanding officer, Lt. Col. Lloyd Ramsey, had made arrangements to send him home. Conner had earned eligibility to return to Kentucky based on his time served and accolades earned. Ramsey removed Conner from the front lines and reassigned him to serve as his intelligence officer in battalion headquarters for his own safety.
Hitler's army, facing looming defeat, countered American forces with desperate barrage after barrage, attacking U.S. forces with ruthless resolve. The German assaults gravely concerned Ramsey. The day before, the Germans had rallied for a fierce offensive against another company, costing the Americans 25 men.
Ramsey needed a patrol team to scout the enemy's position, but resources ran thin.
Conner, still ailing from his hip injury, once again volunteered to take a patrol and said he would attempt to use direct artillery to halt the German offensive. Ramsey, knowing the weight of Conner's previous contributions and his pending return home, reluctantly agreed.
"No words can express the outstanding leadership qualities that Lt. Conner had," the late Ramsey wrote. "(He was) always willing to do more than his part."
Conner had built a reputation as an expert scout and marksman. The Soldier from the Bluegrass State had earned the respect of his fellow Soldiers by fearlessly confronting the enemy and taking dangerous missions. Maurice Williams, a Soldier who served under Conner, said Conner's background as a Kentucky outdoorsman helped prepare him to go undetected in combat. Raised on a farm during the Depression era, Conner learned to become a skilled marksman and hunter.
"He could go through the woods unnoticed," Haddix, the family friend, said. "And if a squirrel (was) in a tree somewhere and moved its tail, he could see it."
While other Soldiers would go on night scouting missions with team members, Conner operated alone.
Conner had fostered such a respect from his fellow Soldiers, and had performed with such distinction, that he earned a battlefield commission at Anzio. Conner, along with the highly-decorated Murphy, both served in the 3rd Infantry Division, which suffered more casualties than any other during World War II.
"He always led from the front," wrote Williams, who fought alongside Conner earlier in the war. "And his platoon felt safe following him."
At about 8 a.m. on January 24, a sudden barrage of light artillery swept on the American troops. Six German Panzer tanks emerged from the frigid air, flanked by a battalion of 600 German soldiers descending on K Company. The powerful, 9-foot tall tanks nearly spanned 27 feet across and 12 feet wide.
"The Americans, the Allies, had nothing like it," said Luther Conner, President of Clinton County's historical society. "It was the most potent war weapon at that time. It was just a monster. It caused fear just for a soldier to see the size of it."
Two thirds of the battalion pushed toward K Company, attempting to split and divide the Americans. A week earlier, a German Panzer division attacked Second Battalion's 600 Soldiers. About 100 returned to their units. Germans killed or took the remainder as prisoners.
Near Houssen, K Company faced similar odds. Conner knew his unit's only chance in the wintry conditions rested in his hands. He needed to guide artillery fire on the Germans.
Conner saw the towering frames of German Panzers barrelling through the forest. Without a moment's hesitation, the Soldier sprinted straight toward tanks, carrying a telephone, radio, and wire reel.
Conner uncoiled the wire as exploding shells and wood splinters from the surrounding woods showered upon him. Conner ran nearly 400 yards toward the enemy, ignoring warnings from his unit, said Chilton.
He did not stop until he had advanced 30 yards past the American Infantry front line.
There, in a shallow ditch beneath the January snow, Conner planted himself before the oncoming German fire. And for three hours, Conner laid like immovable rock under a violent wave, directing artillery rounds onto the German infantry. As swarm after swarm of German soldiers came like an avalanche upon him, Conner, barked directions and coordinates to battalion headquarters.
"Although he was in a prone position, the ditch only covered part of his body," wrote 1st Lt. Harold Wigetman, who served as the S-3 in 3rd Battalion. "He was wedged in there so tight, that it was almost impossible for him to move or shift his position."
The Germans soon grew aware of the lone figure in the snow guiding the American artillery. German soldiers began to swarm and surround Conner and the Americans. The German army mounted a final surge to overwhelm the American forces.
Conner, seeing the enemy close, made a lasting, drastic choice to defeat the German infantry.
Conner directed American artillery rounds toward his position, and the surrounding Germans. As the enemy attack continued to unfurl, Conner put himself in peril so that his unit could achieve victory.
"He cared about his men more than he cared about himself," Chilton said.
With bullets flying toward him from both directions, Conner never wavered. At one point, a German soldier ran within five yards of Conner clutching a grenade before an American stopped him. Haddix said Conner dispatched German soldiers with his submachine gun.
"With icy self-control, he kept telephoning his directions," Wigetman wrote, "although he must have seen that the (Germans) would have killed him before he could get on his feet."
The American onslaught led by Conner overwhelmed the German attack. By the time the final rounds fell, Conner's actions had resulted in killing 50 German soldiers and leaving more than 150 wounded. American munitions destroyed the six German tanks.
"I saw elements waver " their fighting spirit broken by the deadly concentration of (American) fire," Wigetman wrote.
Conner paid a heavy toll for his valor during the war. The injury to his left hip would hamper his mobility for the rest of his life. Like many veterans of his generation, Conner did not think highly of anything he had achieved in Europe, his wife said.
"He was always very humble," Pauline said. "He did what he felt like he had to do to protect our freedom to vote and our freedom of speech, which we have truly earned from what he did and others like him."
Ramsey called Conner the greatest combat Soldier he had ever seen. Troops who remembered him noted Conner's cool resolve under the most difficult conditions.
Wrote Williams in his journal, "I had such confidence in (Lt.) Conner. I would have followed him anywhere he wanted to go."
In the years after Conner's heart attack in 1979, he found a new calling. He listened with concern to stories of Soldiers who had not received their veteran's affairs benefits. Some servicemen struggled with living expenses after they left the service.
Conner and his wife would drive across Clinton County's 196 square miles of rolling hills and farmland to meet with vets. They extended their travels to 10 neighboring counties. Once a month they would place their paperwork and a suitcase in their Buick sedan and travel to veterans' homes or meet them at their office in the courthouses. Pauline acted as his secretary, fielding phone calls and helping her husband coordinate his appointments with the veterans in need.
The night episodes continued through the years, Pauline said. And Conner still struggled to sleep on some nights. But helping other veterans, she said, helped him find peace.
"(Assisting veterans) became his life," Paul said.
But listening to the tales of other Soldiers and hearing about their struggles awakened a longing in Conner he thought that he had long buried.
Throughout his four years in the Army, Conner's concerns rested with his Soldiers, never seeking personal glory, but always on the lookout for how he could help, whether scouting the enemy position, or finding ways to help retired vets file their military records. But hearing their stories, Pauline said, she noticed for the first time regret.
That regret became clear in 1996, his wife said.
Chilton, a former Army Green Beret from Wisconsin, wrote a letter to Conner in search of information on his late uncle, Pfc. Gordon Roberts, who was killed after landing at Anzio. Conner, no longer able to speak or write, invited Chilton to his Albany home.
Chilton visited Conner on a fall day in 1996. He sat with Conner in the family living room, and asked him questions about his uncle and the war, while Conner nodded his answers from his wheelchair.
Chilton learned that Conner had indeed served with his uncle, and that Conner had carried his uncle in his last moments to a medical aid station. Conner, reliving a moment from 50 years prior, began to weep.
Pauline suggested that she could sort through her husband's old war records to search for documentation of Roberts' service. She carried her husband's weathered, military green duffel bag out of the living room closet and pulled out old paperwork, records and medals contained inside a cardboard box.
As Chilton skimmed through the pages, his eyes widened. Chilton saw the decorations: the Purple Hearts and Bronze Star and Silver Stars. The Kentucky native had participated in eight major campaigns and had been wounded in each of the countries he toured.
"My God," a stunned Chilton said to Pauline. "This man should have been awarded the Medal of Honor."
Chilton, feeling sudden inspiration, asked Pauline and Garlin if he could pursue an application for the medal on Murl's behalf. Pauline turned to her husband.
"I looked at [Garlin]," she said. "And he was looking at me so straight with tears in his eyes."
Conner nodded his head yes. After 50 years, he was finally ready to apply for the honor that he had for so long been reluctant to seek.
"He's my hero," Pauline said, sitting in the Conner family's living room, clutching the brown picture frame holding her husband's black and white service photo. "He always has been."
Wearing a black blazer and rose-colored blouse, her once-blonde locks have faded into gray. Now 89 years old, her voice wavers when she talks about the life of her late husband. She fondly recalls his humility and his quiet way of voicing his approval.
Finally, she talks about that spring night in 1945, when she and Garlin slipped away from Clinton County in his convertible with nothing but a homemade dress to get married at a courthouse in Rossville, Georgia. They would stop at a neighboring town on the way to Georgia to purchase clothing for Pauline. Pauline said Garlin's patience and understanding swayed her to marry him after two weeks of dating.
Though their early marriage suffered the occasional bumps, Pauline stood by her husband's side for more than five decades. Conner suffered a heart attack in 1979, after falling ill riding on the tractor. He underwent open heart surgery later that year, and a second surgery 11 years later.
In the years before his death, Garlin had battled numerous illnesses, including kidney failure, diabetes, and Parkinson's disease. He suffered a stroke that left him bedridden and no longer able to speak. Pauline took on the role of caretaker, cooking his meals and driving him to his medical appointments. She took a part-time job for additional income.
Conner passed mercifully on a November day in 1998. He was 79.
"The last few years my dad was alive, he wasn't really alive," Paul said. "It progressively got worse. I wish I hadn't have had to see that part of it. But we can't choose how we're going to live and how the last days are going to be."
At the Weldon Haddix Funeral home along Business Route 127 in Albany, hundreds waited in line to view Conner's remains. In the rectangular, brick building nestled between local businesses on the north side of Albany, farmers, neighbors and veterans paid their respects. Veterans whom Conner had helped approached Pauline to express their gratitude for Conner's assistance years ago. Neighboring farmers whom Conner helped as president of the Clinton County Farm Bureau also attended. To this day, Pauline said, veterans still greet her.
"They come up and hug me for what I've done, for what [Garlin] has done," Pauline said. "And I always hug them and tell them I love every one of them."
Conner's acts left a lasting impression on Ramsey. The two remained in touch for decades through letters and phone calls. Ramsey later retired as a major general and suffered five combat wounds during his time in service. He encouraged Conner to apply for the medal over the years, Pauline said. But each time, Conner declined and the medals and decorations remained mostly untouched inside the duffel bag, in the living room closet.
Ramsey, whose 34-year career spanned three wars, wrote in 2006: "One of the most disappointing regrets of my career is not having the Medal of Honor awarded to the most outstanding Soldier I've had the privilege of commanding." The Army medically retired Ramsey in 1974.
A FINAL PLEA
Chilton continued to press on Conner's application for the Medal of Honor, writing letters and contacting politicians.
New evidence had been uncovered by Congressman Ed Whitfield's office in the National Archives in Washington, including three eyewitness accounts written by fellow Soldiers who fought on the front lines with Conner. The three affidavits painted in vivid detail accounts of Conner's acts in January 1945. But even the affidavits would not be enough.
The Army Board for Correction of Military Records rejected Chilton's original application for Conner's eligibility for the medal. Haddix assembled a legal team, headed by Dennis Shepherd of the Kentucky Department of Veterans Affairs as lead trial counsel, and included Luther Conner, who also serves as the Conner family's lawyer, to begin work on a lawsuit which was filed in federal court. That lawsuit would obtain a ruling ordering the Board to grant Pauline a new hearing and to consider the new evidence.
In 2014, U.S. District Judge Thomas Russell ruled that the statute of limitations to correct Conner's military record had expired and that the family could no longer continue to seek the award.
After the judge dismissed Pauline's case in 2014, she said she had lost hope. She returned to Albany and resigned herself to the idea that her husband's decorated service record would remain as it was, without the addition of the honor that Conner's family and friends felt he deserved. Despite the backing of the Kentucky Department of Veterans Affairs, several generals and Congressman Ed Whitfield, Conner's chances for the Medal dimmed.
But then, on March 2, 2015, Conner's case reached a turning point at the U.S. 6th Circuit Court of Appeals in Cincinnati. During the appeal for Conner's Medal of Honor bid, Assistant U.S. Attorney Candace Hill was assigned to represent the government's stance against Conner's case. For 15 minutes, Hill defended the Army's previous stance during the proceedings, saying the case should be left alone.
But then, in a closing moment of abject candor, Hill revealed her true feelings.
Hill broke into tears, as she discussed her father's service as an officer in the same unit as Conner during World War II. She said her father suffered a severe leg injury on January 25, 1945, one day after Conner's heroic acts.
"For all I know," she said. "Garlin Conner may have " helped save his life."
Hill's words, according to an Associated Press report, convinced the panel to submit Conner's case to a federal mediator. The mediator then directed the ABCMR to grant a new hearing and to consider all evidence, including the recently discovered eyewitness accounts. The following October, the board granted "full relief" to Pauline's request to upgrade Conner's Distinguished Service Cross to the Medal of Honor.
Still, Conner's bid for the medal needed further approval from the Secretary of the Army, the Secretary of Defense, and the president.
Last March, Pauline received a call from a military officer at the Pentagon who told her to expect an important phone call from a high-ranking DOD official regarding her husband. Could this be the phone call she had been waiting for? It must be a trick, Pauline thought, and she called Luther Conner, the family's attorney, to confirm its validity. When Luther gave his assurances, Pauline still asked Luther, and his wife Susan, to sit with her for the important call.
The following Monday the phone rang.
"Is this Lyda Conner?" asked a man with a gruff, New York accent.
"I go by Pauline," she said.
"You sound just like an old country gal," the man said.
"I am," Pauline said, soon realizing the caller was the president.
"It's a beautiful place down there where you live," President Trump said.
"Yes it is," Pauline said, as she sat in the family's tidy living room, amid family photos of Conner, her son, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Outside, redbirds chirped in the cool spring air.
"You are the widow of Lieutenant Garlin Conner?" Trump asked.
"I am," she confirmed.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Trump said, "Well I've got some good news for you. He has a wonderful military record — one of the best I've ever seen. I am going to award him the Medal of Honor."
The news soon spread to the rest of the Conner family, Conner's legal team and Clinton County's residents. Chilton, who spent much of his own time and money on Conner's journey, could breathe a sigh of relief. Chilton traveled across the country in his quest to bring the Medal of Honor to the Conner family. He'd conducted dozens of interviews with former veterans who knew Conner. Nearly all have since passed. Chilton also penned what he said could be hundreds of hand-written letters to congressmen and to the Army.
A 22-year quest for a man who left everything on the battlefield had finally ended. Conner will be posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor in a White House ceremony June 26.
"It gets you kind of numb, you know?" Chilton said. "It sinks in and you understand it. You realize how long you've been after it and how long you've been doing it. I was just kind of numb " I felt good for him. I felt good for his wife; she suffered through all this stuff. I felt good for (Paul). They'll all know this forever: (he's) a hero."
Pauline was asked what she thought her husband would say if he was still alive. Pauline thought for a moment. And she recalled how her husband might not want the honor, and might brush it aside once more. He might defer credit to the men he fought alongside. But Pauline said she sensed her husband's attitude toward the honor had changed during his waning years. She remembered his regret in the 1996 meeting with Chilton.
Maybe, Conner might just tip his cap, and smile.
"More than anything I miss him," Pauline said wistfully. "And I wish he was here so he could go get the Medal himself. Because I think he would have been proud of it. I know he would have."
"I always kept thinking he didn't want it in his younger days. And he didn't really. " When he got older, he wished he had."
The story of Garlin Conner doesn't lie in his heroic acts or in his courage under the grimmest of odds. His family says it lies in his unending desire to help others, whether guiding Soldiers on the battlefields of Western Europe, or helping veterans in the rolling hills of Clinton County, Kentucky.
Chilton, a military veteran of 20 years, traveled the world with both the U.S. Army and the Israeli Army during Desert Storm. Perhaps the Wisconsin resident put it best.
"I've traveled a lot and I've seen a lot," Chilton said. "But I've never met anyone like Garlin Conner."
Last revised June 24, 2018.
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