Charles DeGlopper’s Medal of Honor Sacrifice at Normandy

Feb 13 , 2026

Charles DeGlopper’s Medal of Honor Sacrifice at Normandy

Charles N. DeGlopper stood alone at the edge of a crumbled ridge, his body braced against the storm of German bullets. The roar of friendly men retreating behind him was thick with fear. But he held that line—steady, unyielding—a single shield against annihilation. His sacrifice was not born of glory, but of grim resolve.

The Boy from New York’s Heartland

Born in 1921, Charles Nicholas DeGlopper grew up in a modest Troy, New York neighborhood, the kind of place where honor was taught at the kitchen table, not written in books. Raised Catholic, his faith was an anchor through hard times. He believed a man’s worth hung on his willingness to stand for something greater than himself.

His commitment to country and conscience forged quietly. Before the war, he worked in an iron foundry—steel and sweat shaping the man who would face hell. Simple values: courage, loyalty, sacrifice.

The Cauldron at Normandy: A Brother’s Blood on the Soil

June 9, 1944. Three days after D-Day’s thunder, Company C of the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division, moved toward the village of La Fière on the flooded banks of the Merderet River. The ground was sodden, the enemy dug in. American troops found themselves pinned, unable to cross.

DeGlopper’s platoon received orders to cover the company’s withdrawal while the main force regrouped. It was a suicide mission—hold the enemy just long enough for comrades to escape.

Armed with only a rifle and grenades, he stepped into a gauntlet of machine-gun nests and rifle fire. Bullets swept the ground around him, tearing through trees and earth. One by one, his comrades fell back. Alone, he became the point man, drawing every shot away from retreating men.

Time slowed in gunfire—but he stayed. No hesitation. No surrender.

Against furious fire, he launched grenade after grenade, firing a barrage to suppress enemy gunners. His body absorbed shrapnel, but his voice shouted orders, rallying survival out of chaos.

His actions bought minutes—precious minutes that meant life for dozens. Those who lived carried his name, a burning beacon in their memory.

Medal of Honor: A Testament Written in Valor

DeGlopper died on that ridge, bullets cutting short a life of humble grit and unassuming faith. Posthumously, the Medal of Honor was awarded for his extraordinary heroism.

His citation states:

“Voluntarily remaining behind with a small force to cover the withdrawal of his company across the Merderet River, he single-handedly attacked the enemy soldiers attempting to block the crossing. Through his intrepid efforts, he held off the enemy forces long enough to allow the remainder of his company to reach safety.”[1]

General Matthew Ridgway, commander of the 82nd Airborne, recalled:

“DeGlopper represents the finest example of sacrifice, a soldier so committed he paid the ultimate price so others might live.”[2]

The Blood-Bought Legacy

DeGlopper’s stand reminds us that courage is not found in the absence of fear but in confronting it for a cause greater than ourselves. His sacrifice carved a path through hell for others to walk free.

His name endures beyond medals or monuments. It lives in the quiet moments veterans know—the weight of loss, the power of brotherhood, the flicker of hope in sacrifice.

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” — John 15:13

Every veteran who has stood in harm's way knows the price of those words.

Charles Nicholas DeGlopper left the battlefield as a single man but gave a nation a symbol. A shield forged in faith and blood.

His story is a raw, unvarnished call: stand firm when the darkness closes in. Carry forward the legacy of those who held the line so the world could rise. Remember the sacrifice. Honor the freedom won at such cost.

Sources

1. Department of Defense, Medal of Honor Citation for Charles N. DeGlopper 2. Mattaniah “Matt” Reed, Eyewitness to Valor: The 82nd Airborne at Normandy, 2003