PFC John Squires; May 23, 1944, Near Cisterna, ItaIy.
I was a PFC, or Private First Class in Company A, Second Platoon, First Battalion, Thirtieth Infantry
Regiment, Third Infantry Division. At eighteen, I held the responsibility of platoon messenger. Lieutenant
Bracey had given me that job and, as I said, I didn’t want to disappoint him. He trusted me and I wanted to
do it well.
Platoon messenger was a likely fit. I had worked as a courier for the freight office of B&O Railroad back
in my hometown of Louisville, Kentucky. I was also lucky to get that job, as I was only seventeen at the time
and had dropped out of high school. I was restless. What with this war on, all I really wanted to do was
enlist and fight. I was afraid that it might be over before I could get into it. The last thing I wanted was
another year of school. So, my only option was to get a job and wait until I turned eighteen.
That happened in May. As soon as I could, I enlisted, just like my dad before me in the last war and my
two brothers in this one. Now, finally, I was in the thick of it. I had my wish. I was proud to be part of a hard
fighting unit with a stellar history.
We landed on the boot of Italy in January, and it seemed as if we had taken the enemy by surprise. We
didn’t see any Germans at first, and scuttlebutt had it that one of our Jeeps drove all the way to Rome without
taking fire. But, we didn’t advance on Rome. Instead, our orders were to dig in around Anzio and consolidate
our position. That gave the Germans the time they needed to dig trenches, install heavy guns, and hem us
in. We’d been stuck here ever since, holding the line near the little town of Padiglione. We had seen little
fighting, and I, personally, had yet to see the ‘elephant.
’And, I had to admit, I was starting to get homesick. I hadn’t seen my family or my girl since Christmas.
Letters helped, but it wasn’t the same as seeing them in the flesh. The way I figured it, the damn Germans
started this mess, and the only way back home was for us to go right through them.
Finally, the orders we had hoped for arrived. The operation was codenamed “Mr. Black,” and my unit,
Company A, had the job of attacking a unit of Krauts who had dug in at a deep creek draw on the outskirts
of town. That unit, most likely Panzergrenadier, would be a particularly tough nut to crack. We were
to advance, set up an outpost in the draw, and clear them out. It was as simple as that.
The attack began on April 23 at 2400 hours. Our initial objective was to take two houses, a few hundred
yards apart on opposite sides of a dirt road that bordered the creek. First platoon, with about twenty
riflemen, would take the lead behind a medium tank and two trucks. The job of the tank, an M4 Sherman,
was to clear a path for the infantry by knocking down barbed wire and detonating land mines. Our second
platoon would follow.
There was hardly any moon and it was pitch black when we moved out. At first, all was quiet, or at least
as quiet as a hundred soldiers and a tank could possibly be. Then, I heard an ominous ‘whoosh.’ A moment
later, the black sky was lit up as if it was high noon. It was a Kraut illumination round, and they’d caught us
with our pants down.
Suddenly all hell broke loose. Heavy artillery, mortars, machine guns, then one huge explosion detonated
to the front of us, right where the first platoon and the tank were supposed to be. That’s when we all dropped
to the road and began scraping the dirt with our fingernails.
And that’s when my wounded buddies started to call out for their mommas.