For a time we held. The Germans didn’t attack.
I realized that we were beginning to run low on ammunition and thought maybe the Krauts had some
I could liberate. As dawn began to break in the east, and after receiving the Lieutenant’s permission, I went
up the draw alone, toward the German lines. Before long, I crawled up to what looked like an abandoned
German foxhole. It was, and there was something in it. I couldn’t believe my luck. It was an MG 42, one of
the new German machine guns, along with two drums of belt ammunition. I collected the gun and ammo
and crawled back to my commander.
A tight smile crossed Lieutenant Bracey’s face.
“You know how to use that thing?” he asked.
“Not sure,” I said, “but I’ll try.”
I went back to my boulder and took a closer look at the gun. This weapon, “Hitler’s buzz saw,” had been
giving us hell for the last two months. Now, it was my turn to smile. These bastards were about to get a taste
of their own medicine.
The gun was relatively lightweight and had a retractable bipod. I set it up facing down the creek bed,
the direction from which I figured the Wehrmacht would likely attack. I fed in the belt, locked it home,
aimed it, and pressed the trigger. The rounds ripped down the draw. I’d go through all of my ammunition
in one minute if I wasn’t careful.
It wasn’t long before mortars began to rain again in earnest. Potato masher grenades began to fly in.
The pop of German Mausers cut through the air. The rip of machine guns screamed as rounds snapped and
bounced off rocks. Then, the shouting began as the best of Hitler’s army began to rush toward us.
We opened fire. I pressed on the trigger and the buzzer ripped through ammo as Germans fell in front
of me, their bodies writhing.
Another pause and suddenly the Germans came on again. This time, when I pressed the trigger, the
gun jammed up. I reached for the barrel, felt a flash of pain, and pulled my hand back. The barrel was
blistering hot!
I looked down the draw. Krauts were jumping from rock to bush, using cover expertly as they came
forward. I looked to my left. There, a few yards off, next to a dead G.I. was a BAR. The Browning Automatic
Rifle was one of our light machine guns, firing thirty-aught-six rounds from a double column box magazine.
I jumped to it and opened up on the Germans. I brought down two, maybe three of them as I burned
through rounds of ammunition.
Then, silence.
The Germans second counterattack, like the first one, had failed, but I was now out of BAR ammunition.
I heard yelling, English, and then German. I looked out about ten yards. One of our GIs had taken a prisoner
and was leading him back behind our lines.
“Hey soldier,” I yelled, “bring that man here.”
The German had a hard face. I could tell from his tunic that he was, in fact, Panzergrenadier, and
an officer at that. I reached into my jacket and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes.
“Cigarette?” I asked.
He paused, then reached out.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You speak English?” I asked.
“A little,” he said as I lit his cigarette.
The man inhaled, and then exhaled sharply.
I pointed to the jammed MG 42.
“Can you fix it?” I asked.
The German’s eyes narrowed.
“Nein,” he said, clenching his jaw.
“You show me how to fix it,” I said, “or my buddy here will blow your brains all over this God Damn
creek bed.”
The GI pressed the muzzle of his M1 into the German’s head.
“You won’t do it,” the man spat, “I am a prisoner of war. There are rules…”
A blast from the GI’s rifle thudded the ground at the German’s feet. His eyes bulged and his lips began
to tremble. I felt sure that he’d soiled himself.
Before the man was escorted to the rear, I learned from him that when the barrel of the MG 42
overheated, it would jam up. The Germans had a solution. They always kept a spare barrel with the gun,
changing them out at frequent intervals when they got hot. I learned not only how to unjam the weapon,
but how to switch out the barrels.
Not long after, the enemy attacked again. This time, the MG 42 didn’t jam and we beat them back again.
My senses felt heightened, my blood up, my breathing rapid and shallow. My adrenaline was soaring
and I still had a can of ammunition for the MG 42. I looked down the creek bed. The bastards were still out
there hiding from us.
I saw an opportunity and decided to take it. The creek bed bore an uncanny resemblance to the terrain
back home in Kentucky, where I often hunted. These bastards had been hunting us and that fact needed to
change. Using cover, and stalking as I did when tracking deer, I began to patrol our lines about fifty yards
to the front.
As I made my way to the south, I stopped. I smelled cigarettes and heard voices, German voices. I crept
forward, using cover. There were about twenty of them, bedded down in a small clearing. They were passing
out ammunition, sharing sips from a canteen, and smoking. They were clearly preparing for another attack,
but they were not expecting us to attack them. I took a deep breath, stepped out, and pulled the trigger of
the MG 42, tearing rounds over their heads. One man went for his rifle. I pressed the trigger again, cutting
him and his luckless neighbor nearly in half.
“Hands up!” I yelled “Up!”
They did nothing; just stood there, wide-eyed as smoke floated off the tunics of their downed comrades.
“Up!” I commanded, motioning with the barrel of my gun.
Hands went in the air.
I looked around their camp. You would think I had hit the mother lode. On the ground lay about thirteen
MG 42s, cans of belt ammunition, potato masher grenades and more. This cache would give us the edge we
sorely needed.
I marched the Krauts back to our camp and the rear guard took them into custody. I then returned with
a few of our men, retrieved the weapons and set them up in key places throughout our perimeter. After
showing the men how to use the MG 42s, we waited for the Germans to attack a fourth time.
As for myself, I took place once again behind my boulder. Not only did I have an MG 42, I had eight
potato masher grenades as well as my M1 Garand and a BAR. Soon after nightfall, the Germans came on
again. I am pretty sure I killed at least three of them, if not more. Again, their attack failed, and with our
new weapons, we continued to hold our position.
That attack would be their last hurrah. Now, we were the ones who were too strong. We were the tough
nut that the best of the Nazis couldn’t crack. It felt damn good.
We were relieved later the next day. I didn’t want to give up my treasure trove of weapons, but I figured
the new boys would make good use of them. When we got back to the rear, I found a spot, laid down on
the ground, and let my mind go blank. I had no idea how long I was out.
What I do remember, before falling asleep, was that I could now stop and catch my breath, at least for
a little while. We had won the day, and I was glad that we got the job done. That was the least we could do
for our buddies who wouldn’t see their mommas again. And, in the end, it meant that all of us were a little
closer to home, a little closer to being done with this God forsaken mess.
A month later, I turned nineteen. I celebrated with my pals in a trench near Cisterna. The next day, I
made Sergeant. I couldn’t wait to show the folks back home the stripes on my arm. But, there was no time
to rest. We still had a lot of work to do and, as always, I aimed to do my part well.
On May 19, 1944, John Squires celebrated his nineteenth
birthday in a trench with his friends. The following day, May 20,
he received a battlefield promotion to Sergeant. Three days later,
Squires was killed in action near the town of Cisterna, Italy. His
platoon commander, Lieutenant Randolph Bracey, was killed on
June 1.
For his actions on the night of April 23-24, 1944, Randolph
Bracey was posthumously awarded the Distinguished Service
Cross, the second highest military award for gallantry in combat
with an armed enemy.
For his part, and due mostly to Bracey’s recommendation,
John Squires was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor, our
nation’s highest decoration for combat valor above and beyond
the call of duty.