Valor Under Fire by Doyle Glass

PFC John Squires
May 23, 1944
Near Cisterna, Italy

The cries of the dying. That’s what stands out most for me. Funny thing though, when a soldier takes a
bad hit, he doesn’t call out for his girlfriend, or his wife, or even God. He always calls out for his
momma. I don’t know why that is. 

We were just lying there, flat on that dirt road, scraping with our fingernails for any inch of cover we
could find. Machine gun rounds ripped over my head. Acrid cordite and charred flesh burned through my
nose. Artillery, mortar, and grenade blasts rained all around, bouncing and tearing us apart like so many
rag dolls. I felt a gut punch of panic and remember thinking so, this is what battle is like. My buddies being blown to bits even before taking a shot at the enemy. This
isn’t fair. It’s just not fair.

I was lying next to my platoon commander, Second Lieutenant Randolph Bracey. From California,
Bracey was a hard-ass and an aggressive leader. I liked him a lot. He reminded me of a younger version of
my dad, and I didn’t want to let him down.

“Lieutenant!”
The voice came from our rear. It was a runner, from Company HQ, crawling toward us on all fours. 
“Here!” shouted Bracey. 
“The Captain—” the runner began. 
A blast ripped through the air, and the runner’s arms went over his head. Small rocks and dirt showered
down on us. After it cleared, the man looked back up.
“The Captain orders you to withdraw your platoon,” he shouted, “you won’t be able to reach the creek.
The fire is too heavy.”

Between flashes of light, I could see the Lieutenant’s face. His eyes were cold and hard, his jaw clenched. 
“Negative Private,” he said, “We’re supposed to take this draw, and we will. Tell that to the Captain.” 
The runner, eyes wide, made a quick salute and crawled back to the rear.
“Private Squires,” Bracey shouted over the din, “we have two options. Stay here and get ground into
chum bait, or take cover in the creek draw ahead.”
“Yes sir,” I said. 
“I don’t find the first option too appealing—”