A Letter Home

The dead German lay in a ditch. In his worn, dirty infantry-private's uniform, he looked like a fallen bronze statue covered with a heavy greyish-green patina--except for the wax-yellow face, the blond hair and the staring blue eyes. He was young, not much over 20.

In his pack there was a picture of a fair-haired, serious young woman, and an unposted letter, dated July 2, and headed "Westfront" (Normandy):

"My beloved Gundi: The day after tomorrow it will be one month since I last heard from you. You can imagine how I feel. And soon you will present me with a little baby. ... I don't know what's to become of us, and no relief. We are exposed to American fire helplessly; we have no Luftwaffe, no mortars and no artillery.

"All of us, including the sergeants, are fed up and on top of it rain, dirt and mud up to our ankles. . . . And the lice. We all wonder how we will ever get out of this hell. We begin to doubt in God. What must we human beings suffer? . . .

"It is no longer a decent war, it is wholesale murder and butchering of men, a disgrace to the 20th Century. And what for? . . . Pray a little for me. I need it badly. Love always."

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