To My Father - The "Real" Story
This is a "soldier letter" written from the perspective of a WWII soldier dug in at Bastogne that I wrote for my Literature of War class:
Things are not as glorious as they once seemed. We entered this war because they said it was the right thing to do. Our country was attacked and there was a madman on the loose in Europe. If only those reasons could save us now.Our time here is an experience of extremes. I don’t mean that in the sense you might expect, either. Much of the time is spent fighting boredom and freezing temperatures in small holes in the ground, not unlike shallow graves. In the middle of these long, uneventful stretches, trees suddenly begin exploding and shrapnel starts flying everywhere. It’s enough to drive a man mad.
That’s what I’m afraid of, what I am most worried about in this whole experience – my sanity. I fear that with every passing minute I am losing more and more of who I am – or, rather, who I was. Already I am not who I was before I arrived here.Under constant threat of sniper fire or unannounced artillery bombardment, we are forced to go about our usual tasks. These tasks, however, are not ‘usual’ in the sense that they are back home. Here, we are not allowed to light a fire. Despite the fact that we’re sitting in the frozen ground, trying desperately to fight off the cold, we cannot build a fire. To do so would only bring more incoming shells and sniper fire. We spend hours at a time trying to improve our foxholes and improvise cover in order to avoid death. These are our ‘usual’ tasks.
It’s funny how quickly comfort takes a backseat to safety. We don’t worry so much about the comfort of the hole, but rather, how protected we are from the next round of incoming shells. If it weren’t for these holes, these shelters we carve from the earth, we’d never stand a chance. The 88’s stream in and fall on us in the worst kind of lottery you could ever imagine. The prize in this lottery? Lost limbs, a bloody mess and a letter to an unsuspecting family. Nobody wants to win this lottery, but unfortunately, too many around me have had their number called. Despite our best efforts to take cover in the earth, our chances remain mostly the same.
At the same time, the thought of the lives I have taken float through my brain. I still have trouble comprehending the fact that I have taken the lives of other people. It’s not a fair situation. It’s not fair to put a kid like me in a position where he has to make that kind of choice. It’s either me or them. I can either let them have me, or I can raise my M1, pull the trigger, and pray to God I’m a better shot than he is. Thoughts like these dominate my mind, and they are slowly but surely taking their toll on me.
At the moment, we’re dug in near Bastogne, trying to fight off the Germans who are trying desperately to separate our lines. They came at us with a surprise offensive, and we gave up more ground than I’d like to admit, but we’re holding up pretty well. I tell you, it’s a scary prospect to be surrounded by thousands of people whose goal is to overrun you and kill or capture you. It’s just another part of this experience that's hard to understand. Anyone who has not been in this situation cannot understand what it’s like to be so near to death, always only seconds away. We’ve lost quite a few men so far, and will certainly lose more in the days to come, and it makes no difference to the Germans or their shells if it’s me or one of my buddies.
Despite our small earthy shelters, many of the men in my unit are dying. One moment I’ll be taking cover next to a buddy in the trenches, and the next, he’ll be dead. It may seem weird to you that I can put it in such simple terms, but in a war like this, in a place like this, that’s what it is – a simple reality. It’s difficult to comprehend when I really stop to think about it, which is one of the reasons I hate the downtime. It’s strange to think that just a few days ago some of the guys that were joking with me about ‘million-dollar wounds’ and being sent home from the front are no longer alive. They’re being sent home, but not the way they had planned it. Their parents will receive letters in the mail detailing their bravery and their honorable death – but they won’t know the real story.
That’s really why I wanted to write to you, dad. I wanted you to know the real story, in case, for some reason, I don’t make it back. I want you to know what it’s really like, not what the propaganda films tell you and not what you read in books. This is the real story; this is how it really is. We’re out here fighting for our lives, “fighting the good fight” and we’re all scared, dad, all of us. Nobody out here wants to die. We don’t want to die on some strange soil, in some strange place… but we made the commitment, and we’ll carry it through ‘til the end. If nothing else, dad, remember that. It’s not fun, it’s not pretty, but it’s our job and we will get it done.
-Your son,
Terry
Things are not as glorious as they once seemed. We entered this war because they said it was the right thing to do. Our country was attacked and there was a madman on the loose in Europe. If only those reasons could save us now.Our time here is an experience of extremes. I don’t mean that in the sense you might expect, either. Much of the time is spent fighting boredom and freezing temperatures in small holes in the ground, not unlike shallow graves. In the middle of these long, uneventful stretches, trees suddenly begin exploding and shrapnel starts flying everywhere. It’s enough to drive a man mad.
That’s what I’m afraid of, what I am most worried about in this whole experience – my sanity. I fear that with every passing minute I am losing more and more of who I am – or, rather, who I was. Already I am not who I was before I arrived here.Under constant threat of sniper fire or unannounced artillery bombardment, we are forced to go about our usual tasks. These tasks, however, are not ‘usual’ in the sense that they are back home. Here, we are not allowed to light a fire. Despite the fact that we’re sitting in the frozen ground, trying desperately to fight off the cold, we cannot build a fire. To do so would only bring more incoming shells and sniper fire. We spend hours at a time trying to improve our foxholes and improvise cover in order to avoid death. These are our ‘usual’ tasks.
It’s funny how quickly comfort takes a backseat to safety. We don’t worry so much about the comfort of the hole, but rather, how protected we are from the next round of incoming shells. If it weren’t for these holes, these shelters we carve from the earth, we’d never stand a chance. The 88’s stream in and fall on us in the worst kind of lottery you could ever imagine. The prize in this lottery? Lost limbs, a bloody mess and a letter to an unsuspecting family. Nobody wants to win this lottery, but unfortunately, too many around me have had their number called. Despite our best efforts to take cover in the earth, our chances remain mostly the same.
At the same time, the thought of the lives I have taken float through my brain. I still have trouble comprehending the fact that I have taken the lives of other people. It’s not a fair situation. It’s not fair to put a kid like me in a position where he has to make that kind of choice. It’s either me or them. I can either let them have me, or I can raise my M1, pull the trigger, and pray to God I’m a better shot than he is. Thoughts like these dominate my mind, and they are slowly but surely taking their toll on me.
At the moment, we’re dug in near Bastogne, trying to fight off the Germans who are trying desperately to separate our lines. They came at us with a surprise offensive, and we gave up more ground than I’d like to admit, but we’re holding up pretty well. I tell you, it’s a scary prospect to be surrounded by thousands of people whose goal is to overrun you and kill or capture you. It’s just another part of this experience that's hard to understand. Anyone who has not been in this situation cannot understand what it’s like to be so near to death, always only seconds away. We’ve lost quite a few men so far, and will certainly lose more in the days to come, and it makes no difference to the Germans or their shells if it’s me or one of my buddies.
Despite our small earthy shelters, many of the men in my unit are dying. One moment I’ll be taking cover next to a buddy in the trenches, and the next, he’ll be dead. It may seem weird to you that I can put it in such simple terms, but in a war like this, in a place like this, that’s what it is – a simple reality. It’s difficult to comprehend when I really stop to think about it, which is one of the reasons I hate the downtime. It’s strange to think that just a few days ago some of the guys that were joking with me about ‘million-dollar wounds’ and being sent home from the front are no longer alive. They’re being sent home, but not the way they had planned it. Their parents will receive letters in the mail detailing their bravery and their honorable death – but they won’t know the real story.
That’s really why I wanted to write to you, dad. I wanted you to know the real story, in case, for some reason, I don’t make it back. I want you to know what it’s really like, not what the propaganda films tell you and not what you read in books. This is the real story; this is how it really is. We’re out here fighting for our lives, “fighting the good fight” and we’re all scared, dad, all of us. Nobody out here wants to die. We don’t want to die on some strange soil, in some strange place… but we made the commitment, and we’ll carry it through ‘til the end. If nothing else, dad, remember that. It’s not fun, it’s not pretty, but it’s our job and we will get it done.
-Your son,
Terry
posted by Terry at 9:47 PM
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